Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“How dare you make mock a disabled man,” Jaskier complained loudly. “I may never sing or play the lute again.”

“You do not actually need your sight for either of those things,” Geralt felt compelled to point out. Not that he didn’t enjoy another round of pointless bitching, but in his limited experience, complaining did nothing. No one particularly cared when you were hurt or lonely.

Jaskier, his arms looped loosely around Geralt’s middle, pinched his stomach lightly as they continued down the dirt road on Roach’s back.

A fortnight ago, he had run into Jaskier in a tavern while Jaskier was attempting to outrun the local magistrate, whose wife he had been visiting overnight for some time. That she was young and bored and married to a man twice her age, Geralt did not doubt. That Jaskier was a cad and lived a far more dangerous life than Geralt himself, he also did not doubt.

He had come barrelling out of a tavern just as Geralt was going in, and grabbed Geralt, hastily explaining the issue on their way out of town. Geralt didn’t even get a damn drink.

Therefore, Geralt had spent the entire miserable night hungry and Jaskier had once again become his long-winded traveling companion.

There was a part of Geralt that was still waiting for Jaskier to get fed up and leave, but he supposed he wouldn’t so long as he was suffering the effects of the curse he’d inadvertently triggered while touching something he had no business touching. It was a reoccurring theme in his life, Geralt had noticed, and the chief reason they’d fled at least ten towns in as many nights.

Geralt slapped his hand away from his midsection. “I told you to leave that gold alone. No one leaves out a cauldron full of gold who’s up to any good.”

“It was so shiny,” Jaskier said by way of explanation. “So pretty.”

“Surprised you didn’t try to stick your cock in it,” Geralt grunted.

Like all beautiful things, the gold came with a terrible price. Apparently, those that were greedy would find themselves faced with great loss, an inscription that Geralt had wished he'd thought to read before Jaskier came barreling through the cave entrance, screaming, "We're rich!"

As near as they could tell, Jaskier would, over the following months, lose one sense at a time. It was unclear if he would regain the lost senses or what timeline this curse would follow, but there was very little they could do about it anyway. After all, at least three mages had turned them away for fear of rebounding the curse on themselves. Over the years, Geralt had learned that sometimes the only way around a problem was through it. There were some things that you just couldn’t run from, probably shouldn’t even try.

Yennefer might be willing to help them, but she was another thing that came with too high a cost. Whatever left her feeling permanently dissatisfied with life was something she had to resolve within herself; Geralt was self-aware enough to know that he would bleed himself dry trying to give it to her.

Besides, Geralt was waiting to see if Jaskier lost all of his senses before he went scraping after her. She had made it very clear that she did not care to hear from Geralt ever again. Repeatedly. Humiliatingly.

They’d arrived in a small town just outside of Nazair in time for the supper rush, the smell of food wafting out of homes and taverns as the sun set behind the mountains, painting the rooftops pink and orange.

Geralt stopped outside of a promising-looking establishment and slid off his horse, tying Roach to a beat-up hitching post. Jaskier followed but grabbed at his arm at the last minute. He missed by a solid foot and ended up spinning around and slapping Roach on the rump, who huffed and looked vaguely disgruntled.

“You know that you’re going to have to hold my hand and guide me,” Jaskier said.

Geralt frowned at him before remembering that he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. “Good luck with that,” Geralt said, walking ahead.

Jaskier stumbled behind him and began walking in the wrong direction before Geralt sighed, backtracked. He grabbed his elbow and steered him towards the tavern. “Big step,” Geralt muttered quietly, and, “There’s a puddle.” He was been so used to traveling the world with enhanced senses that it made him feel off-centered to have to consider the world from Jaskier’s newly-limited perspective. He was suddenly very aware of the long line of warmth of Jaskier’s body pressed close to his, the moment Jaskier turned his head toward Geralt and breathed into his neck, warm and damp.

“Your hands are extremely clammy,” Geralt said.

“Excuse the fuck out of me,” Jaskier replied faux-politely, but he was grinning. He was rarely actually offended by Geralt’s thoughtless bluntness. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking knowing that I’m dependent solely on you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life? Yes. With my dignity? No.”

“Didn’t know you had any to lose.”

“We always have something to lose,” Jaskier mumbled as they stepped into the warmth of the tavern. In the corner, there was a fire crackling away in the large stone hearth. The smell of unwashed bodies, fatty meats cooking, and sour ale assaulted Geralt, and he found himself turning into the familiar smell of Jaskier – sweat and dirt and the poncey lavender soap he used to wash, all underlined by the sharp tang of a deep streak of neuroticism.

They attracted a fair amount of attention and wandering eyes, though if it was because he was a witcher or because he had a full-grown man hanging off of him, Geralt couldn’t rightly say.

Jaskier’s hands clutched at Geralt’s waist, and Geralt tried to ignore the heat of it, the long, sure spread of his elegant fingers against his belly as he steered Jaskier towards a bench in the corner. He ordered three beers as soon as someone approached. He wasn't sure what Jaskier wanted to drink.

“We don't serve your kind here, Witcher,” the barmaid sneered. All around them, the tavern quieted down. Conversations stopped, and it was as if the city itself held its breath.

“Pardon?” Jaskier said, standing abruptly. He was facing entirely the wrong direction, but Geralt would forgive him this once; very rarely had anyone ever stood up for him, both literally and figuratively.

“We’ll go,” Geralt muttered, head down. He stood next to Jaskier. If he took Jaskier's hand a little more gently than before, then Geralt could hardly be blamed. It was growing late, and he was hungry and tired in a way that made his body feel twice as heavy, his feet drag. It was an exhaustion that went bone-deep and had no end in sight.

By the time they’d stumbled back outside, Geralt carefully steering Jaskier towards Roach, Jaskier was still seething. “That was unconscionable, after everything you’d done for them--”

“Don’t worry about it. I'm used to it.”

Jaskier shook his head sadly. "Oh my friend, that didn’t make it right.”

Jaskier had always been ridiculously easy to read but ever since losing his eyesight, he’d lost what little guards he ever had in place. Whatever he was seeing in Jaskier’s expression, Geralt couldn’t quite place it, but it made something uncomfortable squirm deep in the pit of his belly.

