Geralt's already pretty sure that Jaskier's feeling better by the time he makes it out of the shower-- he was singing in it, loud enough that Geralt had heard him out near the kitchen, so that boded well. Those suspicions are confirmed by the musician himself, when he returns freshly washed and dressed in a yellow matching pajama set. It suits him, really-- walking around barefoot in a cozy apartment, comfortable and soft and smelling faintly of expensive floral shampoo.
Jaskier asks him a question and Geralt hums in response, mostly missing it. His head feels a little slow, and there's an odd little tingly feeling making its way across his scalp-- tired, probably. There's been a lot of work to be done on the ranch and he's always been bad at getting enough sleep. He'll just drink a strong cup of coffee and he'll be fine to drive back home.
"Black. Strong."
He lets Jaskier's chatter wash over him while he busies himself with making coffee, some long rambling story about making jam and cookies from the fruit that Geralt had sent him home with. Something about the cookies being something he ate when he was a child, something about a grandmother? Geralt isn't paying much attention, not to the words, at least-- the sound of his voice is nice, the rhythm and cadence of it soothing. It doesn't really matter too much, anyway, Jaskier doesn't seem to require much input from him and seems fine with just having a warm, living body to chat at.
Then the musician is standing on the other side of the counter, the tray of cookies and brownies sitting between them, and Geralt doesn't remember how he got there? One moment he was chatting on the other side of the kitchen, then he was right there, looking at him expectantly. Geralt frowns; why does he feel so fucking stupid? It's almost like all of those times when he was a kid and he would sneak out at night to--
oh.
"Jaskier," he says, and even his own voice sounds strange to his ears, "what the fuck was in those brownies?"
He has a very good idea of what was in those brownies, now, and it means that he's not going to be able to drive home until the morning, which really makes his plans to meet Eskel first-thing to do some repairs on the goat enclosure more difficult. He might have to text him. God, he might have to text him while high, this is a fucking nightmare.
Black and strong, huh, Jaskier wants to say, just like you. But he keeps it for himself this time, because he isn't supposed to be flirting anymore, and mighty physique had already been pushing it. It does fit Geralt though, not only because of the parallels to his clothing and muscles, but because he's just that kind of serious guy that kind handle coffee in that pure state. He's probably never tasted a frappuccino in his life, and Jaskier can't help wondering if he could ever convince him to try one. Another challenge for the list, perhaps, which could be connected to the main challenge of trying to convince Geralt to hang out in the city together some time, grab a drink or maybe even dinner.
Friends grab dinner together all the time, he can already picture himself telling Lizzie, shut up.
Geralt makes a very obvious question then, and Jaskier finally fucking loses it. He throws his head back and laughs, praying to those gods he doesn't believe in for his phone to charge up fast, because this totally deserves to be documented. Hell, he'll bring out his fucking camera if he has to.
"I think you know, don't you~?" He suddenly gasps and puts a hand on his chest above his heart. "Don't tell me this is your first time trying weed! I shall carry the badge of introducing you to it with honors. Also, no coffee for you tonight, mister."
Weed and caffeine can have both great and awful results, so better not risk it - besides, he wants to experience Naturally High Geralt first. The coffee maker isn't turned off, Jaskier lets it finish so he can have the coffee ready in the morning, but he does take out water from the fridge and a galaxy flask from the cupboard, which he feels with the fresh water before passing it to Geralt.
"Couch, now. Get comfortable for real this time. You aren't driving anywhere like that." And the big smile on his face says he isn't regretting this turn of events at all.
Arter choosing chamomile from his collection of teas, Jaskier quickly fills his colorful mug with hot water and brings it together with the tray of cookies to the coffee table - don't worry, he leaves the rest of the brownies on a separate plate in the kitchen. Two is enough for one person, and Jaskier isn't planning to get high himself tonight, oh no. He needs to watch this with a clear mind, to enjoy every second of it.
"Now you can taste my cookies through the vision of the mighty judge that is the munchies," he comments as he sits down on the couch and grabs his mug to stir the tea and press that teabag with his spoon until he gets every single bit of flavor out of it. "Because the brownies weren't my doing. I'll be veeeeery hurt if you like Pris' cooking better than mine, Geralt."
Great. Fantastic. Geralt accidentally dosed himself with two brownies' worth of pot, and they weren't small brownies. And knowing Kids These Days, they probably were strong, the sort of thing that you're supposed to start off with half of one and wait a bit to see how you feel before going for the rest of it. Back in his day, weed wasn't so goddamned potent-- you could smoke a whole joint without feeling like your entire brain was going to melt into the floor. These days, you take three or four puffs and you're absolutely toasted. Who knew that people would work on upping the THC content of weed like it's the cure for fucking cancer?
Point is, Geralt's fucked and he's already starting to feel the initial effects of all the weed that he ate. It'll hit him fully before too long, and then he'll just be spending the rest of the night high as fuck, trying to act normal.
And he's not even going to get that coffee. Geralt frowns at Jaskier's coffee rejection, then frowns more at the brightly colored flask that the musician puts into his hand. He takes it, of course, because he has the bad habit of taking anything that's handed to him, and moves when he's commanded to sit on the couch. It's a nice couch, and Geralt's weight makes him sink into it a little when he sits down, and it's entirely possible that once this weed kicks in, he might have a hard time getting up again.
"I've smoked pot before," he says, because clearly this is the important thing that needs to be corrected right now. "Just not in fucking years. I have a kid."
He can't go out and get baked when he has to take care of a teenage child, that would be both terribly irresponsible and set a horrible role model for her. She's too young to partake of the devil's lettuce. Once she's not living in Geralt's house, she can do what she wants, but so long as she's living with him, it's Healthy Choices For Developing Children.
Jaskier brings the cookie tray over, sans brownies, and fusses with his tea until it's however he likes it. The couch is very comfortable and Geralt doesn't particularly want to move, even to try one of these cookies that Jaskier's so insistent about, which really just means that the weed is kicking in more. God, this is going to be an ordeal. He's going to be a boneless lump of asshole on this couch before the evening's through.
"Did you put anything in them?" Because that's a question that he has to ask now, apparently. "More weed. Cocaine. LSD. Whatever's popular these days."
If Jaskier wants him to eat one of them, he might have to hand it to him.
So this isn't Geralt's first weed experience. Jaskier is a tiny bit disappointed over not being his first, but the feeling goes away rather quickly when he realizes Mr Responsible Mountain Man used to be, well. Less responsible. He wants to ask so many questions about Geralt's younger days, he doesn't even know where to begin.
Perhaps he shall start by just acknowledging what was just said, because getting any kind of new information out of Geralt is harder than tuning a saxophone.
"Being a dad doesn't mean you can't have fun," he replies after sipping his tea. "You still get breaks, I imagine. You're here tonight, aren't you? And I suspect that wasn't the first time you went to have a drink with your brothers. She doesn't need to know, mate."
And now he's wondering how much Geralt (and now Yen, he guesses) has told Ciri about this friendship. She knows he goes to the ranch often enough and that he's been reading her dad's favorite book, but acquaintances discuss media all the time. Has she picked up on the fact that beloved book is missing from her father's shelves? Is Geralt still protecting her from him?
That's when that little voice in his head that just happens to sound like his sister reminds Jaskier what an awful idea would be to date a father and owner of his own business (with living creatures, even). He's fucked people older than him, mothers and fathers both, but they had been just that - flings. This... this is one hell of a crush on a man that can't just receive a text from Jaskier on Wednesday night asking him to go out together for ice-cream at some stupid hour. So he should be glad for that wake-up call he got the other day, he should be working on absorbing that and moving on.
Geralt turning him down (indirectly, but still) should be a good thing, save them both a lot of drama. Yet it doesn't feel that way.
He's snapped out of his thoughts by Geralt's most boomer comment to date, and that sure is saying something.
"WHAT?! What the fuck, Geralt!" he asks as he throws his free hand in the air. Bewildered doesn't even start to describe his expression. "How can you put hard drugs on the same level than bloody weed? No! I don't do anything that isn't alcohol, weed or shrooms! Which reminds me--" He pokes Geralt's arm. Ugh, so thick and strong, how dare he. "No smoking allowed around me, no matter if it's marihuana or tobacco. Welcome to a new era, you old boomer, edibles are your friends."
His voice is precious to him, and so he must protect his throat. If Geralt ever even dares to take out a lighter around him, Jaskier will make sure to grab it and throw it in the fucking toilet.
"Here," he says as he pushes one of the cookies into Geralt's hand. "Simple, good, old fashioned kolaczki. Grandma's recipe. Don't disappoint her." Because he already worries he may be doing that 24/7.
Jaskier wiggles his hand around in the air and Geralt doesn't even try to follow its path. He sounds... upset? Confused? Something. He's very emotional and tends to switch between them at a rapid fire pace, so Geralt just figures that if he waits for like ten seconds, he'll move on to something else. Turns out, he's right-- about ten seconds after he starts getting offended about like cocaine or something, he's moved on to talking about how there's no smoking in his apartment, regardless of what kind of lettuce you're blazing. Which is fine, he doesn't even smoke cigarettes and he hasn't had a joint in years. He's not bringing one over to Jaskier's place just to hotbox the apartment.
"You're calling it marijuana and I'm the boomer?" he says. "What are you, a narc?"
Nobody calls it marijuana, call it weed or pot like a normal person, you musical dork. The idea of Jaskier being a narc is funny enough for Geralt to huff a laugh, though, at his own stupid-ass joke. God, he's getting fucking high. This is the worst. At least once Jaskier pushes a cookie into his hand, he can put that into his mouth and not talk for a while.
"S' fine," he replies. They're good cookies. Maybe a little wonky in their construction, but it doesn't have to be perfectly pretty to taste good. Maybe there's something to that, that just because something is a little fucked up and maybe kind of unevenly baked doesn't mean that it can't still be good.
Hah, baked.
Christ, he's high.
Geralt tries to open the water bottle. It takes him a good twenty seconds to realize that he can't get it open because he's turning the cap in the wrong direction, but then he has a hard time figuring out how to make his hands go the other way without turning the bottle upside down. He leaves it as it is-- it's fine, he doesn't need water. This is fine. He can just distract from the fact that he's high as tits.
"Since I'm stuck here," he says, and come on, Geralt, make your brain come up with a normal thing that people do when they aren't high, "put on a movie? You have a collection."
Geralt's huffed laughter interrupts him, and Jaskier stares at him for a second before chuckling as well. Ohoho, the weed is kicking in, isn't it? Yep, there he goes, eating the cookie with that lost in drugged thoughts look on his face. The cookie is well received, and that alone should make Jaskier happy - it does, but he's mostly smiling at Geralt's current state. He's even staying silent for once in his life just so he can hear whatever silly thing Geralt may say next.
He almost chokes on his tea when his friend fails to open the water bottle, and honestly? Jaskier ends up giggling. Geralt is being fucking adorable! Is this karma? Is this his reward for having dealt with a bigot and a stick in the wheel of his career? Because then, the price may've been worth it.
Deciding to have mercy on him, Jaskier puts down his own mug before leaning over his friend to open the bottle for him. Which is an amazing yet awful idea, because he can feel every muscle against his own body, he can sense the smell of beer and that nasty secondhand smoke on his clothes plus his breathing against his ear.
"There you go, big boy," he says as he quickly leans back and sips more tea - his throat suddenly feels pretty dry.
Watching a movie while being high is pretty standard, something he's done before even. He just doesn't expect the idea to come from Geralt himself. This is... true hanging out! Pals being pals! Mr Dilf accepting he's staying and deciding to do an activity together! Oh, joy!
"Are you kidding? I've got the perfect flick to go with those brownies!"
Jaskier is practically bouncing off the couch, that's how excited he is about this whole deal. He doesn't need to search for the right DVD case, he knows exactly where the one he wants is, because it's a favorite for both normal and high situations. Disc is popped in and with the remote control in hand, he returns to Geralt's side... but not without dimming the lights first. He's put on a comedy, not a horror or romance story - this isn't even a date. But hey, dimmed lights are preferable when watching movies, right? Especially with this flat screen plus set of speakers set-up of his. Gotta make it the real theatre experience.
That's what he tells himself anyway.
"Tell me, my dear yankee friend, have you ever been shown the true comedy genius that is Monty Python?" he asks as he sits next to Geralt, way closer than he was before. In fact, their shoulders and thighs are touching, which is completely unnecessary, because this couch is big enough to put Roach between them. It means nothing, of course, just being practical - this way he presses another cookie into Geralt's hand, like he's doing right now, right before pressing play. "Because then you're in for a ride."
Hopefully Geralt can appreciate British humor... and the fact Jaskier is reciting some lines along. Oops.
Well, Mr. DILF doesn't exactly have a choice in the matter-- he can't drive home, especially not on his motorcycle, when he's high as a fucking kite. Both because it'd be immensely irresponsible to be out on the road when he's this much of a mess and also because he isn't entirely sure that he'd even be able to ride the damn thing out of the parking lot without tipping over. So really his only options are to stay over here for the night and go home in the morning, spend the next three hours walking, or call one of his brothers. And there's no way in hell that he's going to explain why he's high off of his gourd at Jaskier's house to either Eskel or Lambert. Eskel would just be disappointed in him, Lambert would never let him live it down, and both possibilities are equally bad.
Jaskier unscrews the top of the water bottle for him, which allows him to take a long pull from it; after drinking beer and getting high, he's thirsty. And water always tastes better when he's high, more... wet? He doesn't know, he's fucked up.