What do you see? What do see that makes you stay when everyone else left?

Geralt coughed awkwardly. “If you’re not too tired, we can make the next town by midnight.”

Jaskier sighed. “Guess we don’t have any choice unless we want to spend the night on the lee side of a mountain. Once was enough for me.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Geralt asked as he helped Jaskier astride, and Jaskier automatically wrapped his arms around Geralt’s middle.

“Never,” Jaskier answered, his breath warm against the shell of Geralt’s ear. “It was so cold, I thought I was going to freeze my bollocks off.”

“About earlier,” Geralt started, but couldn't quite find the words. “Thank you,” he said finally.

Jaskier didn’t ask what he meant. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You really did.”

They were making slower progress than he expected, but it was okay. The sun had gone down and the sky was full of stars. It was the kind of beautiful night that, many years ago when Geralt was a new witcher, untested and far more trusting, he might have appreciated. It had been a long time since he noticed the stars and he felt a small pang of regret that he couldn't point them out to Jaskier.

“Hold on,” Geralt said. “Long ride ahead of us and the road’s getting bumpy.”

“Always is,” Jaskier said. He rummaged around in the saddlebag for a moment and pulled out a ceramic jug with a wick. “If this helps, I can light it.”

Geralt had last seen that jug illuminating the small corner of the tavern they’d left. “Did you--”

“Those assholes deserved it.”

Geralt stifled a laugh before realizing that it was just him and Jaskier out here; there was no mystique to maintain, no particular reason to hide. So he laughed, the sound shaking loose and unfamiliar after so long.

He could feel Jaskier’s goofy smile against the back of his neck.

The road stretched out in front of them, dark and foreboding. Geralt had been traveling these roads alone his whole life. Funny that they didn’t seem so bad with Jaskier next to him.

"Let's go then," Geralt said.

Chapter Text

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Jaskier announced. He shifted in the place where Geralt had put him a safe distance from the fire, but not too far away to be off-putting if he needed something, which he very nearly always did. “The good news is that I can see.”

“And the bad?” Geralt asked suspiciously. Though pleased that Jaskier had regained his sight, Geralt did not find guiding Jaskier everywhere to be as onerous as he previously expected. It was—nice, even, to be close to another person and not to constantly have to worry about Jaskier making eyes at some comely lady that inevitably ended with the two of them making a hasty exit from the region.

Jaskier sniffed despondently. “I seem to have lost my sense of smell.”

Well, it could be worse, Geralt supposed. It didn’t even seem so bad to lose one’s sense of smell. Geralt had an extremely keen sense of smell and he could attest to the fact that things in general and people in specific tended not to smell particularly fantastic in these parts, anyway.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted. He should probably be more sympathetic, but it seemed like a lot of effort and he didn’t sleep well last night. Summer was making its exit and Autumn was creeping in, making nights spent under the stars decidedly uncomfortable. Jaskier kept loudly complaining about being cold and rolling right up next to Geralt, trying to share warmth and putting his cold feel all over Geralt’s warm shins.

Jaskier was a menace, Geralt had thought, warming Jaskier’s hands between his own. It had been a while since he had slept in close proximity to someone. Maybe Yennefer, and look how that turned out. He would keep Jaskier close while he was blind but no longer.

What if he got used to it? What if he got to the point that he needed  Jaskier to sleep, couldn’t sleep without him? Once upon a time, Geralt thought grimly, it might have been an acceptable risk. But now it seemed too dangerous since he’d spent so long learning to go without.

Well, good. Now he didn’t have to worry about it because Jaskier had gotten his sight back and as far as he knew, losing your sense of smell didn’t pose any immediate danger.

Geralt turned the roasting meat on the crude spit, watching the fat sizzle and drip onto the open flame as the skin grew brown and crispy. The sunrise crested over the treetops, shrouding them in that peculiar damp stillness of the early morning.

“That looks like it smells divine,” Jaskier said morosely, blinking over at him.

It unnerved Geralt a little. He had gotten used to Jaskier not being able to see his expressions. Not that Geralt often wore one other than aggressively displeased with everything. And not that Jaskier had ever seemingly had difficulty reading Geralt anyway.

“It’s okay,” Geralt lied. His stomach gave a traitorous rumble.

Jaskier looked at him knowingly, his knees pulled up to his chin and arms looped around them. It made him look curiously young. “Once when I was terribly sick, I completely lost my sense of smell. Nothing tasted the same, but it was more than that. It was if the world had gained a level of dullness.”

Geralt could do with some dullness. With his senses – with the wearying weight of his years – the world always seemed such a sharp place with its chaos and monsters and little betrayals.

But Jaskier was probably talking about the food. Geralt shrugged and pulled the sizzling meat off the fire, then laid it on a flat rock to cool. “You brought this on yourself, you know,” Geralt reminded him.

Jaskier waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “So what? I wanted gold. No one says no to gold. It seemed harmless.”

“Those are always the things that are the most dangerous,” Geralt answered. When they’d first met, Geralt had thought Jaskier looked harmless too. He gave the meat a poke, satisfied that it had cooled enough to eat. He had some bread he’d picked up at the last town and he pulled it out of his saddlebag, unwrapping it from the linen cloth it had been wrapped in. Bread was hardly his usual fee for a completed job, but it was all the family could afford. He wouldn’t have even taken the bread if he’d thought he wouldn’t offend them.

“Are you going to share?”

“I thought food held no appeal for you any longer,” Geralt said, mouth twitching as he tore off an edge of the loaf. He stuffed it full of a hunk of meat and took a bite, the juice and fat soaking through the bread, past the buttery crust, and onto his wrist where he licked it off before it could run down any further.

Jaskier made a funny high-pitched nasal sound that caught Geralt’s attention and when he looked up, he noticed Jaskier staring at the food longingly. He ignored the nearly automatic pang of guilt when Jaskier turned his wide doe eyes towards him and hunched his shoulders defensively.

The silence stretched, at once unfamiliar and unfairly uncomfortable.

Eventually, Geralt chucked the rest of the bread at Jaskier’s head. Surprisingly, Jaskier plucked from midair without turning away. “It’s not the same,” he muttered, tearing off a piece of bread and stuffing it in his mouth resentfully.

Geralt sighed. “Shall I describe it to you?” Geralt finally asked grudgingly, like he was offering Jaskier a spare kidney. Over the long course of his life, he had been called a man of few words – among many other far less savory names – but Geralt figured that he could probably manage to crib together at least a few of them to essentially whet Jaskier’s alarming metaphorical appetite for noise. After all, Jaskier did it, how hard could it really be?

As it turned out, very hard.

“Yes?” Jaskier answered, a curious lilt to his words, like he wasn’t sure of his own feelings about the subject.

Join the club, Geralt thought sourly. He and Jaskier could form their very own club of men that did not carefully consider their actions.

Jaskier sat the bread aside and leaned forward eagerly. “Go ahead, thrill me.”

That just served to irritate Geralt more.

“It’s-- salty,” Geralt floundered. Words were never his allies, even back when he had someone to regularly say them to.

“Are you  trying to be an ass?” Jaskier said with a huff.

Geralt felt his shoulders involuntarily hunch even further. No, he really wasn’t. He was doing the best he could.

“Sometimes it helps me to close my eyes,” Jaskier offered. “I try to envision the feeling I want to evoke and I let the words find me, not the other way around.”

Okay, he could do this. Geralt closed his eyes, concentrating on the smell of the meat, the fire banked down low, the chewy bread with a faintly sour aftertaste. He licked his lips, letting the flavor rest on his tongue and tried to call to mind Jaskier’s flowery prose. “It’s – uh, full--”

Jaskier snorted, and Geralt opened one eye to glare at him before continuing, “Kind of round? The bread was thick and crunchy on the outside, kind of thick and chewy inside. A little sweet at first and a little sour. The--the wildness of the meat, the smokiness of the fire it was cooked on. It tastes kind of filling, thick on the tongue?”

“What else?” Jaskier asked, his voice curious and soft.

Geralt wanted to open his eyes, to see Jaskier’s expression, but he was afraid what Jaskier would be able to see inside of him. Geralt licked his lips again. “It’s full, warm. Kind of – safe? I guess?”

“Why safe?” He could hear the gravel shift beneath Jaskier’s boots.

Geralt struggled to figure out what he had meant by that. “It’s like a memory of a home you’ve not seen in far too long.” He tried to recall the last time he had felt truly full, safe, loved. He couldn’t remember. Maybe when he was a child.

“What is home, for a witcher?

It was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to say Kaer Morhen, but he wasn’t sure home could ever be a place you’d been forced to reside. He still felt a little resentful, but not in any real way. It was more a distant memory of anger, faded like the dying embers of the fire in the morning; of his mother, whose thought still swelled a tangle of hurt in his chest, too complicated and painful to do anything but ignore. But that too felt a long way removed from this quiet place with Jaskier.

Maybe some of the people he had once loved could have been home, but try as he might, he could never seem to hold onto a home without it being taken away from him.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted.

When he opened his eyes, Jaskier was staring at him, blinking.

“What?” Geralt snapped, feeling embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t quite articulate. He shouldn't have even tried; that was what got him into this goddamn mess in the first place. Once again, he’d said far more than he ever meant to.

“Nothing,” Jaskier said. “It was such a lovely description.” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully and said, “It’s absolute bollocks but lovely.”

“Asshole,” Geralt muttered but he felt the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“Your home is the road," Jaskier said, not unkindly. "Same as me."

“It might be nice to settle down. One day, maybe.”

“Yeah, but would you really want to stay in one place?”

Would he want to stay in one place? He wasn’t sure he was built for it, honestly. It was in his nature to be restless. Even before he was a witcher, he dreamed of traveling and fighting monsters. He had spent the vast majority of his life cursing his fate to become a witcher and all the people who had betrayed him. But in the end, perhaps this was exactly what he was meant to be, in exactly the place he would have always ended up.

Geralt didn’t believe in fate. But maybe there was such a thing as happenstance, and he and Jaskier’s lives were intertwined. Perhaps they were inevitable.

“Ugh,” Jaskier said, grimacing. "This tastes like shit.”

“Does that mean I can have your food?” Geralt said, reaching out to grab at it.

“Fuck no,” Jaskier said, slapping his hand away.

Chapter Text

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelled. “Either it is very, very quiet or I’ve lost my hearing.”

Geralt stomped over and reached behind Jaskier, snapping his fingers behind his left ear. Jaskier didn’t so much as flinch, but he did spare an exasperated look for Geralt.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asked loudly. Without being able to hear his own volume, he seemed to assume no one else could and ended up shouting in Geralt’s general direction.

Geralt, who had given the course this curse would take quite a bit of thought, had erroneously assumed that Jaskier spontaneously going deaf would finally buy him some measure of blessed silence.

He was wrong.

Even though Jaskier couldn’t hear himself, he still seemed unable to stop chattering. And it was as though because he couldn’t hear what he was saying, he had forgotten anyone else could hear it too. “My, I couldn’t imagine having shoulders as big as yours,” he’d say, trailing behind Geralt. “Wouldn’t they weigh you down? Look at your narrow waist – you poor dear, you look like you’re about to snap in half.”

Without Jaskier to hear him, Geralt found himself talking back. First, “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not that the ratio is unappealing, mind--”

Then, “Last week, when I said your song sounded like a cat being skinned, I didn’t mean it,” Geralt admitted. It was easier talking to Jaskier, knowing that he wouldn't be able to answer back, that he wouldn’t be able to confuse Geralt with his quick words and the confounding tangle of emotions that he always brought up.

It was cool outside, but the sun was high and the sky clear blue. Jaskier continued on obliviously, the breeze rustling his hair in a fetching way, if you were into such things. “Though your dour expression does ruin the effect somewhat. Oh yes, how difficult it must be to be so muscular and attractive!”

“It was not a bad song,” Geralt said, struggling to come up with the right words. Without the weight of expectation, he was free to take his time. He tried to ignore the absurdity of having two parallel conversations that never seemed to intersect. “I was having a bad day. When I went out earlier, a child screamed when he saw me. I’m used to the ridicule – the fear. But I think it’s only getting worse, the world more intolerant, more unkind.”

“I wonder if you’ve ever bedded a man,” Jaskier mused loudly. “You don’t seem the type, but I’ve been wrong about these things before.”