He sinks down a little further into the soft cushions of the couch while Jaskier picks out what is, apparently, the perfect film to watch while stoned to shit. It turns out to be a Monty Python film, The Life of Brian, and he really sets the mood for it by dimming the lights and then settling back in right next to Geralt, shoulders and thighs touching. He's about to comment on it when another cookie is put into his hand and, well, since it's there he has to eat it, and by the time he's done that, he's forgotten what he was going to say.
Geralt levels a Look at Jaskier when he asks if he's seen Monty Python before, like one of the most well-known comedy troupes in the world is some kind of obscure British national treasure.
"Yeah, I've seen Monty Python," he says. "Who the hell hasn't?"
He does pretty well through the movie-- Monty Python's fucking funny, even to a grouchy, stoic bastard like him. He makes his way through most of the jokes with chuckles and amused huffs, which is far more than most things get out of him. Jaskier's body is warm and stable next to him, and he leans into the touch just a little. Not enough to make him want to move, or to make things weird with the way his skin feels hungry after he's been touched. It's mostly just annoying, because you'd think that he'd have had his fill of contact after a one night stand or two. And getting high makes that hunger worse-- makes him want to sprawl on top of the closest available warm body and leech the heat out of them. He's trying not to give in and do that to Jaskier, it would be immensely inappropriate and he also might crush him.
Then they get to The Scene.
He's all right through the beginning of it, but just as the guards can't keep their shit together, neither can Geralt. It's not just the fact that the name Biggus Dickus is fucking hilarious, it's also the delivery of it and the fact that every other person on set was also desperately trying not to corpse. By the time the other Roman centurions are laughing on-screen, Geralt has slumped to the side and is wheezing out laughter, leaning his weight against Jaskier's shoulder. He almost gets himself together, but then there's the bit about Biggus Dickus' wife, Incontinentia Buttocks, and that just sets him back off again.
Biggus Dickus is funny even when stone-cold sober-- no one stands a chance when they're high. No one can blame Geralt for laughing, even if he is kind of crushing Jaskier.
"A lot of people, considering how many times my references are completely missed on Twitter."
Since he moved here, he had to stop using them when flirting, too. It had gotten him in a few awkward situations before he caught on. Geralt not only knowing but also liking Monty Python is wonderful news, Jaskier can make great use of this during their texting.
Would he chuckle and amusedly huff like this at his texts too, or is it just the weed talking?
He stops reciting the lines along pretty damn quickly, simply because he wants to hear Geralt better. Which isn't an easy task, because no matter how many times he's watched this movie, it still makes him laugh as much as the first time. Comedy is a form of art by itself, one that not everyone can pull off smoothly, and Jaskier appreciates the crew's wordplay with all his writer heart.
There's also an additional distraction: Geralt is leaning into him. Which shouldn't be a big deal, really. This is absolutely normal. Like a sleepover! Nobody would bat an eye at girls sitting like this, so they should be able to do the same without judgment or second guesses! Down with gender stereotypes! That's Jaskier's excuse to scoot closer anyway, to make it mutual leaning and enjoy the warmth of their bodies pressed together. If he wasn't laughing so often, he'd even rest his head on Geralt's shoulder.
(Lizzie is going to kill him.)
His mug is empty now, he should leave it on the coffee table, exchange it for his phone so he can record Geralt losing it to Biggus Dickus - but he can't bring himself to move. They've fallen naturally in this position, it'd bring attention to it to try to replicate it again deliberately.
In the end, it doesn't matter much, because he couldn't have moved even if he had gone for it: the leaning isn't mutual anymore. It's mostly just Geralt, and it can't even be called leaning anymore, more like crushing. They may be only a couple of inches apart in height, but Geralt's body is still much bigger than his: wider, heavier, bulkier... sexier. Jaskier simply doesn't have the strength to compete.
He isn't sure he wants to, anyway.
It happens in a flash: one second Jaskier is nudging his shoulder up, trying to keep his place; the next one he's down on the couch with around two hundred pounds of DILF on top of him. The mug has fallen on the rug and his legs are still hanging off the couch, rather awkwardly at that. His face is flushed, his heart starts beating quite fast and...
Jaskier takes a deep breath as he reminds his dick to behave.
"Hey there," he comments with a grin that shouldn't be there. A friend should be bothered by having to deal with another friend's heavy ass, maybe tease them for it, not speak in a tone a bit too close to sweet-nothings. And definitely not raise a hand to tuck a stray white strand of hair behind said friend's ear, but his hand is moving on its own, he swears. "I've heard stories about dogs, but I didn't know wolves could take over your couch too."
Geralt still thinks this is a tattoo reference, right? So he's safe. Hopefully.
They go from vertical to horizontal in one fell swoop, Geralt's weight pressing Jaskier's smaller frame into the couch and his nose pressed to the musician's clavicle. He smells nice, like fancy floral soap, chamomile tea, and warm skin, and it's a far more appealing scent than expensive perfumes and colognes. Most people always put those on too heavily, anyway, and it irritates his nose.
This is nice. He can feel the rise and fall of Jaskier's chest as he breathes and the resonance of his voice when he speaks. Gentle fingers brush against his forehead when he pushes some of Geralt's hair back from his face, and that's nice, too. Could be nicer if he went a little further with it, because despite his gruff exterior, he does love it when fingers thread through his hair. Yen used to do that, what feels like a hundred years ago. He misses the feeling of nails on his scalp, of gentle hands.
And this is another one of the reasons why he shouldn't get high. He gets touchy, like whatever part of his brain experiences tactile sensation gets dialed up a few notches, and he wants. He can ignore the way his skin hungers for touch when he's sober, it's hard when he isn't. Harder to remember why he shouldn't ask for it, too.
"Hm," he says, a vague reply to Jaskier's comment. Geralt's hand is resting on Jaskier's side, his thumb rubbing slowly across the soft fabric of his pajama shirt. He isn't paying attention to the movie anymore, but that's fine; he's seen it before anyway. And Jaskier's warmth is distracting.
He realizes after... probably too long, honestly, that he's crushing Jaskier on his own couch. No matter how much Geralt wants to lay there and soak in his body heat-- and there's something that should be additionally wrong with that other than just the fact that he's too big and heavy to lay on people, but he can't remember what it is-- he needs to get up. Geralt gets a hand braced against the couch and reluctantly pushes himself up, relieving Jaskier of his weight.
"Sorry," he says, voice rough, and puts a reasonable distance between them on the couch. "I didn't-- sorry."
Geralt is heavy on top of him, sure, but he's also warm. Oh so warm. And cozy, even. Is this what cuddling an actual wolf or bear feels like? Well, if it can be considered cuddling. Jaskier's body position is awkward, to say the least, and he isn't really getting to hold Geralt in return.
Should he?
His teasing only gets a grunt in return, and Geralt... doesn't even attempt to move. Jaskier doesn't mind, but he's incredibly confused - there's only so much mental gymnastics he can do! The laxness can be blamed on the weed but... there simply isn't a heterosexual explanation for the thumb rubbing his side. He can't stop himself from catching his breath as he internally screams, not knowing what to do. And that's a big fucking deal, because Jaskier always knows what to do with advances like this.
Talk about mixed signals, made worse by the fact Geralt is as high as a kite. How much is the weed talking? How much has Jakier read wrong all this time and how much can he do from now on? It's driving him crazy. Asking would bring attention to it and put Geralt in his usual private, defensive mode. Ignoring it would make him a coldhearted bastard.
In the end he decides to put a hand on Geralt's back, between his shoulders, and do some gentle rubbing in return. That's neutral enough, right? No lines crossed? They sure as hell are getting blurred though. It feels wrong yet so right - Geralt's back is firm, wide, as perfectly shaped as the rest of him, and Jaskier tells himself he should be happy he's getting this at all, that he shouldn't give in to the temptation of running his fingers through white hair that calls for him every time his hand brushes it.
The moment is over before Jaskier gets to really savor it without that ugly hint of guilt. His body feels chilly as soon as Geralt pulls away, but what really hits him with a cold slap is seeing the distance the man puts between them. Has it been the weed after all? Perhaps not, because the way he looks away and apologizes speaks more about embarrasment than anything else. So which is it? These mixed signals are going to be the death of him.
"It's alright, I don't mind," Jaskier finally answers after a pause to think - a pause that probably comes as too long, and he hopes it doesn't give Geralt the wrong impression. It's just extremely hard to think of the right middle point to express himself: how to tell the man affection is fine without scaring him away? Trying to prove his point and hoping it's a small enough gesture not to come off as too pushy, Jaskier moves his legs to rest his ankles on Geralt's thigh while internally wishing that was his head resting there. Ugh, bad horny brain, not helping here. "This is a sofa-bed. We could open it up if you need to lay down."
The tip of his tongue peeks out his mouth as he realizes that sounds as bad as the coffee invitation. It shouldn't be so difficult to speak without double entendre.
"I can bring some blankets, too. And snacks? Since you're already stuck here, we can make it an actual cozy pajama party."
He is embarrassed, mostly about the fact that he's doing his bullshit touchy thing, and it's one thing to get like that around his brothers but a complete different thing to do it to Jaskier. He shouldn't have to deal with this kind of thing, be bothered by having some big bastard get into his personal space and lay all over him like an asshole.
Jaskier kindly insists that he doesn't mind, because he's polite and that's the sort of thing that you say when someone's being a bother but you don't want to upset them. The long, awkward pause after he says that it's all right proves it-- see, Geralt has some social skills, despite what his brothers say-- and suggests opening up the sofa-bed. That's a diplomatic way to solve the problem, give them enough space so that Geralt can lay his heavy, space-invading ass somewhere that it won't be a problem.
Maybe he should've just called one of this brothers to take him home. But by now they've already probably gone home, and Geralt really can't justify calling them at this hour to drive all the way out here and then take him all the way back to the ranch. And he'd still have to get his bike in the morning.
"Yeah," he says. They might as well get it open, anyway, considering that it's probably where Geralt is going to be sleeping. He's crashed in worse places, he could've slept on the floor if need be. "Might as well get it ready."
If it had been someone other than Jaskier, he might have thought that inviting him to lay down and get comfortable would be the lead-up to something else, but, well. He's the bother, the unintended guest. He wasn't supposed to stay all night, just for long enough to make Jaskier feel better and then fuck off. Now the guy's stuck with him, and sure, it's definitely Jaskier's fault for not labeling his damn pot brownies, but Geralt should at least make this whole process as easy as possible.
A pajama party. Jesus, Geralt doesn't even know what the fuck that entails, not when his only experience of "pajama parties" was the kind where no one wore clothes or hung around until morning.
"I should borrow some clothes from you, too," he says. Jaskier had offered that earlier, but Geralt hadn't thought that he'd be staying over then. That was before pot brownies ruined his plans. "I don't really want to sleep in jeans if I don't have to."
He sniffs at his shirt. "And maybe a shower. I smell like a fucking bar."
Not a great smell on him, or anyone really. No wonder Jaskier didn't want him laying on him, even aside from the whole heavy thing. He reeks of secondhand smoke and craft beer.
But in the meanwhile, before he takes care of any of that, he could get up and help transform the couch into its bed form. Helping out is the least that he could do.
While Jaskier had joined Geralt in having double-entendre thoughts about this whole situation before, this time his mind takes it easier. Might as well get it ready? Reluctance isn't sexy. At all. At least Geralt has finally accepted his fate and he's giving in to the idea of a more relaxed evening together. A hurrah for friendship? Jaskier doesn't know what the deal is anymore, but this does feel like some kind of progress.
"You got it, mate," he replies (with perhaps a little too much excitement) as he stands up as well. Having muscles around proves to be useful pretty soon, because together they move the coffee table and transform the couch in seconds. Jaskier doesn't even sweat once! Geralt is probably strong enough to pick and keep him up against a wall as he--
Fuck. Horny thoughts are back. Bad brain. What happened to reluctance isn't sexy?
"I never did this so quickly! You make it look easy." He pats Geralt's arm twice. Ugh, so perfectly shaped. "Let me see what I can find in my closet that can fit your whole--" He moves his open hand to indicate Geralt's big body. "--heftiness. Change the movie for some music if you want, there must be something in my collection you like." Because his collection is vat and varied, and he seriously doubts Geralt knows how to start Spotify or Youtube on a smart tv anyway.
The horny thoughts take a chance to make a second comeback when he finds himself alone in his room and the fact Geralt is going to be naked in his shower and wear his clothes is finally sinking in. Bloody hell, how is he supposed to survive the evening? Maybe he should have a brownie as well, relax a little too? Nah, awful idea - he won't be able to control himself and probably scare Geralt off. Better learn to deal with this shit if this is how things are going to be for a while - because Jaskier doesn't think he'll be able to decode these mixed signals any time soon.
"Alright, here is the deal," he comments as he comes back from his bedroom and proceeds to throw a shirt at Geralt. It's a sport shirt belonging to the Oxford University rugby team - all black and definitely bigger than Jaskier's size. "You have the physique of a rugby player, so a rugby shirt you get. Can't wrong with that one, it's baggy when I wear it to sleep." Nothing awkward about that, not at all. "Pants though... I wear them tight. I don't think any of mine would be able to withstand your mighty thighs soooo I thought - yoga pants!" He shows said pants to Geralt, grabbing them by the sides and pulling to show how elastic the fabric is. "They're stretchy, so I think they may do the trick." It will also shape Geralt's butt spectacularly. But that's not why he chose them, just an... ahem. Extra bonus. He clears his voice to chase those thoughts away and tilts his head towards the doors. "Let me show you the bathroom, Mr Bar Soap."