Geralt skidded to a halt so abruptly that Jaskier nearly ran into his back. “What?” Jaskier said, eyes wide and bewildered.

Geralt shook his head, unsure what to say. It wasn’t like Jaskier could hear him anyway.

“Do you think you could eat a bluebird?” Jaskier shrugged and stepped around him. “I bet you could, but the guilt would be horrid. They’re so lovely looking, even if they are kind of assholes.”

Men weren’t his first choice, but Geralt did not object to sleeping with men. It was just that men presented more obstacles – generally larger and stronger, therefore more dangerous; less socially acceptable depending on the location; less readily available for payment. Women were easier for him and he shunted all other thoughts away to the place were he tucked all things that bothered him or caused him disquiet.

The question might have been idle speculation on Jaskier’s part, but it had kindled something in Geralt.

For the first time in a long time, Geralt looked at Jaskier and he wondered.

---

Geralt put up with his endless nattering throughout dinner, and then later, when Jaskier pulled off his shirt and tossed it at the end of the bed. Sharing a bed was something they did often enough, Jaskier proclaiming Geralt to be incredibly warm in temperature if not in demeanor.

Jaskier settled into bed, humming a song he’d made up over dinner while mopping up the thick stew with a hunk of tough bread. “I wrote a song about you.”

Geralt had paused mid-bite to look worriedly over at him. He was sure it would be embarrassing and entirely false.

“It tells of your great deeds--”

“--for profit,” Geralt added, sounding sulky and not trying to hide it.

“Your narrow escapes--”

“--I got my ass beat by an elf.”

“Your love for humanity--”

“People suck.”

“And your great big heart.”

Geralt didn’t have anything to say to that. Surely Jaskier was aware of the legends surrounding Witchers. When going toe to two with one, it was always best to aim for the head; Witchers did not have hearts.

He had watched the candle in between them burn down low, flickering and casting odd shadows across Jaskier’s boyish face, his deep-set eyes. He chased the last bits of sauce with his finger, scooping it up and popping it into his mouth. He glanced up and saw Geralt staring. “Was it something I said?” he had asked entirely too loudly, attracting the attention of nearby patrons. Unlike Geralt, Jaskier seemed to actually enjoy the attention of random people. Geralt supposed that was what happened when your interaction with humanity was by and large good. Jaskier grinned and waved back until they lost interest and went back to eating.

“Why are you like this?” Geralt grumbled at the same time Jaskier said softly, “You care too much what others think, Geralt.”

The words replayed in his head as he settled into sleep next to Jaskier, who immediately curled towards him, seeking his warmth. Despite being told repeatedly that he didn’t have a heart, that witchers didn’t feel, he never could figure out a way to make that quite true.

He could admit that to himself now. Admitting it to someone else was an entirely different matter.

Geralt eventually drifted off to sleep, thinking about it, Jaskier mumbling about cakes as he tossed and turned next to him.

---

Geralt awoke slightly disoriented, on high alert without knowing exactly why until he reached out and touched nothing but rumpled blankets. He closed his eyes, listening carefully. He could hear small creatures scurrying across the hardwood floors, the wind moving through the densely packed leaves.

Geralt rolled out of bed and blearily scraped his hair out of his face, looking around. The small tavern they were staying at was at the outskirts of the town, pushed back nearly into a nearby forest, which had grown up and until they bled into each other, no one sure where one began and the other ended.

He found him in a great outcropping, surrounded by trees, the moon shining bright.

Jaskier didn’t turn around. “How did you find me?”

Geralt stopped next to him. Jaskier’s knees were pulled up close to his chest, his arms looped loosely around his legs. “Followed the sound of your heart beating.”

At his inquisitive sound, Geralt touched the tip of his finger to Jaskier’s heart and then up to his own ear.

“Of course you did,” Jaskier said with a fond little sigh.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked, tilting his head curiously. He took a seat next to Jaskier, using his own body to push him gently aside.

Jaskier looked around haplessly. “I know it’s silly and I know that in the grand scheme of things, it’s a very small sort of inconvenience, but I woke up and realized that I wouldn’t be able to hear the birds chirping in the morning.” He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound, so unlike Jaskier’s usual happy laugh that Geralt’s chest felt squeezed tight, empty and aching. “I used to love the sound of the leaves rustling. It’s funny how you sometimes never know how much you love something until it’s gone.”

He didn’t realize he was staring until Jaskier blinked owlishly at him and clapped his hands an inch away from his nose. “Oi! Geralt!” Jaskier said. “Have I something on my face?”

Geralt pressed his lips together and tried not to look as confused as he felt.

“I see,” Jaskier said sagely, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “You are an odd man, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt shrugged and didn’t deny it. He rarely felt the need to state the obvious.

“Still, you’re probably the best friend that I have.” Jaskier shook his head ruefully. “Doubt you would say the same of me, but that doesn’t make it any less true from my perspective. Isn’t it strange how life works?” He looked toward Geralt, and he wondered what Jaskier was seeing, had always secretly wondered that. “I went out looking for adventure and I found you.”

Geralt felt something low tug in his belly, a swooping motion that felt like going over the edge of a cliff too fast to stop, that moment of utter weightlessness before gravity took hold. Followed by the need to do something foolhardy. It was the same stupid instinct that had led him down many grim paths that usually ended with him leaving a town in a big hurry.

“I guess you’re my friend,” Geralt said grudgingly.

Jaskier’s grin widened. “Am I your best friend?”

“Of course not,” Geralt snapped. It didn’t escape Geralt’s notice that for the first time, they seemed to be having the same conversation.

“Oh, okay – wait, am I your second best friend after Roach?”

“Don’t push it,” Geralt answered. Though he was. Godamn it. Jaskier was and he knew it.

Jaskier patted his chest. “It’s okay, I know what’s in your heart.”

“I don’t have a heart,” Geralt said, knowing it was a lie. He’d felt it break too many times not to have one.

Now, it was Jaskier’s turn to look pitying. “Who convinced you of that, huh?”

Life had. It was less that he didn’t have one, so much as one that didn’t matter. It beat for survival and battle and nothing else. His heart was a foreign land and anyone that tried to enter, unwelcome invaders.

Geralt considered Jaskier carefully: his elegant hands, the perfect bow of his mouth, the easy way he had of accepting all of Geralt’s idiosyncrasies. There might have been a time when that was enough to touch Geralt, when Geralt had been a little younger and infinitely more reckless. Was he as brave now? He didn’t know.

“Sorry, Master Witcher, but you may be able to hear my heart at twenty paces but you can’t seem to hear your own.”

Geralt thought of missed opportunities, happenstance, roads that wound nonsensically, just to always intersect. He used to be brave; he thought that maybe he could be once more. Happenstance might have brought them this far, but it was up to them to go the rest of the way.

Impulsively, Geralt leaned forward and pressed his lips to Jaskier’s, dry and warm and surprisingly soft. Jaskier exhaled and opened his mouth to him, unsurprised. Maybe even with losing half of his senses, he'd seen this coming long before Geralt.

Geralt leaned into the kiss, running his hands up and down Jaskier’s back, tracing the knots of his spine with his fingertips.

Jaskier eventually broke the kiss, staring up at Geralt shyly, his chin tucked down. “Well, that was unexpected.”

It was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to apologize, but then Jaskier slowly raised his hand and laid it over the steady thrum of Geralt’s chest. “Ah, there it is. A bit slower than most, but there it is.”

Geralt leaned his forehead to Jaskier’s, letting his eyes slide shut and listening to Jaskier inhale and exhale, his heartbeat, the crickets chirp as the sun rose over the horizon, warming his skin. “Jaskier,” Geralt breathed.

“I heard that,” Jaskier answered and kissed him again.

Chapter Text

“This is getting really old,” Jaskier said in a bitchy voice as he shoved a spoonful of gruel into his mouth in the same manner that he would presumably use to eat literal shit. He pulled a face and pushed the bowl away as he swallowed loudly.

“Lost your sense of taste, have you?” Geralt asked, practically inhaling his own unappetizing meal. It was enough to keep the body alive and that was all that he really required. Enjoying food seemed pretty pointless.

“I feel like this is retreaded ground.” Jaskier let his head thunk on the wooden table. The deep grooves were going to leave marks on his forehead. “I’m being  double-punished .”

“It’s almost over and the hard ones are already done,” Geralt grunted, taking advantage of Jaskier’s momentary distraction to reach over, hook a finger into his bowl, and drag it back across the table in front of him. He’d spent the day clearing out a nest of drowners and it always put him in the mood for eating, drinking, and fucking. In no particular order. The first two he could manage easily enough. The third-- well, that was more complicated. 

Jaskier kicked back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. A lock of errant hair fell across his forehead, and Geralt gripped the table tightly with both hands. As the wood began to splinter, Jaskier reached down and brought out his lute, brandishing it not unlike Geralt held his sword. He supposed they all had their own battlefields and this one was Jaskier’s. 

“Might as well make some coin if I can’t enjoy a meal.” He strolled into the center of the room, the candlelight and oil lamp hanging high in the corner flickering becomingly across his features.

Geralt stared very hard at his food.

It didn’t used to be a difficult question to answer, but Geralt had learned, through vast life experience and careful trial and error, that people generally did not enjoy being cheated on. 

He wasn’t quite sure what he and Jaskier were exactly. They were friends for sure, but Geralt did not often go around kissing his friends, even his very good ones – the fact that 33% of his good friends were of the equine variety notwithstanding. Which was to say, Geralt could not figure out of sleeping with a whore would necessarily be cheating and he didn’t think Jaskier would take kindly to being asked.

Geralt thought maybe the answer was yes and wisely kept his mouth shut as he finished Jaskier’s food, watching him wind around the room and singing a really sad song about losing his sense of taste as the tavern emptied out and the candles sputtered low. 

All in all, Geralt thought, it wasn’t a bad way to spend the evening.

---

Later, in the heated bath set in front of the giant hearth, Geralt sighed in the lukewarm water, sinking down as much as he could. The wood creaked warningly, but Geralt ignored it. He scrubbed down his body with the soft, slippery soap provided, and dunked his hair one last time, finger-combing it to get the worst of the knots out. Jaskier had spent the evening entertaining, drawing the eye of every person, including Geralt. His hands skimmed his belly. Jaskier had gone back to their room, calling it an early night. Looked like it would just be himself tonight. So, all alone, Geralt determinedly took himself in hand., giving his cock a few perfunctory strokes. He leaned back further, spreading his thighs a bit. He tried to think about the generous bosoms of the girl refilling their beer earlier or any number of lovely and not so lovely people he’d had the chance to spend the night with, but unerringly, his mind always seemed to circle back to Jaskier tonight, singing with candlelight highlighting the planes of his face and his eyes, hidden by shadow.

“What’re you doing?” a voice called out.

Geralt hastily let go of his prick, feeling a little guilty without being able to say exactly why. He knew it was Jaskier, knew the rhythm of his heart better than his own. 

Jaskier crossed the room, leaned against the edge of the wooden tub, and said playfully, “Oh, I see, feeling a little lonely, are we?”

Always, Geralt thought, feeling a little wistful. The water – gone cold and a little scummy – rippled around his knee as he shifted in the tub. 

“Hmm,” he said, leaning his head back to stare at Jaskier from the side. He enjoyed solitude, but there were maybe times when the company wouldn’t be so bad. The road was vast to always travel it alone.

Jaskier was leaning against the edge of the tub, his shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, his slim forearms surprisingly corded with muscle. “Good thing I’m here then,” he said softly, face barely an inch from Geralt’s. Jaskier considered him silently for a moment and swallowed loudly. His shoulders straightened as if he’d come to a conclusion, and Jaskier wrapped his hands around Geralt’s jaw, tilting his head further back –

Oh, Geralt thought, this is happening. 

–and gave him a kiss, slow and soft and shockingly sweet. “I wish I could taste you,” Jaskier said, forehead resting against Geralt’s.

“You’re not missing much,” Geralt said honestly, a little hapless. He couldn’t imagine that he tasted of much other than sweat and dirt, the salty potash soap. It wasn’t much to miss.

“We need to move this into the room or I’m going to have you right here.” His eyes had gone dark, heated. “Do you know how difficult it’s been holding myself back?”