Now they actually are in the short hallway, Geralt can notice the three doors Jaskier had merely pointed at when they arrived have decals on them. Music notes on his studio, obviously; a buttercup on his bedroom, and a little funny sign on the bathroom, which is pretty clean and tidy and smells faintly of Jaskier's floral shampoo. After moving the shower curtains (which are also decorated, because nothing can't be plain in this apartment), he starts pointing at things - and boy, there are tons in this shower.
"Cold and hot water, they have the little symbols on them, can't miss them. And over here: jelly soap, body wash, body lotion, splash mask, moisturizer, shampoo, conditioner, loofah sponge and nail scrubber. The showerhead is detachable if you want to have fun." He grins and winks, not feeling bad for this particular joke. No lines blurred here, he told Priscilla the same thing (and got smacked for it). "There's a hairdryer in the sink cabinet, plus cologne and a shaving kit behind the mirror, but I wouldn't recommend grabbing a blade while high. Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything, alright?"
And because apparently he can't stop touching this hunk of a man, he pats Geralt's should before finally leaving the bathroom. Better keep himself busy, he tells himself, so his thoughts don't wander into forbidden places. He brings some pillows and blankets from his room and throws them on the couch, followed by as many snack bags as he could find, plus re-filling Geralt's water bottle while the kettle heats more water for another mug of tea.
They set the couch up as a bed quite quickly. Geralt has little trouble maneuvering it and the coffee table even when he's high as tits, and, really, physical labor is what he's good for. Jaskier pats his arm in thanks and then hurries off to find some clothes for him to change into, hopefully something that would be large enough to fit his bulky physique. It seems unlikely, but maybe he's kept some kind of oversized t-shirt around from something.
While he's gone, Geralt goes through the musician's music collection to put something on, as he suggested. Might as well-- he could put on another movie, but it's getting late and his attention span is a bit shot because of the pot, anyway. And, hell, since he's stoned as tits already, might as well put on some Grateful Dead and just go with it.
When Jaskier returns, Geralt catches the shirt that he throws at him and holds it out to look at it. It's got an Oxford logo on it, which is a school that would have literally never allowed someone like Geralt to set foot on campus, and apparently was made for the rugby team. Looks like it might be big enough, or at least big enough not to pull too badly or outright rip when he tries to get it over his chest. The pants are very stretchy, as Jaskier demonstrates by tugging on them, and, well. Hopefully that works, because the only other alternatives are sleeping in his jeans or just foregoing pants altogether and sleeping in his boxer-briefs. He has the feeling that, though it's not like his dick would be out or anything, that would be an awkward situation to be in.
Geralt follows him into the bathroom for the grand tour, which seems extremely unnecessary considering that it's a fucking bathroom and so long as it has a shower, he knows what to do. But then Jaskier starts explaining the just... copious amounts of hygiene products that he has in there and Geralt can feel his eyes start to glaze over. After the musician gets to the body lotion, that's it, he's checked out, he's going to wash with whatever looks the most like soap and that's good enough for him. Jaskier mentions the detachable showerhead and how he could have fun with it, and Geralt shoots him an unimpressed look. He's not going to masturbate in Jaskier's shower. What a weird thing to say.
Once the musician gets out and leaves him be, Geralt puts the new clothes on the edge of the sink and fiddles with the shower knobs a bit, until he gets a stream of water that's an acceptable temperature. Then he strips off of his clothes and, without really thinking about it, leaves the door open a crack just to let some of the humidity out before getting in. He generally doesn't take long, indulgent showers-- he prefers long, indulgent baths-- but he spends a little longer in this one just because he has to figure out what the fuck he's supposed to wash with. The jelly soap seems promising but the texture of it is so disconcerting that he doesn't want to use it. He ends up just going with the body wash and using that for everything, from head to toe. It's more scented than his usual soap and, obviously, a liquid, but it gets the job done just as well. By the time he turns off the water and steps out of the shower, he feels clean and like a man who doesn't smell like stale cigarette smoke and PBR.
He dries off and changes into the spare clothes that Jaskier had given him. The yoga pants are made of a soft, stretchy material, and they... fit, for a given value of fitting. They're definitely stretching to cover the expanse of Geralt's ass and thighs, but not to the limits-- it doesn't seem like he'd be bursting out of them if he bent over. The shirt's also about a size too small for him in the chest. It'll do, though, so long as he doesn't try to push his range of motion. He can live with it, for a night.
When he walks back out, Jaskier has turned the couch-bed into a nest of pillows and blankets and snacks, and there's the warm smell of more tea being brewed.
"Did you go to Oxford, or did you just steal someone's shirt?" he asks, tossing his folded jeans and shirt next to the couch for tomorrow.
Grateful Dead. That's... dad music. It's not that Jaskier minds it (it's in his collection for a reason), but it does make him grin for a different reason, not related to personal music taste. It's things like this that remind Jaskier how adorable and sweet Geralt can be. Does Ciri hate the music her dad listens to, Jaskier has to wonder. And is--
...is that Geralt's butt?
Jaskier freezes in the middle of the kitchen with the kettle in his hands, staring at the crack... of the door. And okay, another crack too. Because it's round and perky and peaches wish they were that butt, holy shit. Sadly, it's over pretty quickly, and Jaskier has to remind himself that's a good thing. Which is hard as fuck, because Grateful Dead isn't exactly helping.
♪ Let me in baby I don't know what you got / But you better take it easy 'cause this place is hot / And I'm so glad you made it, so glad you made it / You got to gimme some lovin', gimme gimme some lovin' ♪
He sings along as he makes his tea, trying to distract his mind from the image it just acquired. Has he been a creep? This doesn't count, right? Just an accident with an open door. Right. Absolutely. No creeps here. This is fine! Totally fine. ...but better face away from the bathroom while he does his thing. Just in case.
That means he doesn't see Geralt when he returns to the living room at first, but he does laugh pretty hard at the question.
"The answer is yes. You don't really think I've ever been on a rugby team, do you? Or any other sport, for that matter." He shakes his head, the tone of his voice indicating how ridiculous the mere idea is. "Yes, I went to Oxford. And yes, I stole that shirt. The benefits of flirting with a handsome- cock."
The spoon in his hands is dropped to the floor as soon as he turns around and sees Geralt in the improvised ensemble. There's no accident to be blamed this time, he's definitely staring as the creep he is. But how the hell can he not? He dares anyone not to stare when Geralt is making a fucking rugby shirt, worn by the buffiest blokes in the entire university, look tight! His boobs are about to pop the buttons off any second now, and Jaskier is dying to bury his face in them and use them as a pillow. He's always known Geralt had nice, thick thighs, but the yoga pants show them off even better. And then there's the... the...
The dick.
The big dick.
Big, long, thick, mighty. Jaskier wants it in his ass. And his mouth. Any area Geralt is willing to put it into, really. Gosh, is his mouth dry? This is ridiculous. He steps back, trying to regain control of his mind and body, prevent his blood from going south. And he manages it... when he steps on the spoon.
"Ouch! Bollocks." Cursing under his breath, he hurries to pick up the spoon, which is mainly an excuse to crouch, hide his flushed face and take a deep breath. This man is going to be the death of him, he swears. This is it, this is how he's going to die, from the worst case of blue balls in the world.
"Where was I?" He asks with a nervous laugh as he resurfaces to stir his tea with a little more energy than necessary - it's almost a teashake by now. "Yeah, right, I went to Oxford University, music program. Did you go to college? Great music choice, by the way, I love me some good ol' rock. Oh, do you want me to drop your clothes in the washer? It's the least I could do."
He's rambling, he knows, buying time before returning to Geralt's side and facing that bulge from a closer angle. At least it's not cat on the stove, excuse he gave the time Mr Stael caught him and Virginia in his tennis court...
The benefits of flirting with a handsome-- cock? Jaskier says that a bit strangely when he turns around, looking at Geralt for the first time since he got out of the shower. Geralt isn't surprised that Jaskier both avoided physical exercise like the plague and also stole shirts from men that he flirted with, but is that what British people called handsome men? They call girls birds sometimes, like how people in the US sometimes called them chicks, is this the male equivalent of that?
Jaskier drops his spoon and doesn't seem to notice, as he's too preoccupied at staring at Geralt. He probably looks a little stupid in this whole getup, considering that most of it doesn't fit him right, but it seems a little rude to stare. He's apparently trying not to be too rude, though, because he stops staring after a moment or two and has to crouch down to pick up the spoon that he dropped and also stepped on. He goes back to his tea with vigor, then asks a few rapid-fire questions in that very Jaskier fashion. Still seems to be a bit odd, though-- maybe he had a brownie while Geralt was in the shower? It wouldn't be that strange, it's never fun to be the lone sober person.
"No, I never went." He barely graduated high school, nevertheless had the kind of aptitude to go to university. And definitely not to one of the fancy ones, like Oxford. Geralt doesn't know much about it, other than the fact that it's basically the British equivalent of Ivy League. "And, uh, sure? If it's not any trouble."
He'd like to have clothes that don't smell like smoke. He bends down to pick up his clothes and digs through his pockets to take out his wallet and phone so that he doesn't run them through the wash. The last thing he needs is to have to shell out for a new phone because this one went through the rinse cycle and couldn't handle it like his old Nokia brick could.
Smartphones could do a lot of things, but, really, they sucked at durability. No one ever needed a waterproof, shock-resistant whatever the fuck else case for a Nokia.
Then he brings his stuff over to toss in the machine and gives Jaskier a bit of a look, scrutinizing him despite the fact that he's still kind of high and that makes it hard to focus on anything.
"Did you eat one of those brownies? You're acting... twitchy."
A little paranoid, maybe? Some people got that way on pot.
Fuck, this whole thing surely is getting out of hand if even Geralt of all people, while being bloody high, notices something. He truly is being a creep, isn't he? So much in fact that Geralt thinks he's also high. Damn. Mixed signals or not, that's crossing a line. And Jaskier may be many things (loud, annoying, a freaking slut) but an asshole towards people's boundaries isn't one.
A deep breath and a sip of his tea later, he finally turns to look at Geralt, determined not to fuck things up. Eyes up here becomes his new mantra, and he makes sure to never lower his eyes again not to stumble into another awkward moment.
"Not trouble at all! My turn to return the favor, isn't it?" Ticks back then, cigarette smell this time - both nasty things as far as Jaskier is concerned. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not high, I'm just--"
A dumbass.
Crushing hard.
A slut.
All of the above, really.
"--distracted. Sorry about that," he finally adds as he throws the clothes in the washer. "Trust me, you would know if I was high. Or drunk. Which connects nicely to the topic of my uni years, actually. The stories I could tell you!"
Would Geralt be interested in those? Jaskier doesn't care he didn't go to college, but it can be a touchy topic for some people - even boring for others. Of course there is no story of Jaskier's that could be considered boring, but one can never tell with Geralt.
With the clothes in the washer, tea mug back in his hand and his body finally calming down, Jask clasps Geralt's shoulder, gently nudging him to return to the living room together.
"Come on, mate, let's try to relax and get comfortable properly this ti--" He interrupts himself with a gasp when his fingers brush Geralt's wet locks. Is he seeing this correctly? Fucking mountain man. "Bloody hell, Geralt, you didn't use the hairdryer? I bet you didn't even comb it, you wild oaf! Were you planning to go to sleep like this? You would be a matted wolf in the morning!"
Grumbling about the lack of proper grooming, Jaskier pushes his mug into Geralt's hand before rushing into the bathroom. He comes back later with a comb, a brush and some kind of cream tube, which are all dropped on the couch before he sits down and pats the spot next to him.
"Come, sit. Let's show your lovely starlight hair what actually caring for it feels like."
They're going back towards the couch-bed-nest that Jaskier had prepared when the musician becomes deeply offended at the state of Geralt's hair. Apparently allowing it to air-dry is a travesty, despite the fact that Geralt basically never uses a hair dryer. He knows that he owns one, but it's in Ciri's bathroom because she uses it, and he wouldn't know what to do with it other than blast it at his own dumb head and turn his hair into a frizzy, but dry, mess. He hadn't combed it when he got out of the shower, unless combing it with fingers counts, but how could he? He didn't bring a comb with him.
Geralt finds himself holding Jaskier's mug of tea in one hand while he runs to the bathroom. He can hear the musician bang around in there for a little while, opening drawers and cupboards in search of whatever it is that he thinks is necessary for Geralt's hair. Geralt waits, for lack of anything better to do, until he returns with both a comb and a brush, along with what looks like some kind of hair cream. He sits when told, mostly because he doesn't particularly want to argue over something that he doesn't care much about. Even if his hair had dried into a mess by morning, he would've just thrown it up into a bun and not worried about it for the rest of the day and it would've been fine. It's not like Eskel cares if his hair's messy, and the horses sure as hell don't. Detangling it would've just been a problem for Future Geralt.
"You don't have to do anything to it," he says, somehow feeling like a twelve year old girl at a sleepover whose friend is going to give her a makeover despite being an almost forty year old man. "I can just pull it back if it's a mess."
Jaskier likely won't be deterred by that small of a complaint, though. It's been a long time since anyone had brushed out his hair for him, too, so... it's really not all that bad. (It feels a little like cheating, almost-- he likes when his hair is touched, but like this, he doesn't have to ask for it. He just has to go along with Jaskier's idea and no one will know that he wanted anything at all.)
There's still a mug in his hands. Without thinking much about it, Geralt drinks from it; its contents are warm and vaguely floral, which tracks because that's kind of how it smells, too. Geralt isn't much of a tea drinker, he usually prefers to take a big thermos of coffee down to the barn with him in the morning to drink while he starts his day. Considering that his sleep schedule is a mess on a good day, the caffeine that he gets from it is a godsend, even if it's just a band-aid on a much bigger problem. This stuff is... not bad. Nice, in a sort of warm, comforting way. A winding-down drink rather than a wake-you-up one.