“Very?” Geralt hazarded because that seemed to be the expected answer.

“You’re a little ridiculous,” Jaskier said, sounding faintly surprised and fond all at once. He had the same look on his face that he got when completing the last verse in a song; it was the look of a final puzzle piece slotting into place.

“Come on,” Jaskier said, pulling him out of the bath and back to their room, barely waiting for Geralt to pull on a soggy change of clothes.

Calling it a room was generous; it was more a closed off loft in worryingly close proximity to a barn. It smelled a bit of shit and fresh hay, but it was clean and warm and dry. Geralt had stayed in far worse places with far worse people.

Jaskier kissed him slow and unhurried, stripped off his semi-clean clothes that pulled and clung to his still-damp skin. He reached up and scraped his fingers through Geralt’s hair and wound the strands around his fingers. “Your fucking hair,” he said, voice rough.

His hair and eyes were the first things that marked him as other. Everyone had always reacted negatively to them, perhaps none so much as himself. He didn’t really know what to do with the fact that Jaskier seemed aroused by them.

Jaskier let go and walked Geralt backward, tumbling him down onto the bed. Once there, he grabbed Geralt’s wrist, pressing his hand against his own clothed cock. “Feel this?” he said, grinding his hips down against Geralt’s palm. “I watched you all night from across the room and thought of you like this. Were you doing that on purpose?”

No, he had mostly been thinking of his food. Geralt felt the heavy weight of him through his breeches; there was something delicious and slutty about the fact that Jaskier was still fully clothed while Geralt was naked and letting him move his body wherever he wanted him. The control was an illusion, of course, but so were most pleasurable things.

Jaskier fastened his lips to Geralt’s collarbone, sucking a bruise there, long fingers running across his chest, his nipples, which were peaked and tight in the chilled air. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Geralt said, feeling feverish, confused. He was having difficulty thinking beyond the smell of Jaskier’s salty skin, the feel of his cock, hard and hot against his own, Jaskier’s hips, pressing his knees open. He arched up into Jaskier’s mouth, biting back a groan.

Jaskier kissed his way down Geralt’s body, alternating teeth and tongue. “Want to come inside you,” Jaskier murmured against his skin.

Oh, Geralt thought, giving a startled jerk. Jaskier meant to have him. When considering this, he’d always imagined it the other way around, but he supposed this was okay too. The idea of having Jaskier inside of him was not – unappealing.  He bit his bottom lip, hips thrusting up involuntarily. Apparently, his body found the idea more than just okay .

“Like that, do you?” Jaskier said, voice husky. Geralt had heard Jaskier’s voice in a dozen iterations: scared, happy, sad, but never this -- he sounded like he meant to eat Geralt alive.

Geralt bit back a groan, the pads of his fingers running down Jaskier’s back to his ass and curled his hands around them and pulled, hitching Jaskier up and closer.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier panted. “You could break me without even trying.”

He could. But he never would.

“Oil,” Jaskier said, “in my bag.” He rolled off of Geralt and quickly pulled off his clothes, then twisted around to dig single-handedly through his bag until he found the little vial.

Geralt used the opportunity to scoot back on the bed, rolling over onto his belly, one leg bent beneath him. This would probably be the most comfortable from his recollection. It had been a while since he’d done it this way. It went against all of his basic instincts. He should feel uncomfortably vulnerable, having his back turned to another man, but Geralt was startled to realize that he wasn’t tense. He might not always like Jaskier but apparently, he trusted him. The mattress smelled of hay, earthy and a little dusty. He ran his hands over the dense wool, worn soft by age and repeated washing. Maybe age was making Geralt soft, too.

He heard Jaskier turn around and suck in a sharp breath.

Geralt froze. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked in the kind of voice that sent most men running.

Jaskier crawled back across the bed, a second later, his hand traced the curve of Geralt’s back; it was not a surprise but it was still unexpected all the same. 

“No, you’re perfect,” Jaskier said, sounding shaky.

Geralt swallowed hard. It was hardly true – no one was perfect. But it meant something that Jaskier thought so. No one ever had before.

Geralt waited, tense; the mattress dipped as Jaskier shifted. He popped the cork off the bottle and the top went rolling off the bed, lost to one of the shadowed corners. “I don't think I’m going to last long,” he confessed in hushed tones. “I’ve thought of this for so long.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Geralt said, voice tight as Jaskier worked a slicked finger into him.

“Why didn't you?”

“I barely talk,” Geralt pointed out, forcing his body to relax against the intrusion – it was basically how his entire relationship with Jaskier had worked thus far. He didn’t talk much because he rarely knew what to say. People always took him by surprise by how shitty they could be to each other. “Sorry,” he added, craning his neck to look at him.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Jaskier said and captured his mouth in a bruising kiss as he worked his fingers in and out, stretching him quickly. The angle was terrible, the kiss awkward, but Geralt thought that it was maybe the best kiss he’d ever gotten.

Geralt turned his head away, breaking the kiss. “Enough, enough,” he panted. “I’m ready.”

Jaskier didn’t have to be told twice. He pulled back just far enough to line himself up, then sank back down, entering Geralt with a sigh. 

Geralt held his breath as his body adjusted. Jaskier ran his hands down Geralt’s sides, making soothing sounds. When he felt more comfortable, Geralt pushed his hips back, slipping even further onto Jaskier’s cock.

“You’re a menace,” Jaskier hissed, rocking his hips forward.

He doesn’t remember it feeling this good, but he was hard-pressed to remember anything that felt quite like Jaskier inside him, stretching him wide, chest slick and hot against his back as he bracketed Geralt in with his arms. Jaskier took his time, thrusting slow, nearly pulling out until his cock caught on the edge of Geralt’s rim and then he pushed back inside with a sweet, burning slide.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, pushing back, trying to catch a rhythm. He made a frustrated sound.

“Turn over,” Jaskier said, and pulled out, waited until Geralt rolled onto his back, and got one hand up under his ass, the other feeding his cock in like he couldn’t stop even if he’d wanted to.

Geralt brought his legs up, resting his heels lightly against Jaskier’s back as he fucked into him with sharp, staccato thrusts. Geralt clung to his sides, his back, ran his hands through Jaskier’s already messy hair, pushing back as good as he got. 

His skin felt electric, hot all over. Jaskier said, one hand resting on Geralt’s chest, “Incredible. I can’t get used to your slow heartbeat.”

“Then speed it up,” Geralt challenged him, pushing onto his cock with a particularly vicious thrust.

“Challenge accepted,” Jaskier said, and pushed Geralt further into the sweet grassy mattress, grabbing hold of his wrists and pushing them up above his head as he fucked into him, Geralt just laying there and taking it, the sound of Jaskier’s balls slapping against his ass as he drove harder and harder into his body.

The bottle of oil spilled and seeped into the blanket. It would never be the same and neither, Geralt privately thought, would he after this was done.

Geralt felt strung tight, like one of the fibers stretched across Jaskier’s lute, nearly vibrating and straining. His breath was coming too fast, making him light-headed, belly on fire with mounting pleasure. 

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier said as he started to get erratic. “Close, I’m close.”

Geralt took that as his cue and clumsily grabbed hold of his own cock, trapped between them, stroking in time with Jaskier’s thrusts. It didn’t take him long until he was squeezing his eyes shut and let out a strangled groan as his orgasm crashed through him, back arched, legs tensed as Jaskier cursed above him.

Jaskier sped up. A drop of sweat hovered on his chin and fell onto Geralt’s chest. He wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and pulled them close, chest to chest. The stimulation was too much, just this side of uncomfortable, and he wasn’t surprised when he felt a bead of moisture gather at the corner of his eye and trail down to collect in his ear.

Jaskier leaned down to bridge the last of the dwindling space between them and brushed his lips across Geralt’s; hot and slick and messy as his hips stuttered, he pressed deep and groaned. He shuddered, mouth open, tensed body juddering with aftershocks as he laid on top of Geralt, breathing in his air, back and forth.

Eventually, he pulled out and flopped down next to Geralt in the bed. 

Geralt didn’t know what came next. Usually, this was the time that he either left or paid. So he stayed still, ass aching pleasantly until Jaskier made the next move.

Jaskier rolled over on his side, facing Geralt. He ran his fingers through the smears of come cooling down low on Geralt’s belly and brought his fingers to his own lips. He sucked them clean and then made a disgruntled sound. “Nothing. Still can’t taste a damn thing.” He slung an arm around Geralt and sighed into his neck. “Oh, well. Maybe next time.”

Next time, Geralt thought, as Jaskier settled in and drifted off to sleep, his body a warm, comforting weight.

The road was vast to always travel it alone.

Beside him, while Jaskier snored lightly, Geralt’s heart thundered.

Chapter Text

When you got used to living a certain way, it could be jarring to realize that there was another way all along.
 
“God,” Jaskier said with an inelegant lisp. “I think I’ve lost all feeling. It is shockingly hard to speak when you can’t feel your tongue. On the plus side, my feet no longer ache.”
 
“There you go,” Geralt said, “you’ve been in a good mood lately.”
 

“I can’t imagine why,” Jaskier said, his eyes crinkling at the side in an appealing way. Geralt tried not to think about it. “Besides, this is the last sense left of the curse and then I'm home free."
 
Geralt frowned. “Unless there’s a nasty surprise at the very end.”
 
“Wait, what?” Jaskier said and ran to catch up.

 
 ---

 
It took about two days for the novelty and Jaskier’s general good humor to wear thin. It might have had something to do with the fact that they could no longer fuck or the fact that he had choked any number of times on food he’d failed to chew properly.
 
His back was black and blue where Geralt had to repeatedly thump him to clear his airway.
 
Not that he’d noticed; according to Jaskier, it didn't hurt. But the thing was, feeling no pain also meant you couldn’t feel pleasure, a fact that they’d learned the hard way – or rather the opposite of hard. Flaccid, you might say, but Jaskier refused to talk about it.
 
“This is ridiculous,” he said, lying in bed, his arms folded behind his head. He was lying on top of Geralt’s boot, but he thought it wise not to say anything.
 
Geralt turned towards him and sighed. He didn’t know what the regular fucking made them, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He’d enjoy the uncomplicated pleasure for as long as it lasted and when it was over – well, things rarely did work out in his favor. He was used to it. 
 
He skimmed the tips of his fingers down Jaskier’s side, finally stopping and curling around his hip. Maybe he dared because he knew Jaskier couldn’t feel it. “It’s not a big deal.”
 
“Easy for you to say,” Jaskier hissed, eyes narrowed. “You haven’t lost all sensation. I-- fuck, is that a boot?"
 
“I barely feel anything,” Geralt pointed out with an amused snort.
 
Jaskier surprised him by abruptly turning over to face him, hand snatching his out of mid-air when Geralt tried to withdraw. “Being able to withstand more isn't the same thing as not feeling in the first place." 
 
"You sound like you have experience with that."
 
"Don't we all? You don't like what you feel. That’s why you’ve convinced yourself that it’s nothing.”
 
Geralt was abruptly reminded that he had only met Jaskier because Jaskier had left his home to wander the world alone. 
 
He looked down at his hand – nails ragged and a little dirty, the callouses dotting his hands at strange intervals that were as familiar to him as the sword in his grip that had caused them – where it was wrapped up in Jaskier’s, worn shockingly rough by various instruments in different places but damaged all the same.
 
Which was to say – neither of them had any fucking clue what they were doing. 
 
Jaskier pressed Geralt’s hand to his chest. “The world seems – it feels very far away.” He blinked, his lashes a languid sweep. Geralt’s eyesight was good enough that he could count them if he wanted, but some gifts were too lovely to examine too closely. “If you can’t feel anything, are you even part of the world anymore?”
 
Geralt didn’t know. He supposed that you could be part of the world if someone kept you there – as Jaskier did for him without even knowing it. Like he could do for Jaskier--
 
“Look at me,” Geralt said gruffly.
 
“I’m always looking at you,” Jaskier said seriously.
 
“Then imagine you can feel what I feel.” Geralt lifted his hand and pressed it to his own shoulder, slipping it beneath the wide neck of his shirt and against his skin, the swoop of his clavicles and the rounded muscle of his shoulder.
 
Jaskier swallowed, propping himself up on his elbow. “Take your shirt off.”
 