Jaskier calls his hair starlight. Geralt snorts.
"It's gray. Started turning when I was sixteen."
Which, y'know, was really great for his high school experience. Not only was he the kid who sat in the back of the class and didn't talk and wore black all the time, he was also going gray before he was even eligible to vote. Just what he needed-- one more thing to make all the other students think that he was weird. By the time he was in his twenties, it was entirely gray, and he had gone from having to worry about asshole kids to... bigger problems. Ones that would land him in prison not that long after.
Of course Jaskier isn't deterred by such a small complaint! Jaskier isn't even deterred by big complaints. Especially when Geralt is all bark and no bite with his complaining - this is a habit of his, Jaskier has noticed. He calls him out for his ideas but he participates anyway, like right now, saying combing isn't necessary but sitting next to Jaskier and offering him his back anyway. Silly wolf.
"But I want to," he replies as he removes the hair tie and starts running his fingers through the hair to separate as much as he can, hoping it'll make his job easier later. Geralt can't see it, but Jaskier pulls a face at the idea of just taking care of a mess by pulling it back - he wants to comment on that fact that would only make the mess worse, but he's distracted by something else. He had forgotten about his mug! "Did you just sip my tea? Bollocks. I mean- I don't mind sharing, but I cut you off the coffee because I was trying to stop you from mixing weed and caffeine! It's like you enjoy wasting my efforts, Geralt, I swear." Just teasing! Mostly. He throws a bag of ships at Geralt's lap before returning to the hairstyling. "At least put something more in your stomach first."
Beer, followed by weed and tea with only a couple of cookies and not-real-brownies in his belly? Yeah, not a good combo. Jaskier is enjoying this placid Geralt, and he wants him to stay that way. And that's not even taking into account possibly puking on his beautiful couch and fine blankets.
Once his fingers have done as much as they realistically can, Jaskier starts working with the comb, being as gentle as the knots allow him to. Sometimes he combs from top to bottom normally, but most of the time he ends grabbing locks of hair in one hand as the other one fights the knot while trying not to pull. The most ironic part of this whole deal is the fact Geralt would never allow his horses' tails to get like this, so supposedly he does understand the importance of good brushing, he just doesn't apply it to himself.
Which is kinda sad, really.
"Sixteen?" He whistles to show his surprise and reminds his mind not to chase any horny thoughts (like wondering if the carpet matches the drapes). "Talk about early graying. What color was it before? Have you always worn it long? And what do you have against the word starlight, it's a perfectly fine way to describe your shade!"
Look, if Geralt is going to mention a detail like that, obviously Jaskier must take the chance to hunt for more! It's not every day that he gets this mute of a man to share so easily.
Jaskier's fingers start carding through his hair, separating out the parts that have already gotten knotted just from washing it and drying off his hair with a towel. He has very clever fingers, and they feel very nice against Geralt's scalp. He shouldn't let him do this. It's not worth the time it takes for him to do it, anyway.
Then he gets upset about the fact that Geralt's drinking the tea that he put in Geralt's own hand, and that only solidifies his decision to keep on drinking it. You gave it to him, Jaskier, so it's his now. While Jaskier tosses snacks at him and tells him about the dangers of mixing caffeine and weed, Geralt lifts the mug to his mouth, tips it back, and drains a good three-quarters of it in one go.
"It's chamomile, Jaskier," he says. "It doesn't have caffeine in it. That's the point."
But since there are snacks literally thrown into his lap, he'd open them up and try them. He was kind of hungry, anyway? He knows that it's the weed; back when he was a teenager, he could absolutely pack away entire pizzas when he had a case of the munchies. A few bags of chips is basically nothing in the face of two brownies' worth of pot. And there's something very satisfying about eating salty, crunchy, unhealthy food at stupid o'clock at night. Probably part of the reason why bar food is so popular, after a few beers and too many hours spent out, you just really need a plate full of something greasy.
That, combined with the almost meditative pull of the comb and brush through his hair, makes it easy to fall into companionable silence. Jaskier's much gentler about getting the knots out of his hair than he is, too-- he would just yank the comb through if he needed to de-tangle his hair and it was being stubborn. The musician holds locks of his hair and brushes from the bottom up so that it wouldn't tug on his scalp. Takes longer that way, but leaves him with fewer clumps of white hair on the floor. Again, it's really not necessary, Geralt is capable of dealing with a little discomfort, but it's considerate of him.
"Hm." More questions. Geralt's not entirely sure why Jaskier cares, but apparently he does. Or he just can't stand silence, that's also possible. "Brown. And yes, my dad was terrible at haircuts."
He learned from a very young age that it was better to just let his hair grow out than to trust Vesemir and his questionable scissor skills. And since they didn't have the money to take three rambunctious boys to a salon to get their hair cut every few weeks, it was either Vesemir or nothing. Eskel and Lambert got the scissor treatment until they were old enough to do it themselves. Which didn't necessarily mean that they made good hair decisions, but at least it wasn't their father's hair decisions.
Not only Geralt doesn't put the mug down, the little shit actually drinks more. Jaskier gasps in exaggerated offense, but honestly? He's kinda amused and even a bit impressed as well. He likes attitude and sass in a man, and it's extra fun when it comes from Geralt, who most of the time would rather grunt.
"I'll forgive you because you know how to identify chamomile."
Which sounds kinda silly, but Jaskier has lost count of all the times he's offered his box of teas and got told whatever, it's all tea anyway. So points to Geralt for that, which makes up for the ones he lost over having just regular bar soap in his bathroom.
While Geralt munches on chips, Jaskier finishes his own cookies, which taste like berries and nostalgia. To this day, Jaskier still wonders how his grandmother ended up married to that stupid family of his - love works in mysterious and fucked up ways, he supposes. Those memories hit extra hard when Geralt mentions his dad being in charge of his haircuts, which makes Jaskier laugh. Oh, what a difference in parents - his own father would never do service for his children like this. The man isn't even capable of taking care of his own stupid beard!
"Your dad cut your hair? That sounds both adorable and terrifying." It also a bit more information about Geralt's childhood, and Jaskier shall treasure it. "While I'm sure you were just as dashing and handsome with brown hair, I admit I like the gray better. You pull it off well. Is it really gray though?" He raises a lock of hair and brings it closer to his face for a better look. "I'd say it's even white under the right li--"
Wait. Is that-? Jaskier sniffs once. Twice. Then asks the gods he doesn't believe in how he ended up crushing on such a himbo.
"Geralt, my dear friend - did you wash your hair with the bloody body wash?"
He should lose points for this, but the asshole manages to be endearing with his... his... himboness.
Terrifying is accurate, but adorable? Not so much. Vesemir's hack-jobs wouldn't look good on anyone, and certainly not on a couple of snot-nosed little brats. Geralt had-- once again-- been weird for being the boy with long hair, but better that than the boy with an uneven chop. Now that he's older and has actually had to raise a child himself, though, he looks back on his years with Vesemir more kindly; the man had been doing the best he could with troubled children.
"Foster dad," he says. Vesemir isn't his father, not that Geralt would know who the fuck that is, anyway. Hell, he barely even remembers what his own mother looked like. Who knows if she's even alive, or if she remembers him.
Geralt only hums about any preferences Jaskier has for his hair color-- it doesn't really matter, it's not like the brown would ever be coming back, even if Jaskier did like it better. He lets him mess around with the pale locks, examining them closely and quibbling about the exact color. Gray, white, it's basically the same thing when it comes to hair, right? Something that you're only supposed to see on men who are Vesemir's age. It really doesn't matter, though, it's not unattractive enough to stop Geralt from getting the occasional one night stand.
"Soap is soap," he replies, absolutely certain that this response will drive Jaskier up a wall for a number of reasons. One, he's clearly the kind of person that has a hundred different kinds of soap even though just one would do the job, and two, he'd hate how short that statement is. No elaboration, no explanation, no room for arguments. Soap is soap.
He turns his head a little, looking back over his shoulder at the deeply offended musician.
"A foster dad that you just called my dad," he replies as he playfully slaps Geralt's shoulder with his comb. "I told you back in the bar, didn't I? The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. You and your brothers have only given me glimpses of your life so far but I can already tell he's done more for his kids than some sperm-donors I know that don't deserve the title of father."
That comes out more bitter than he intends it to, but he can't help it considering the environment he grew up with. It wasn't only his own dad that sucked, he had plenty of classmates that also were distracted with expensive gifts while their so-called fathers arrived home late because they were fucking their secretaries. Daddy issues were as common in his school as having the latest iPhone model.
He hopes he gets to meet Geralt's father some day, he must have some amazing stories about fostering these three little rascals.
Geralt's plan is successful, because he's read Jaskier absolutely right: that answer has him gasping and flailing his hands. This is a scandal! This himbo wants to give him a heart attack!
"Soap is NOT soap, how dare you! You, you-!" He has a good insult, he swears he does, but Geralt turns around then and- ugh. Damn his handsome smug face. Jaskier huffs. "No, I'm not done! I just finished the first step! Now turn around and let me do my job!"
Now all knots are gone, it is the turn of the cream tube next. With a little lump of white in each hand, Jaskier buries his fingers in Geralt's hair and massages it kindly - and that includes the scalp as well. He would be lying to himself if he said wasn't enjoying it - it's peaceful. Almost intimate. There is a reason why Jaskier loves making a ritual out of grooming, and he allows himself to smile at the back of Geralt's head for having achieved this little moment with him.
"You can be quite a mystery, you know," he finally confesses with a softer tone. "For every little thing that tells me you are a simple man with simple needs, you surprise me with two other things that leave me thinking for hours. Like a puzzle I'm dying to solve but at the same time I never want it to end."
Geralt turns back around, letting Jaskier continue on his quest to tame his unruly hair. He'd be lying, anyway, if he said he isn't enjoying it a little-- enjoys it a lot, actually, when Jaskier gets both hands going on it. His fingers press and rub in almost a massaging kind of motion over Geralt's scalp and down to where his neck meets his skull, and he gets tense a lot in that general area. And he's got surprisingly strong hands and fingers, probably from playing all of those instruments, and if he would just go down a little lower...
Well. Geralt wouldn't ever ask for something like that, even while high. His threshold for asking for touch is significantly lower when he's like this, but it's not completely gone.
Jaskier talks about puzzles for a bit, and Geralt thinks that if he's a puzzle, it's an exceedingly simple one. Not terribly hard to figure out and not much of a payoff once you do. Hardly worth finishing, honestly.
"I don't need much," he says. And it's true-- he has few things that he requires, and almost all of those he can provide for himself. He rarely needs someone else, and when he does, it's not for very long. Help from his brothers for a project or a warm touch from a one-night stand.
"Maybe you're seeing complexity where there isn't any."
After all, what's complex about Geralt? He has few needs and fewer wants. His life revolves around his daughter and his horses. The number of friends that he has who aren't family can probably be counted on one hand with fingers left over. His life is simple and that works for him. He doesn't need to push his luck.
Really, Jaskier's the one who's bafflingly complex around here. He obviously loves the city and being surrounded by people, but he insists on being... friend-adjacent with a man who prefers the countryside and keeps the company of horses. He wears pretty, fancy clothes that are probably expensive and has soft hands and soft hair and a million different bottles of hair and skincare things, but he doesn't mind mucking out a stall or washing the mud off Pegasus after he's had a roll in the pasture. He's cheerful in the face of Geralt's dour moods. They should have repelled each other like magnets, but instead... well, they've attracted like magnets. But the other way around. How does that work, anyway? Wait, no, he's too high to get lost in wondering how magnets work.
"Or perhaps you don't give yourself enough credit," he replies after letting out a thoughtful mmh. "I can't help but wonder - do you actually need little, my friend? Or is a little as much as you allow yourself to ask for?"
His answer comes out too quickly, too easily. It's because he's said similar things before, he realizes: when talking to his sister. Elizabeth can't understand what Jaskier sees in Geralt for this to be a full crush instead of just lust, and she keeps questioning him about it, which gets on his nerves. It's not like she's mean towards Geralt at least, he does give her that much, she accepts he's a good man and probably a good catch... for someone else. Not for his brother aka Mr Fun and Freedom.
Jaskier sighs as his hands slowly stop moving, he cannot make this last any longer, no matter how much he's dying to keep on touching Geralt. He grabs the brush next and gets to work once again, going for long, kind strokes in the way he couldn't do with the comb, and finding himself singing All I wanna do by Sheryl Crow.
There's more about Geralt than it meets the eye, Jaskier is sure of it. It doesn't matter how much his sister or even Geralt himself deny it. The man pushes away yet no far enough for Jaskier not to be out of his life, he complains yet he doesn't act on it. He grunts and dismisses ideas like friendship, yet he invites Jaskier to pick berries and watch his show, even bringing his brothers with him.
What drives this man? And what hurt him? An awful question, but one Jaskier can't stop thinking about, because something must've happened to him to make him enjoy little things only through denial and possibly guilt.
And there's also the fact Jaskier simply doesn't have boring crushes. His heart knows better than that.
The question is, will the magnets still attract each other after the puzzle is solved?
That's what is probably worrying Lizzie, Jaskier realizes. That he'll eventually get bored when there's no mystery left. Honestly though... if it happens, so what? Can't he have a little happiness even if temporary? Nothing lasts forever... Not that there is anything here to last anyway. Or is there? Jaskier isn't sure anymore. Signals have been more mixed than a milkshake tonight.
The brushing comes to an end too, too short of a moment if you ask Jaskier. Just two more minutes, please! Using the excuse of not wanting Geralt to ruin all his hard work when they go to bed, he hurries to bury his fingers in white hair again, this time dividing it into three parts and quickly forming a neat braid that he secures with Geralt's hairtie.
"There you go, all done!" Jaskier pulls his hands away but stays right where he is, proudly admiring his work, smiling like an idiot at the smell of his own body wash coming off Geralt. "That wasn't so hard, was it? What do you think?"
The musician picks up a brush and starts to pull it through Geralt's hair, long, gentle strokes that mostly serve to smooth out the detangled locks. Between the hair cream and Jaskier's skill with brushes and combs, Geralt's hair has mostly been tamed, falling soft and neat over his shoulders. It's certainly nicer than he'd usually be bothered to do for himself, considering that he usually just throws it back into a bun or a half-up ponytail to keep it out of his face. So long as it isn't bothering him, he doesn't care much what it looks like.
Jaskier hums an old song and Geralt sits quietly.
Even once he sets the brush down, Jaskier doesn't stop; his fingers delve back into the gray hair again, accidentally eliciting a soft noise from Geralt's throat, and start sectioning his hair. He's confused until he feels the soft tugs as each section is woven around the others, forming a long braid down his back. This is a practical thing, he thinks-- Ciri does it, too, before she goes to bed, so that her hair isn't a mess in the morning. It's considerate of Jaskier to do this for him.
When he's finished, Geralt reaches back to touch the braid, feeling along the smooth bumps of it.
"My hair will be less messy in the morning." He doesn't mention that he almost misses the feeling of gentle hands on his skin. It's stupid to want things that he can't have. "Thank you."
They stay there for a while yet, talking about things that don't matter-- or, rather, Jaskier does most of the talking, and Geralt listens. That's fine, it reminds him of when he was young and shared a room with Eskel, and he'd listen to his brother read from books with a flashlight until late into the night. Until they both fell asleep that way, crammed awkwardly onto the same bed, Eskel's cheek pressed against the pages.
He eventually falls asleep here, too-- first coaxed into laying down on the sofa-bed while Jaskier prattles, then slowly lulled by the cadence of his voice. Like a lullaby without a melody, or the white noise machine that was supposed to help with his insomnia. Apparently, all he needed was too much weed and a chatty musician.
His internal clock won't let him sleep in, though, despite forgetting to set an alarm. He's awake at five o'clock sharp, briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the lack of a crowing rooster. He's warm, wrapped up in blankets, long limbs wrapped securely around his middle. A leg is pushed firmly between his thighs, and that's a little bit of a problem because Geralt is a healthy middle-aged man with a very functional circulatory system that likes to prove its level of function every morning. That is to say, he's got some very healthy morning wood going on right now, and he's awake enough to remember that he spent the night at Jaskier's.
Jaskier, apparently, is a cuddler. Geralt doesn't really mind cuddly bed-partners, but he and Jaskier had fallen asleep quite platonically last night, laying side by side. The erection currently pressing against the musician's thigh is not very platonic. And even though that erection might very much like it if Geralt were to roll his hips and maybe wake Jaskier up, that's just a very good reason why Geralt's cock should never be allowed to make decisions. He needs to get up carefully and leave quietly, so that Jaskier never has to know about the awkward situation that he's sleeping through.
He looks peaceful when he sleeps, and he's tucked in close enough that Geralt can smell the sweet floral scent that his fancy soap left on his skin from his shower last night.
Geralt moves quietly and slowly to extricate himself from Jaskier's grip without waking him. He had hoped that, in the time it took to get out of the musician's lax arms, his morning wood would have sorted itself out, but no luck-- he has to collect his clothes from the dryer and awkwardly take care of himself in the bathroom. He stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep quiet, takes himself in hand and tries to think of nothing at all, just treat it like nothing more than a simple biological need that must be taken care of. He doesn't think about firm thighs or pink lips or a swathe of hairy chest peeking out of a partly unbuttoned shirt, the collar slipping over one pale shoulder. Geralt checks his phone once he's tidied up and changed, and he's running late-- fuck, he has to meet Eskel. He texts him that he's going to be late, already dreading the questions that he'll be asked, and grabs his things to leave, until he realizes that if he just walks out, Jaskier's door will be left unlocked.
Fuck.
He approaches the sofa-bed and puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, shaking him gently until he wakes, like how he'd wake Ciri when she's sleeping in too late.
"Jaskier. I'm leaving, you need to lock your door when I go."
He doesn't wait long for a response, but heads out after that, once he's sure that Jaskier is awake enough to understand what he's been told.
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Jaskier asks him a question and Geralt hums in response, mostly missing it. His head feels a little slow, and there's an odd little tingly feeling making its way across his scalp-- tired, probably. There's been a lot of work to be done on the ranch and he's always been bad at getting enough sleep. He'll just drink a strong cup of coffee and he'll be fine to drive back home.
"Black. Strong."
He lets Jaskier's chatter wash over him while he busies himself with making coffee, some long rambling story about making jam and cookies from the fruit that Geralt had sent him home with. Something about the cookies being something he ate when he was a child, something about a grandmother? Geralt isn't paying much attention, not to the words, at least-- the sound of his voice is nice, the rhythm and cadence of it soothing. It doesn't really matter too much, anyway, Jaskier doesn't seem to require much input from him and seems fine with just having a warm, living body to chat at.
Then the musician is standing on the other side of the counter, the tray of cookies and brownies sitting between them, and Geralt doesn't remember how he got there? One moment he was chatting on the other side of the kitchen, then he was right there, looking at him expectantly. Geralt frowns; why does he feel so fucking stupid? It's almost like all of those times when he was a kid and he would sneak out at night to--
oh.
"Jaskier," he says, and even his own voice sounds strange to his ears, "what the fuck was in those brownies?"
He has a very good idea of what was in those brownies, now, and it means that he's not going to be able to drive home until the morning, which really makes his plans to meet Eskel first-thing to do some repairs on the goat enclosure more difficult. He might have to text him. God, he might have to text him while high, this is a fucking nightmare.
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Friends grab dinner together all the time, he can already picture himself telling Lizzie, shut up.
Geralt makes a very obvious question then, and Jaskier finally fucking loses it. He throws his head back and laughs, praying to those gods he doesn't believe in for his phone to charge up fast, because this totally deserves to be documented. Hell, he'll bring out his fucking camera if he has to.
"I think you know, don't you~?" He suddenly gasps and puts a hand on his chest above his heart. "Don't tell me this is your first time trying weed! I shall carry the badge of introducing you to it with honors. Also, no coffee for you tonight, mister."
Weed and caffeine can have both great and awful results, so better not risk it - besides, he wants to experience Naturally High Geralt first. The coffee maker isn't turned off, Jaskier lets it finish so he can have the coffee ready in the morning, but he does take out water from the fridge and a galaxy flask from the cupboard, which he feels with the fresh water before passing it to Geralt.
"Couch, now. Get comfortable for real this time. You aren't driving anywhere like that." And the big smile on his face says he isn't regretting this turn of events at all.
Arter choosing chamomile from his collection of teas, Jaskier quickly fills his colorful mug with hot water and brings it together with the tray of cookies to the coffee table - don't worry, he leaves the rest of the brownies on a separate plate in the kitchen. Two is enough for one person, and Jaskier isn't planning to get high himself tonight, oh no. He needs to watch this with a clear mind, to enjoy every second of it.
"Now you can taste my cookies through the vision of the mighty judge that is the munchies," he comments as he sits down on the couch and grabs his mug to stir the tea and press that teabag with his spoon until he gets every single bit of flavor out of it. "Because the brownies weren't my doing. I'll be veeeeery hurt if you like Pris' cooking better than mine, Geralt."
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Point is, Geralt's fucked and he's already starting to feel the initial effects of all the weed that he ate. It'll hit him fully before too long, and then he'll just be spending the rest of the night high as fuck, trying to act normal.
And he's not even going to get that coffee. Geralt frowns at Jaskier's coffee rejection, then frowns more at the brightly colored flask that the musician puts into his hand. He takes it, of course, because he has the bad habit of taking anything that's handed to him, and moves when he's commanded to sit on the couch. It's a nice couch, and Geralt's weight makes him sink into it a little when he sits down, and it's entirely possible that once this weed kicks in, he might have a hard time getting up again.
"I've smoked pot before," he says, because clearly this is the important thing that needs to be corrected right now. "Just not in fucking years. I have a kid."
He can't go out and get baked when he has to take care of a teenage child, that would be both terribly irresponsible and set a horrible role model for her. She's too young to partake of the devil's lettuce. Once she's not living in Geralt's house, she can do what she wants, but so long as she's living with him, it's Healthy Choices For Developing Children.
Jaskier brings the cookie tray over, sans brownies, and fusses with his tea until it's however he likes it. The couch is very comfortable and Geralt doesn't particularly want to move, even to try one of these cookies that Jaskier's so insistent about, which really just means that the weed is kicking in more. God, this is going to be an ordeal. He's going to be a boneless lump of asshole on this couch before the evening's through.
"Did you put anything in them?" Because that's a question that he has to ask now, apparently. "More weed. Cocaine. LSD. Whatever's popular these days."
If Jaskier wants him to eat one of them, he might have to hand it to him.
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Perhaps he shall start by just acknowledging what was just said, because getting any kind of new information out of Geralt is harder than tuning a saxophone.
"Being a dad doesn't mean you can't have fun," he replies after sipping his tea. "You still get breaks, I imagine. You're here tonight, aren't you? And I suspect that wasn't the first time you went to have a drink with your brothers. She doesn't need to know, mate."
And now he's wondering how much Geralt (and now Yen, he guesses) has told Ciri about this friendship. She knows he goes to the ranch often enough and that he's been reading her dad's favorite book, but acquaintances discuss media all the time. Has she picked up on the fact that beloved book is missing from her father's shelves? Is Geralt still protecting her from him?
That's when that little voice in his head that just happens to sound like his sister reminds Jaskier what an awful idea would be to date a father and owner of his own business (with living creatures, even). He's fucked people older than him, mothers and fathers both, but they had been just that - flings. This... this is one hell of a crush on a man that can't just receive a text from Jaskier on Wednesday night asking him to go out together for ice-cream at some stupid hour. So he should be glad for that wake-up call he got the other day, he should be working on absorbing that and moving on.
Geralt turning him down (indirectly, but still) should be a good thing, save them both a lot of drama. Yet it doesn't feel that way.
He's snapped out of his thoughts by Geralt's most boomer comment to date, and that sure is saying something.
"WHAT?! What the fuck, Geralt!" he asks as he throws his free hand in the air. Bewildered doesn't even start to describe his expression. "How can you put hard drugs on the same level than bloody weed? No! I don't do anything that isn't alcohol, weed or shrooms! Which reminds me--" He pokes Geralt's arm. Ugh, so thick and strong, how dare he. "No smoking allowed around me, no matter if it's marihuana or tobacco. Welcome to a new era, you old boomer, edibles are your friends."
His voice is precious to him, and so he must protect his throat. If Geralt ever even dares to take out a lighter around him, Jaskier will make sure to grab it and throw it in the fucking toilet.
"Here," he says as he pushes one of the cookies into Geralt's hand. "Simple, good, old fashioned kolaczki. Grandma's recipe. Don't disappoint her." Because he already worries he may be doing that 24/7.
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"You're calling it marijuana and I'm the boomer?" he says. "What are you, a narc?"
Nobody calls it marijuana, call it weed or pot like a normal person, you musical dork. The idea of Jaskier being a narc is funny enough for Geralt to huff a laugh, though, at his own stupid-ass joke. God, he's getting fucking high. This is the worst. At least once Jaskier pushes a cookie into his hand, he can put that into his mouth and not talk for a while.
"S' fine," he replies. They're good cookies. Maybe a little wonky in their construction, but it doesn't have to be perfectly pretty to taste good. Maybe there's something to that, that just because something is a little fucked up and maybe kind of unevenly baked doesn't mean that it can't still be good.
Hah, baked.
Christ, he's high.
Geralt tries to open the water bottle. It takes him a good twenty seconds to realize that he can't get it open because he's turning the cap in the wrong direction, but then he has a hard time figuring out how to make his hands go the other way without turning the bottle upside down. He leaves it as it is-- it's fine, he doesn't need water. This is fine. He can just distract from the fact that he's high as tits.
"Since I'm stuck here," he says, and come on, Geralt, make your brain come up with a normal thing that people do when they aren't high, "put on a movie? You have a collection."
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Geralt's huffed laughter interrupts him, and Jaskier stares at him for a second before chuckling as well. Ohoho, the weed is kicking in, isn't it? Yep, there he goes, eating the cookie with that lost in drugged thoughts look on his face. The cookie is well received, and that alone should make Jaskier happy - it does, but he's mostly smiling at Geralt's current state. He's even staying silent for once in his life just so he can hear whatever silly thing Geralt may say next.
He almost chokes on his tea when his friend fails to open the water bottle, and honestly? Jaskier ends up giggling. Geralt is being fucking adorable! Is this karma? Is this his reward for having dealt with a bigot and a stick in the wheel of his career? Because then, the price may've been worth it.
Deciding to have mercy on him, Jaskier puts down his own mug before leaning over his friend to open the bottle for him. Which is an amazing yet awful idea, because he can feel every muscle against his own body, he can sense the smell of beer and that nasty secondhand smoke on his clothes plus his breathing against his ear.
"There you go, big boy," he says as he quickly leans back and sips more tea - his throat suddenly feels pretty dry.
Watching a movie while being high is pretty standard, something he's done before even. He just doesn't expect the idea to come from Geralt himself. This is... true hanging out! Pals being pals! Mr Dilf accepting he's staying and deciding to do an activity together! Oh, joy!