He leaned against the rough-hewn headboard as Geralt complied quickly, then ran his own hand from his shoulder to his belly, one finger circling his belly button, then back up again. 
 
Jaskier's breathing went harsh in the quiet room. “Pinch your nipple,” he said, his normally buttery-smooth voice shredded like he’d be chewing gravel for breakfast.
 
Geralt reached up and rolled one of his own nipples between his fingers, then gave it a light pinch. He flattened his hand and rubbed the flat of his palm against the peaked nub until it felt almost raw. He didn’t realize his eyes had fallen closed and he was biting his lip until the mattress shifted and Jaskier was kissing him.
 
Jaskier pulled back, looking disappointed. “Still can’t feel anything.”
 
“Then tell me what you want to feel and I’ll do it for you,” Geralt offered.
 
Jaskier sat back, biting his lip. “Fuck fuck, okay,” Jaskier said, his nimble fingers undoing the laces of his own breeches. “Trousers off.”
 
Geralt obediently lifted his hips, sliding his trousers off and kicking them off the side of the bed. The landed on the floor in a rustle of fabric, unimportant and immediately forgotten under the heavy weight of Jaskier's regard.
 
The damp air was heavy, coating his skin like a blanket, like a caress. “What next?”
 
“Let me see you fuck yourself with your fingers.”
 
Geralt felt his eyebrow quirk. Well. “How many?”
 
“As many as you can take."
 
Geralt nodded. He reached across the bed and grabbed something he thought would work, then leaned back, stuffing a pillow beneath him. It left his hips canting forward, legs lazily spread. It was obscene, and Geralt couldn’t quite remember ever being so turned on. Jaskier always did seem to bring out the stupid in him.
 
He dipped his fingers into the little pot. It was supposed to be for suspending tinctures, but hey, whatever worked.
 
He pulled his knees up, pushing a finger inside of himself, moving slowly, taking his time. His eyes fell closed as he worked himself open slowly, the angle unbearably awkward, but the stinging ache in his ass each time his knuckle caught and Jaskier's hot gaze was a burning pleasure low in his belly.
 
“What do you feel like inside?” Jaskier asked, voice tight, hushed.
 
“Hot, tight,” Geralt answered and crooked his fingers. “Imagining it’s you inside me.”
 
The mattress shifted again. "And what would I do?”
 
“That thing where you lean over me,” Geralt said, feeling hesitant. “When you--”
 
“Yes?” 
 
Geralt opened his eyes to see Jaskier's cock out while he massaged himself. When he caught Geralt looking, he said, mouth quirked ruefully, “I’m not sure I can come untouched but trust me, the visual is stunning and I’m enjoying myself very much." He tilted his head. "Tell me, what naughty thing would I do?”
 
Geralt licked his lips. “That thing where you kiss my neck.”
 
Jaskier made a soft sound. “Oh,” he said and between one blink and the next, there was suddenly a terrible understanding there. “Come here,” he said and scooted closer to Geralt. 
 
He looped one leg around Geralt and moved his hand over. “Come closer.”
 
“You can’t feel anything.”
 
“Doesn’t mean that you can’t,” Jaskier said. “Did it ever occur to you that I only ever regained what I lost when I gave something away?”
 
It hadn't. Geralt had avoided thinking about the curse overmuch, the one thing that seemingly bound them together.
 
But right now, Jaskier was looking at him, unafraid, like he was something special. 
 
His chest was doing something horrible and complicated, expanding in too small a space. Geralt surged forward and kissed him, Jaskier’s hand ran up and down his back, the other folded around the back of his neck, steady and sure. It might as well have been a brand. He was shattered, scrubbed raw, and he felt the first real sliver fear and shivered; it was the sound of a drowner before his eyes adjusted to the night.

He was in some real fucking trouble.

He wanted Jaskier, wanted all of him – the idiot who defended him while blind, the man who lied as easily as he sang. Somehow, he’d fallen in love. He was entirely baffled how he ended up here, but he supposed there was nothing to be done for it now.
 
Jaskier hummed against his mouth and he reached down, entwining his fingers with Geralt’s, and started jacking him slowly.
 
“You don’t have to--”

“Let me,” Jaskier said in-between kisses, his mouth slick with spit and the softest thing Geralt had ever touched.

He nosed his mouth down Geralt’s jaw, kissed his neck just like Geralt liked and he felt his entire body go hot and then cold. Jaskier’s hand sped up with barely any room between them, bodies sweaty and intertwined.

His body went tense, breathing ragged.

“Come on,” Jaskier urged, his voice low. “Let me see you.”

But he didn’t wait for permission. Jaskier had always seen Geralt, even when he was blind.

It was that thought as much as Jaskier’s mouth fastened onto that place on his neck where his pulse beat strongest that did it. His belly tensed and he teetered for a split-second, right on that delicious razor’s edge – before he came, groaning and messy, all over both of their hands.

Jaskier moved his legs and slowly lowered him onto the bed. “You weigh a fuckton,” Jaskier complained. “You’re giving me a most unwelcome workout.”

“At least you won’t be sore afterward,” Geralt said, feeling a little smug.

“Such an asshole,” Jaskier said fondly and brushed his hair back from his face. It had been a long time since someone had touched him so carefully. He carefully lowered himself next to Geralt. “Oh hey,” he said, making a fist. “I can feel stuff again.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?” Geralt allowed himself to ask. There was really no reason to think Jaskier wouldn’t and yet – all his life, people had been leaving him unexpectedly. And without the curse, what else was there? But maybe whatever madness had driven Jaskier out of his comfortable life to this rag-tag existence on the fringes of society, on this endless road with Geralt, would keep him here just a little longer. Maybe forever.
 
This strange hopefulness, this small bubble of peace wouldn’t last. These things never did. Like the sunrise after a long night, they were fleeting. But for one tiny moment, he could let himself have it.
 
“Where else would I go?” Jaskier asked. He grinned across at Geralt, lopsided and a little tender. “We’re both such assholes that no one else would have us. So I guess you’re stuck with me forever.”

Time would tell. Geralt had seen stranger things in his lifetime than a Witcher who got a happy ending.
 
“Guess I am,” Geralt said evenly and closed his eyes.