"Are you kidding? I've got the perfect flick to go with those brownies!"
Jaskier is practically bouncing off the couch, that's how excited he is about this whole deal. He doesn't need to search for the right DVD case, he knows exactly where the one he wants is, because it's a favorite for both normal and high situations. Disc is popped in and with the remote control in hand, he returns to Geralt's side... but not without dimming the lights first. He's put on a comedy, not a horror or romance story - this isn't even a date. But hey, dimmed lights are preferable when watching movies, right? Especially with this flat screen plus set of speakers set-up of his. Gotta make it the real theatre experience.
That's what he tells himself anyway.
"Tell me, my dear yankee friend, have you ever been shown the true comedy genius that is Monty Python?" he asks as he sits next to Geralt, way closer than he was before. In fact, their shoulders and thighs are touching, which is completely unnecessary, because this couch is big enough to put Roach between them. It means nothing, of course, just being practical - this way he presses another cookie into Geralt's hand, like he's doing right now, right before pressing play. "Because then you're in for a ride."
Hopefully Geralt can appreciate British humor... and the fact Jaskier is reciting some lines along. Oops.
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Jaskier unscrews the top of the water bottle for him, which allows him to take a long pull from it; after drinking beer and getting high, he's thirsty. And water always tastes better when he's high, more... wet? He doesn't know, he's fucked up.
He sinks down a little further into the soft cushions of the couch while Jaskier picks out what is, apparently, the perfect film to watch while stoned to shit. It turns out to be a Monty Python film, The Life of Brian, and he really sets the mood for it by dimming the lights and then settling back in right next to Geralt, shoulders and thighs touching. He's about to comment on it when another cookie is put into his hand and, well, since it's there he has to eat it, and by the time he's done that, he's forgotten what he was going to say.
Geralt levels a Look at Jaskier when he asks if he's seen Monty Python before, like one of the most well-known comedy troupes in the world is some kind of obscure British national treasure.
"Yeah, I've seen Monty Python," he says. "Who the hell hasn't?"
He does pretty well through the movie-- Monty Python's fucking funny, even to a grouchy, stoic bastard like him. He makes his way through most of the jokes with chuckles and amused huffs, which is far more than most things get out of him. Jaskier's body is warm and stable next to him, and he leans into the touch just a little. Not enough to make him want to move, or to make things weird with the way his skin feels hungry after he's been touched. It's mostly just annoying, because you'd think that he'd have had his fill of contact after a one night stand or two. And getting high makes that hunger worse-- makes him want to sprawl on top of the closest available warm body and leech the heat out of them. He's trying not to give in and do that to Jaskier, it would be immensely inappropriate and he also might crush him.
Then they get to The Scene.
He's all right through the beginning of it, but just as the guards can't keep their shit together, neither can Geralt. It's not just the fact that the name Biggus Dickus is fucking hilarious, it's also the delivery of it and the fact that every other person on set was also desperately trying not to corpse. By the time the other Roman centurions are laughing on-screen, Geralt has slumped to the side and is wheezing out laughter, leaning his weight against Jaskier's shoulder. He almost gets himself together, but then there's the bit about Biggus Dickus' wife, Incontinentia Buttocks, and that just sets him back off again.
Biggus Dickus is funny even when stone-cold sober-- no one stands a chance when they're high. No one can blame Geralt for laughing, even if he is kind of crushing Jaskier.
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Since he moved here, he had to stop using them when flirting, too. It had gotten him in a few awkward situations before he caught on. Geralt not only knowing but also liking Monty Python is wonderful news, Jaskier can make great use of this during their texting.
Would he chuckle and amusedly huff like this at his texts too, or is it just the weed talking?
He stops reciting the lines along pretty damn quickly, simply because he wants to hear Geralt better. Which isn't an easy task, because no matter how many times he's watched this movie, it still makes him laugh as much as the first time. Comedy is a form of art by itself, one that not everyone can pull off smoothly, and Jaskier appreciates the crew's wordplay with all his writer heart.
There's also an additional distraction: Geralt is leaning into him. Which shouldn't be a big deal, really. This is absolutely normal. Like a sleepover! Nobody would bat an eye at girls sitting like this, so they should be able to do the same without judgment or second guesses! Down with gender stereotypes! That's Jaskier's excuse to scoot closer anyway, to make it mutual leaning and enjoy the warmth of their bodies pressed together. If he wasn't laughing so often, he'd even rest his head on Geralt's shoulder.
(Lizzie is going to kill him.)
His mug is empty now, he should leave it on the coffee table, exchange it for his phone so he can record Geralt losing it to Biggus Dickus - but he can't bring himself to move. They've fallen naturally in this position, it'd bring attention to it to try to replicate it again deliberately.
In the end, it doesn't matter much, because he couldn't have moved even if he had gone for it: the leaning isn't mutual anymore. It's mostly just Geralt, and it can't even be called leaning anymore, more like crushing. They may be only a couple of inches apart in height, but Geralt's body is still much bigger than his: wider, heavier, bulkier... sexier. Jaskier simply doesn't have the strength to compete.
He isn't sure he wants to, anyway.
It happens in a flash: one second Jaskier is nudging his shoulder up, trying to keep his place; the next one he's down on the couch with around two hundred pounds of DILF on top of him. The mug has fallen on the rug and his legs are still hanging off the couch, rather awkwardly at that. His face is flushed, his heart starts beating quite fast and...
Jaskier takes a deep breath as he reminds his dick to behave.
"Hey there," he comments with a grin that shouldn't be there. A friend should be bothered by having to deal with another friend's heavy ass, maybe tease them for it, not speak in a tone a bit too close to sweet-nothings. And definitely not raise a hand to tuck a stray white strand of hair behind said friend's ear, but his hand is moving on its own, he swears. "I've heard stories about dogs, but I didn't know wolves could take over your couch too."
Geralt still thinks this is a tattoo reference, right? So he's safe. Hopefully.
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This is nice. He can feel the rise and fall of Jaskier's chest as he breathes and the resonance of his voice when he speaks. Gentle fingers brush against his forehead when he pushes some of Geralt's hair back from his face, and that's nice, too. Could be nicer if he went a little further with it, because despite his gruff exterior, he does love it when fingers thread through his hair. Yen used to do that, what feels like a hundred years ago. He misses the feeling of nails on his scalp, of gentle hands.
And this is another one of the reasons why he shouldn't get high. He gets touchy, like whatever part of his brain experiences tactile sensation gets dialed up a few notches, and he wants. He can ignore the way his skin hungers for touch when he's sober, it's hard when he isn't. Harder to remember why he shouldn't ask for it, too.
"Hm," he says, a vague reply to Jaskier's comment. Geralt's hand is resting on Jaskier's side, his thumb rubbing slowly across the soft fabric of his pajama shirt. He isn't paying attention to the movie anymore, but that's fine; he's seen it before anyway. And Jaskier's warmth is distracting.
He realizes after... probably too long, honestly, that he's crushing Jaskier on his own couch. No matter how much Geralt wants to lay there and soak in his body heat-- and there's something that should be additionally wrong with that other than just the fact that he's too big and heavy to lay on people, but he can't remember what it is-- he needs to get up. Geralt gets a hand braced against the couch and reluctantly pushes himself up, relieving Jaskier of his weight.
"Sorry," he says, voice rough, and puts a reasonable distance between them on the couch. "I didn't-- sorry."
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Should he?
His teasing only gets a grunt in return, and Geralt... doesn't even attempt to move. Jaskier doesn't mind, but he's incredibly confused - there's only so much mental gymnastics he can do! The laxness can be blamed on the weed but... there simply isn't a heterosexual explanation for the thumb rubbing his side. He can't stop himself from catching his breath as he internally screams, not knowing what to do. And that's a big fucking deal, because Jaskier always knows what to do with advances like this.
Talk about mixed signals, made worse by the fact Geralt is as high as a kite. How much is the weed talking? How much has Jakier read wrong all this time and how much can he do from now on? It's driving him crazy. Asking would bring attention to it and put Geralt in his usual private, defensive mode. Ignoring it would make him a coldhearted bastard.
In the end he decides to put a hand on Geralt's back, between his shoulders, and do some gentle rubbing in return. That's neutral enough, right? No lines crossed? They sure as hell are getting blurred though. It feels wrong yet so right - Geralt's back is firm, wide, as perfectly shaped as the rest of him, and Jaskier tells himself he should be happy he's getting this at all, that he shouldn't give in to the temptation of running his fingers through white hair that calls for him every time his hand brushes it.
The moment is over before Jaskier gets to really savor it without that ugly hint of guilt. His body feels chilly as soon as Geralt pulls away, but what really hits him with a cold slap is seeing the distance the man puts between them. Has it been the weed after all? Perhaps not, because the way he looks away and apologizes speaks more about embarrasment than anything else. So which is it? These mixed signals are going to be the death of him.
"It's alright, I don't mind," Jaskier finally answers after a pause to think - a pause that probably comes as too long, and he hopes it doesn't give Geralt the wrong impression. It's just extremely hard to think of the right middle point to express himself: how to tell the man affection is fine without scaring him away? Trying to prove his point and hoping it's a small enough gesture not to come off as too pushy, Jaskier moves his legs to rest his ankles on Geralt's thigh while internally wishing that was his head resting there. Ugh, bad horny brain, not helping here. "This is a sofa-bed. We could open it up if you need to lay down."
The tip of his tongue peeks out his mouth as he realizes that sounds as bad as the coffee invitation. It shouldn't be so difficult to speak without double entendre.
"I can bring some blankets, too. And snacks? Since you're already stuck here, we can make it an actual cozy pajama party."
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Jaskier kindly insists that he doesn't mind, because he's polite and that's the sort of thing that you say when someone's being a bother but you don't want to upset them. The long, awkward pause after he says that it's all right proves it-- see, Geralt has some social skills, despite what his brothers say-- and suggests opening up the sofa-bed. That's a diplomatic way to solve the problem, give them enough space so that Geralt can lay his heavy, space-invading ass somewhere that it won't be a problem.
Maybe he should've just called one of this brothers to take him home. But by now they've already probably gone home, and Geralt really can't justify calling them at this hour to drive all the way out here and then take him all the way back to the ranch. And he'd still have to get his bike in the morning.
"Yeah," he says. They might as well get it open, anyway, considering that it's probably where Geralt is going to be sleeping. He's crashed in worse places, he could've slept on the floor if need be. "Might as well get it ready."
If it had been someone other than Jaskier, he might have thought that inviting him to lay down and get comfortable would be the lead-up to something else, but, well. He's the bother, the unintended guest. He wasn't supposed to stay all night, just for long enough to make Jaskier feel better and then fuck off. Now the guy's stuck with him, and sure, it's definitely Jaskier's fault for not labeling his damn pot brownies, but Geralt should at least make this whole process as easy as possible.
A pajama party. Jesus, Geralt doesn't even know what the fuck that entails, not when his only experience of "pajama parties" was the kind where no one wore clothes or hung around until morning.
"I should borrow some clothes from you, too," he says. Jaskier had offered that earlier, but Geralt hadn't thought that he'd be staying over then. That was before pot brownies ruined his plans. "I don't really want to sleep in jeans if I don't have to."
He sniffs at his shirt. "And maybe a shower. I smell like a fucking bar."
Not a great smell on him, or anyone really. No wonder Jaskier didn't want him laying on him, even aside from the whole heavy thing. He reeks of secondhand smoke and craft beer.
But in the meanwhile, before he takes care of any of that, he could get up and help transform the couch into its bed form. Helping out is the least that he could do.
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"You got it, mate," he replies (with perhaps a little too much excitement) as he stands up as well. Having muscles around proves to be useful pretty soon, because together they move the coffee table and transform the couch in seconds. Jaskier doesn't even sweat once! Geralt is probably strong enough to pick and keep him up against a wall as he--
Fuck. Horny thoughts are back. Bad brain. What happened to reluctance isn't sexy?
"I never did this so quickly! You make it look easy." He pats Geralt's arm twice. Ugh, so perfectly shaped. "Let me see what I can find in my closet that can fit your whole--" He moves his open hand to indicate Geralt's big body. "--heftiness. Change the movie for some music if you want, there must be something in my collection you like." Because his collection is vat and varied, and he seriously doubts Geralt knows how to start Spotify or Youtube on a smart tv anyway.
The horny thoughts take a chance to make a second comeback when he finds himself alone in his room and the fact Geralt is going to be naked in his shower and wear his clothes is finally sinking in. Bloody hell, how is he supposed to survive the evening? Maybe he should have a brownie as well, relax a little too? Nah, awful idea - he won't be able to control himself and probably scare Geralt off. Better learn to deal with this shit if this is how things are going to be for a while - because Jaskier doesn't think he'll be able to decode these mixed signals any time soon.
"Alright, here is the deal," he comments as he comes back from his bedroom and proceeds to throw a shirt at Geralt. It's a sport shirt belonging to the Oxford University rugby team - all black and definitely bigger than Jaskier's size. "You have the physique of a rugby player, so a rugby shirt you get. Can't wrong with that one, it's baggy when I wear it to sleep." Nothing awkward about that, not at all. "Pants though... I wear them tight. I don't think any of mine would be able to withstand your mighty thighs soooo I thought - yoga pants!" He shows said pants to Geralt, grabbing them by the sides and pulling to show how elastic the fabric is. "They're stretchy, so I think they may do the trick." It will also shape Geralt's butt spectacularly. But that's not why he chose them, just an... ahem. Extra bonus. He clears his voice to chase those thoughts away and tilts his head towards the doors. "Let me show you the bathroom, Mr Bar Soap."
Now they actually are in the short hallway, Geralt can notice the three doors Jaskier had merely pointed at when they arrived have decals on them. Music notes on his studio, obviously; a buttercup on his bedroom, and a little funny sign on the bathroom, which is pretty clean and tidy and smells faintly of Jaskier's floral shampoo. After moving the shower curtains (which are also decorated, because nothing can't be plain in this apartment), he starts pointing at things - and boy, there are tons in this shower.
"Cold and hot water, they have the little symbols on them, can't miss them. And over here: jelly soap, body wash, body lotion, splash mask, moisturizer, shampoo, conditioner, loofah sponge and nail scrubber. The showerhead is detachable if you want to have fun." He grins and winks, not feeling bad for this particular joke. No lines blurred here, he told Priscilla the same thing (and got smacked for it). "There's a hairdryer in the sink cabinet, plus cologne and a shaving kit behind the mirror, but I wouldn't recommend grabbing a blade while high. Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything, alright?"
And because apparently he can't stop touching this hunk of a man, he pats Geralt's should before finally leaving the bathroom. Better keep himself busy, he tells himself, so his thoughts don't wander into forbidden places. He brings some pillows and blankets from his room and throws them on the couch, followed by as many snack bags as he could find, plus re-filling Geralt's water bottle while the kettle heats more water for another mug of tea.
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While he's gone, Geralt goes through the musician's music collection to put something on, as he suggested. Might as well-- he could put on another movie, but it's getting late and his attention span is a bit shot because of the pot, anyway. And, hell, since he's stoned as tits already, might as well put on some Grateful Dead and just go with it.
When Jaskier returns, Geralt catches the shirt that he throws at him and holds it out to look at it. It's got an Oxford logo on it, which is a school that would have literally never allowed someone like Geralt to set foot on campus, and apparently was made for the rugby team. Looks like it might be big enough, or at least big enough not to pull too badly or outright rip when he tries to get it over his chest. The pants are very stretchy, as Jaskier demonstrates by tugging on them, and, well. Hopefully that works, because the only other alternatives are sleeping in his jeans or just foregoing pants altogether and sleeping in his boxer-briefs. He has the feeling that, though it's not like his dick would be out or anything, that would be an awkward situation to be in.
Geralt follows him into the bathroom for the grand tour, which seems extremely unnecessary considering that it's a fucking bathroom and so long as it has a shower, he knows what to do. But then Jaskier starts explaining the just... copious amounts of hygiene products that he has in there and Geralt can feel his eyes start to glaze over. After the musician gets to the body lotion, that's it, he's checked out, he's going to wash with whatever looks the most like soap and that's good enough for him. Jaskier mentions the detachable showerhead and how he could have fun with it, and Geralt shoots him an unimpressed look. He's not going to masturbate in Jaskier's shower. What a weird thing to say.
Once the musician gets out and leaves him be, Geralt puts the new clothes on the edge of the sink and fiddles with the shower knobs a bit, until he gets a stream of water that's an acceptable temperature. Then he strips off of his clothes and, without really thinking about it, leaves the door open a crack just to let some of the humidity out before getting in. He generally doesn't take long, indulgent showers-- he prefers long, indulgent baths-- but he spends a little longer in this one just because he has to figure out what the fuck he's supposed to wash with. The jelly soap seems promising but the texture of it is so disconcerting that he doesn't want to use it. He ends up just going with the body wash and using that for everything, from head to toe. It's more scented than his usual soap and, obviously, a liquid, but it gets the job done just as well. By the time he turns off the water and steps out of the shower, he feels clean and like a man who doesn't smell like stale cigarette smoke and PBR.
He dries off and changes into the spare clothes that Jaskier had given him. The yoga pants are made of a soft, stretchy material, and they... fit, for a given value of fitting. They're definitely stretching to cover the expanse of Geralt's ass and thighs, but not to the limits-- it doesn't seem like he'd be bursting out of them if he bent over. The shirt's also about a size too small for him in the chest. It'll do, though, so long as he doesn't try to push his range of motion. He can live with it, for a night.
When he walks back out, Jaskier has turned the couch-bed into a nest of pillows and blankets and snacks, and there's the warm smell of more tea being brewed.
"Did you go to Oxford, or did you just steal someone's shirt?" he asks, tossing his folded jeans and shirt next to the couch for tomorrow.
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...is that Geralt's butt?
Jaskier freezes in the middle of the kitchen with the kettle in his hands, staring at the crack... of the door. And okay, another crack too. Because it's round and perky and peaches wish they were that butt, holy shit. Sadly, it's over pretty quickly, and Jaskier has to remind himself that's a good thing. Which is hard as fuck, because Grateful Dead isn't exactly helping.
♪ Let me in baby I don't know what you got / But you better take it easy 'cause this place is hot / And I'm so glad you made it, so glad you made it / You got to gimme some lovin', gimme gimme some lovin' ♪
He sings along as he makes his tea, trying to distract his mind from the image it just acquired. Has he been a creep? This doesn't count, right? Just an accident with an open door. Right. Absolutely. No creeps here. This is fine! Totally fine. ...but better face away from the bathroom while he does his thing. Just in case.
That means he doesn't see Geralt when he returns to the living room at first, but he does laugh pretty hard at the question.
"The answer is yes. You don't really think I've ever been on a rugby team, do you? Or any other sport, for that matter." He shakes his head, the tone of his voice indicating how ridiculous the mere idea is. "Yes, I went to Oxford. And yes, I stole that shirt. The benefits of flirting with a handsome- cock."
The spoon in his hands is dropped to the floor as soon as he turns around and sees Geralt in the improvised ensemble. There's no accident to be blamed this time, he's definitely staring as the creep he is. But how the hell can he not? He dares anyone not to stare when Geralt is making a fucking rugby shirt, worn by the buffiest blokes in the entire university, look tight! His boobs are about to pop the buttons off any second now, and Jaskier is dying to bury his face in them and use them as a pillow. He's always known Geralt had nice, thick thighs, but the yoga pants show them off even better. And then there's the... the...
The dick.
The big dick.
Big, long, thick, mighty. Jaskier wants it in his ass. And his mouth. Any area Geralt is willing to put it into, really. Gosh, is his mouth dry? This is ridiculous. He steps back, trying to regain control of his mind and body, prevent his blood from going south. And he manages it... when he steps on the spoon.
"Ouch! Bollocks." Cursing under his breath, he hurries to pick up the spoon, which is mainly an excuse to crouch, hide his flushed face and take a deep breath. This man is going to be the death of him, he swears. This is it, this is how he's going to die, from the worst case of blue balls in the world.
"Where was I?" He asks with a nervous laugh as he resurfaces to stir his tea with a little more energy than necessary - it's almost a teashake by now. "Yeah, right, I went to Oxford University, music program. Did you go to college? Great music choice, by the way, I love me some good ol' rock. Oh, do you want me to drop your clothes in the washer? It's the least I could do."
He's rambling, he knows, buying time before returning to Geralt's side and facing that bulge from a closer angle. At least it's not cat on the stove, excuse he gave the time Mr Stael caught him and Virginia in his tennis court...
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Jaskier drops his spoon and doesn't seem to notice, as he's too preoccupied at staring at Geralt. He probably looks a little stupid in this whole getup, considering that most of it doesn't fit him right, but it seems a little rude to stare. He's apparently trying not to be too rude, though, because he stops staring after a moment or two and has to crouch down to pick up the spoon that he dropped and also stepped on. He goes back to his tea with vigor, then asks a few rapid-fire questions in that very Jaskier fashion. Still seems to be a bit odd, though-- maybe he had a brownie while Geralt was in the shower? It wouldn't be that strange, it's never fun to be the lone sober person.
"No, I never went." He barely graduated high school, nevertheless had the kind of aptitude to go to university. And definitely not to one of the fancy ones, like Oxford. Geralt doesn't know much about it, other than the fact that it's basically the British equivalent of Ivy League. "And, uh, sure? If it's not any trouble."
He'd like to have clothes that don't smell like smoke. He bends down to pick up his clothes and digs through his pockets to take out his wallet and phone so that he doesn't run them through the wash. The last thing he needs is to have to shell out for a new phone because this one went through the rinse cycle and couldn't handle it like his old Nokia brick could.
Smartphones could do a lot of things, but, really, they sucked at durability. No one ever needed a waterproof, shock-resistant whatever the fuck else case for a Nokia.
Then he brings his stuff over to toss in the machine and gives Jaskier a bit of a look, scrutinizing him despite the fact that he's still kind of high and that makes it hard to focus on anything.
"Did you eat one of those brownies? You're acting... twitchy."
A little paranoid, maybe? Some people got that way on pot.
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A deep breath and a sip of his tea later, he finally turns to look at Geralt, determined not to fuck things up. Eyes up here becomes his new mantra, and he makes sure to never lower his eyes again not to stumble into another awkward moment.
"Not trouble at all! My turn to return the favor, isn't it?" Ticks back then, cigarette smell this time - both nasty things as far as Jaskier is concerned. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not high, I'm just--"
A dumbass.
Crushing hard.
A slut.
All of the above, really.
"--distracted. Sorry about that," he finally adds as he throws the clothes in the washer. "Trust me, you would know if I was high. Or drunk. Which connects nicely to the topic of my uni years, actually. The stories I could tell you!"
Would Geralt be interested in those? Jaskier doesn't care he didn't go to college, but it can be a touchy topic for some people - even boring for others. Of course there is no story of Jaskier's that could be considered boring, but one can never tell with Geralt.
With the clothes in the washer, tea mug back in his hand and his body finally calming down, Jask clasps Geralt's shoulder, gently nudging him to return to the living room together.
"Come on, mate, let's try to relax and get comfortable properly this ti--" He interrupts himself with a gasp when his fingers brush Geralt's wet locks. Is he seeing this correctly? Fucking mountain man. "Bloody hell, Geralt, you didn't use the hairdryer? I bet you didn't even comb it, you wild oaf! Were you planning to go to sleep like this? You would be a matted wolf in the morning!"
Grumbling about the lack of proper grooming, Jaskier pushes his mug into Geralt's hand before rushing into the bathroom. He comes back later with a comb, a brush and some kind of cream tube, which are all dropped on the couch before he sits down and pats the spot next to him.
"Come, sit. Let's show your lovely starlight hair what actually caring for it feels like."
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Geralt finds himself holding Jaskier's mug of tea in one hand while he runs to the bathroom. He can hear the musician bang around in there for a little while, opening drawers and cupboards in search of whatever it is that he thinks is necessary for Geralt's hair. Geralt waits, for lack of anything better to do, until he returns with both a comb and a brush, along with what looks like some kind of hair cream. He sits when told, mostly because he doesn't particularly want to argue over something that he doesn't care much about. Even if his hair had dried into a mess by morning, he would've just thrown it up into a bun and not worried about it for the rest of the day and it would've been fine. It's not like Eskel cares if his hair's messy, and the horses sure as hell don't. Detangling it would've just been a problem for Future Geralt.
"You don't have to do anything to it," he says, somehow feeling like a twelve year old girl at a sleepover whose friend is going to give her a makeover despite being an almost forty year old man. "I can just pull it back if it's a mess."
Jaskier likely won't be deterred by that small of a complaint, though. It's been a long time since anyone had brushed out his hair for him, too, so... it's really not all that bad. (It feels a little like cheating, almost-- he likes when his hair is touched, but like this, he doesn't have to ask for it. He just has to go along with Jaskier's idea and no one will know that he wanted anything at all.)
There's still a mug in his hands. Without thinking much about it, Geralt drinks from it; its contents are warm and vaguely floral, which tracks because that's kind of how it smells, too. Geralt isn't much of a tea drinker, he usually prefers to take a big thermos of coffee down to the barn with him in the morning to drink while he starts his day. Considering that his sleep schedule is a mess on a good day, the caffeine that he gets from it is a godsend, even if it's just a band-aid on a much bigger problem. This stuff is... not bad. Nice, in a sort of warm, comforting way. A winding-down drink rather than a wake-you-up one.
Jaskier calls his hair starlight. Geralt snorts.
"It's gray. Started turning when I was sixteen."
Which, y'know, was really great for his high school experience. Not only was he the kid who sat in the back of the class and didn't talk and wore black all the time, he was also going gray before he was even eligible to vote. Just what he needed-- one more thing to make all the other students think that he was weird. By the time he was in his twenties, it was entirely gray, and he had gone from having to worry about asshole kids to... bigger problems. Ones that would land him in prison not that long after.
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"But I want to," he replies as he removes the hair tie and starts running his fingers through the hair to separate as much as he can, hoping it'll make his job easier later. Geralt can't see it, but Jaskier pulls a face at the idea of just taking care of a mess by pulling it back - he wants to comment on that fact that would only make the mess worse, but he's distracted by something else. He had forgotten about his mug! "Did you just sip my tea? Bollocks. I mean- I don't mind sharing, but I cut you off the coffee because I was trying to stop you from mixing weed and caffeine! It's like you enjoy wasting my efforts, Geralt, I swear." Just teasing! Mostly. He throws a bag of ships at Geralt's lap before returning to the hairstyling. "At least put something more in your stomach first."
Beer, followed by weed and tea with only a couple of cookies and not-real-brownies in his belly? Yeah, not a good combo. Jaskier is enjoying this placid Geralt, and he wants him to stay that way. And that's not even taking into account possibly puking on his beautiful couch and fine blankets.
Once his fingers have done as much as they realistically can, Jaskier starts working with the comb, being as gentle as the knots allow him to. Sometimes he combs from top to bottom normally, but most of the time he ends grabbing locks of hair in one hand as the other one fights the knot while trying not to pull. The most ironic part of this whole deal is the fact Geralt would never allow his horses' tails to get like this, so supposedly he does understand the importance of good brushing, he just doesn't apply it to himself.
Which is kinda sad, really.
"Sixteen?" He whistles to show his surprise and reminds his mind not to chase any horny thoughts (like wondering if the carpet matches the drapes). "Talk about early graying. What color was it before? Have you always worn it long? And what do you have against the word starlight, it's a perfectly fine way to describe your shade!"
Look, if Geralt is going to mention a detail like that, obviously Jaskier must take the chance to hunt for more! It's not every day that he gets this mute of a man to share so easily.
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Then he gets upset about the fact that Geralt's drinking the tea that he put in Geralt's own hand, and that only solidifies his decision to keep on drinking it. You gave it to him, Jaskier, so it's his now. While Jaskier tosses snacks at him and tells him about the dangers of mixing caffeine and weed, Geralt lifts the mug to his mouth, tips it back, and drains a good three-quarters of it in one go.
"It's chamomile, Jaskier," he says. "It doesn't have caffeine in it. That's the point."
But since there are snacks literally thrown into his lap, he'd open them up and try them. He was kind of hungry, anyway? He knows that it's the weed; back when he was a teenager, he could absolutely pack away entire pizzas when he had a case of the munchies. A few bags of chips is basically nothing in the face of two brownies' worth of pot. And there's something very satisfying about eating salty, crunchy, unhealthy food at stupid o'clock at night. Probably part of the reason why bar food is so popular, after a few beers and too many hours spent out, you just really need a plate full of something greasy.
That, combined with the almost meditative pull of the comb and brush through his hair, makes it easy to fall into companionable silence. Jaskier's much gentler about getting the knots out of his hair than he is, too-- he would just yank the comb through if he needed to de-tangle his hair and it was being stubborn. The musician holds locks of his hair and brushes from the bottom up so that it wouldn't tug on his scalp. Takes longer that way, but leaves him with fewer clumps of white hair on the floor. Again, it's really not necessary, Geralt is capable of dealing with a little discomfort, but it's considerate of him.
"Hm." More questions. Geralt's not entirely sure why Jaskier cares, but apparently he does. Or he just can't stand silence, that's also possible. "Brown. And yes, my dad was terrible at haircuts."
He learned from a very young age that it was better to just let his hair grow out than to trust Vesemir and his questionable scissor skills. And since they didn't have the money to take three rambunctious boys to a salon to get their hair cut every few weeks, it was either Vesemir or nothing. Eskel and Lambert got the scissor treatment until they were old enough to do it themselves. Which didn't necessarily mean that they made good hair decisions, but at least it wasn't their father's hair decisions.
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"I'll forgive you because you know how to identify chamomile."
Which sounds kinda silly, but Jaskier has lost count of all the times he's offered his box of teas and got told whatever, it's all tea anyway. So points to Geralt for that, which makes up for the ones he lost over having just regular bar soap in his bathroom.
While Geralt munches on chips, Jaskier finishes his own cookies, which taste like berries and nostalgia. To this day, Jaskier still wonders how his grandmother ended up married to that stupid family of his - love works in mysterious and fucked up ways, he supposes. Those memories hit extra hard when Geralt mentions his dad being in charge of his haircuts, which makes Jaskier laugh. Oh, what a difference in parents - his own father would never do service for his children like this. The man isn't even capable of taking care of his own stupid beard!
"Your dad cut your hair? That sounds both adorable and terrifying." It also a bit more information about Geralt's childhood, and Jaskier shall treasure it. "While I'm sure you were just as dashing and handsome with brown hair, I admit I like the gray better. You pull it off well. Is it really gray though?" He raises a lock of hair and brings it closer to his face for a better look. "I'd say it's even white under the right li--"
Wait. Is that-? Jaskier sniffs once. Twice. Then asks the gods he doesn't believe in how he ended up crushing on such a himbo.
"Geralt, my dear friend - did you wash your hair with the bloody body wash?"
He should lose points for this, but the asshole manages to be endearing with his... his... himboness.
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"Foster dad," he says. Vesemir isn't his father, not that Geralt would know who the fuck that is, anyway. Hell, he barely even remembers what his own mother looked like. Who knows if she's even alive, or if she remembers him.
Geralt only hums about any preferences Jaskier has for his hair color-- it doesn't really matter, it's not like the brown would ever be coming back, even if Jaskier did like it better. He lets him mess around with the pale locks, examining them closely and quibbling about the exact color. Gray, white, it's basically the same thing when it comes to hair, right? Something that you're only supposed to see on men who are Vesemir's age. It really doesn't matter, though, it's not unattractive enough to stop Geralt from getting the occasional one night stand.
"Soap is soap," he replies, absolutely certain that this response will drive Jaskier up a wall for a number of reasons. One, he's clearly the kind of person that has a hundred different kinds of soap even though just one would do the job, and two, he'd hate how short that statement is. No elaboration, no explanation, no room for arguments. Soap is soap.
He turns his head a little, looking back over his shoulder at the deeply offended musician.
"Are you done yet?"
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That comes out more bitter than he intends it to, but he can't help it considering the environment he grew up with. It wasn't only his own dad that sucked, he had plenty of classmates that also were distracted with expensive gifts while their so-called fathers arrived home late because they were fucking their secretaries. Daddy issues were as common in his school as having the latest iPhone model.
He hopes he gets to meet Geralt's father some day, he must have some amazing stories about fostering these three little rascals.
Geralt's plan is successful, because he's read Jaskier absolutely right: that answer has him gasping and flailing his hands. This is a scandal! This himbo wants to give him a heart attack!
"Soap is NOT soap, how dare you! You, you-!" He has a good insult, he swears he does, but Geralt turns around then and- ugh. Damn his handsome smug face. Jaskier huffs. "No, I'm not done! I just finished the first step! Now turn around and let me do my job!"
Now all knots are gone, it is the turn of the cream tube next. With a little lump of white in each hand, Jaskier buries his fingers in Geralt's hair and massages it kindly - and that includes the scalp as well. He would be lying to himself if he said wasn't enjoying it - it's peaceful. Almost intimate. There is a reason why Jaskier loves making a ritual out of grooming, and he allows himself to smile at the back of Geralt's head for having achieved this little moment with him.
"You can be quite a mystery, you know," he finally confesses with a softer tone. "For every little thing that tells me you are a simple man with simple needs, you surprise me with two other things that leave me thinking for hours. Like a puzzle I'm dying to solve but at the same time I never want it to end."
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Well. Geralt wouldn't ever ask for something like that, even while high. His threshold for asking for touch is significantly lower when he's like this, but it's not completely gone.
Jaskier talks about puzzles for a bit, and Geralt thinks that if he's a puzzle, it's an exceedingly simple one. Not terribly hard to figure out and not much of a payoff once you do. Hardly worth finishing, honestly.
"I don't need much," he says. And it's true-- he has few things that he requires, and almost all of those he can provide for himself. He rarely needs someone else, and when he does, it's not for very long. Help from his brothers for a project or a warm touch from a one-night stand.
"Maybe you're seeing complexity where there isn't any."
After all, what's complex about Geralt? He has few needs and fewer wants. His life revolves around his daughter and his horses. The number of friends that he has who aren't family can probably be counted on one hand with fingers left over. His life is simple and that works for him. He doesn't need to push his luck.
Really, Jaskier's the one who's bafflingly complex around here. He obviously loves the city and being surrounded by people, but he insists on being... friend-adjacent with a man who prefers the countryside and keeps the company of horses. He wears pretty, fancy clothes that are probably expensive and has soft hands and soft hair and a million different bottles of hair and skincare things, but he doesn't mind mucking out a stall or washing the mud off Pegasus after he's had a roll in the pasture. He's cheerful in the face of Geralt's dour moods. They should have repelled each other like magnets, but instead... well, they've attracted like magnets. But the other way around. How does that work, anyway? Wait, no, he's too high to get lost in wondering how magnets work.
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His answer comes out too quickly, too easily. It's because he's said similar things before, he realizes: when talking to his sister. Elizabeth can't understand what Jaskier sees in Geralt for this to be a full crush instead of just lust, and she keeps questioning him about it, which gets on his nerves. It's not like she's mean towards Geralt at least, he does give her that much, she accepts he's a good man and probably a good catch... for someone else. Not for his brother aka Mr Fun and Freedom.
Jaskier sighs as his hands slowly stop moving, he cannot make this last any longer, no matter how much he's dying to keep on touching Geralt. He grabs the brush next and gets to work once again, going for long, kind strokes in the way he couldn't do with the comb, and finding himself singing All I wanna do by Sheryl Crow.
There's more about Geralt than it meets the eye, Jaskier is sure of it. It doesn't matter how much his sister or even Geralt himself deny it. The man pushes away yet no far enough for Jaskier not to be out of his life, he complains yet he doesn't act on it. He grunts and dismisses ideas like friendship, yet he invites Jaskier to pick berries and watch his show, even bringing his brothers with him.
What drives this man? And what hurt him? An awful question, but one Jaskier can't stop thinking about, because something must've happened to him to make him enjoy little things only through denial and possibly guilt.
And there's also the fact Jaskier simply doesn't have boring crushes. His heart knows better than that.
The question is, will the magnets still attract each other after the puzzle is solved?
That's what is probably worrying Lizzie, Jaskier realizes. That he'll eventually get bored when there's no mystery left. Honestly though... if it happens, so what? Can't he have a little happiness even if temporary? Nothing lasts forever... Not that there is anything here to last anyway. Or is there? Jaskier isn't sure anymore. Signals have been more mixed than a milkshake tonight.
The brushing comes to an end too, too short of a moment if you ask Jaskier. Just two more minutes, please! Using the excuse of not wanting Geralt to ruin all his hard work when they go to bed, he hurries to bury his fingers in white hair again, this time dividing it into three parts and quickly forming a neat braid that he secures with Geralt's hairtie.
"There you go, all done!" Jaskier pulls his hands away but stays right where he is, proudly admiring his work, smiling like an idiot at the smell of his own body wash coming off Geralt. "That wasn't so hard, was it? What do you think?"
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Jaskier hums an old song and Geralt sits quietly.
Even once he sets the brush down, Jaskier doesn't stop; his fingers delve back into the gray hair again, accidentally eliciting a soft noise from Geralt's throat, and start sectioning his hair. He's confused until he feels the soft tugs as each section is woven around the others, forming a long braid down his back. This is a practical thing, he thinks-- Ciri does it, too, before she goes to bed, so that her hair isn't a mess in the morning. It's considerate of Jaskier to do this for him.
When he's finished, Geralt reaches back to touch the braid, feeling along the smooth bumps of it.
"My hair will be less messy in the morning." He doesn't mention that he almost misses the feeling of gentle hands on his skin. It's stupid to want things that he can't have. "Thank you."
They stay there for a while yet, talking about things that don't matter-- or, rather, Jaskier does most of the talking, and Geralt listens. That's fine, it reminds him of when he was young and shared a room with Eskel, and he'd listen to his brother read from books with a flashlight until late into the night. Until they both fell asleep that way, crammed awkwardly onto the same bed, Eskel's cheek pressed against the pages.
He eventually falls asleep here, too-- first coaxed into laying down on the sofa-bed while Jaskier prattles, then slowly lulled by the cadence of his voice. Like a lullaby without a melody, or the white noise machine that was supposed to help with his insomnia. Apparently, all he needed was too much weed and a chatty musician.
His internal clock won't let him sleep in, though, despite forgetting to set an alarm. He's awake at five o'clock sharp, briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the lack of a crowing rooster. He's warm, wrapped up in blankets, long limbs wrapped securely around his middle. A leg is pushed firmly between his thighs, and that's a little bit of a problem because Geralt is a healthy middle-aged man with a very functional circulatory system that likes to prove its level of function every morning. That is to say, he's got some very healthy morning wood going on right now, and he's awake enough to remember that he spent the night at Jaskier's.
Jaskier, apparently, is a cuddler. Geralt doesn't really mind cuddly bed-partners, but he and Jaskier had fallen asleep quite platonically last night, laying side by side. The erection currently pressing against the musician's thigh is not very platonic. And even though that erection might very much like it if Geralt were to roll his hips and maybe wake Jaskier up, that's just a very good reason why Geralt's cock should never be allowed to make decisions. He needs to get up carefully and leave quietly, so that Jaskier never has to know about the awkward situation that he's sleeping through.
He looks peaceful when he sleeps, and he's tucked in close enough that Geralt can smell the sweet floral scent that his fancy soap left on his skin from his shower last night.
Geralt moves quietly and slowly to extricate himself from Jaskier's grip without waking him. He had hoped that, in the time it took to get out of the musician's lax arms, his morning wood would have sorted itself out, but no luck-- he has to collect his clothes from the dryer and awkwardly take care of himself in the bathroom. He stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep quiet, takes himself in hand and tries to think of nothing at all, just treat it like nothing more than a simple biological need that must be taken care of. He doesn't think about firm thighs or pink lips or a swathe of hairy chest peeking out of a partly unbuttoned shirt, the collar slipping over one pale shoulder. Geralt checks his phone once he's tidied up and changed, and he's running late-- fuck, he has to meet Eskel. He texts him that he's going to be late, already dreading the questions that he'll be asked, and grabs his things to leave, until he realizes that if he just walks out, Jaskier's door will be left unlocked.
Fuck.
He approaches the sofa-bed and puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, shaking him gently until he wakes, like how he'd wake Ciri when she's sleeping in too late.
"Jaskier. I'm leaving, you need to lock your door when I go."
He doesn't wait long for a response, but heads out after that, once he's sure that Jaskier is awake enough to understand what he's been told.
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