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.
That soft noise... God. It does things to Jaskier, a tingling on his skin that he concentrates on ignoring before it transforms into a problem in his pajama pants. It's not a big deal (it isn't supposed to be), Jaskier is basically massaging Geralt, so it's natural to express himself like that. Right?
Then Geralt turns around and thanks him, and Jaskier knows every thought of his is basically bullshit.
He doesn't know what to do anymore, Jaskier isn't one to dance about a potential conquest like this. Either he goes for it, or he doesn't - life is too short to hesitate. And yet... here he is, trying to navigate Geralt without a map, GPS or compass, not even the freaking stars to guide him. The man is uncharted territory in Jaskier's eyes, nothing like he's ever flirted with before. He should just ask, he's never been afraid of doing so, but he's never had the potential to lose a friendship as consequence either.
And he wouldn't know what he'd do if he lost this. It's so different from his usual friendships, but in a good way - great, even. There's a comfort in having him laying with him like this, chatting casually with soft music playing in the background. Geralt may not talk as much, but he listens, pays attention to him, and when he does say something, his words never go to waste. It's what Jaskier needs right now - not only because of what happened earlier in the bar, but because there's a huge con to living in complete independence: loneliness. Jaskier is a people person, social and touchy, he hates silence and being alone. His carefree schedule doesn't make him the right person to have a pet, considering the way he can disappear for days at a time without warning (there's a reason why he asked Geralt to help him with the bird feeders after all); and roommates usually want some level of commitment as well.
Jaskier can't have that. He values not having to answer to anyone, so living alone is still the best option for him at the end of the day. But he still craves company, a kind of company that cares about more than just sex and cuddling, and well--
Having Geralt fall asleep like his with him? So trusting and comfortable, not pushing him away when Jaskier comes closer in his sleep? It warms his heart in a way flings simply can't.
After being nervous over his show, the gig himself, the emotionally shaken moment with the talent-scout and staying up with Geralt chatting, Jaskier is exhausted, so he's sleeping quite deeply when Geralt awakes (besides, 5am isn't a time his brain would register as apt to wake up anyway). So when Geralt finally manages to bring him back from dreamland, Jaskier can only reply with a very articulated question.
"--what?"
Blinking at the figure in front of him, Jaskier sits up and lets consciousness slowly return to him, memories of last night filling his mind one by one: riding the bike with his body pressed to Geralt's, falling on the touch under Geralt's might weight, brushing braiding Geralt's hair, falling asleep together and-
...cuddling him...
Fuck. And now Geralt is leaving. By the time Jaskier is fully aware of what's going on and cries out "WAIT!", Geralt is gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck, has it been too much? Has he finally pushed him away? Jaskier looks around the apartment, as if trying to convince his brain that Geralt's presence in it has been a real thing. He finds the rugby shirt on top of the washer and nope, to Jaskier's disappointment, it doesn't smell like Geralt - it smells like his own body wash. There's a mess to be dealt with here, but he's too sleepy to deal with it, so Jaskier climbs under the covers of his couch and sleeps a few more hours, cuddling the t-shirt like a lovesick idiot.
When he wakes up hours later, his phone is exploding with notifications. Boy, today is going to be a day, isn't it? Jaskier sighs and decides it's going to be a pajamas-and-wine-all-day kind of day. He orders food through an app because there's no way he'll cook in his current mood, uncorks a bottle of wine without caring what time is it (he'll need it) and drinks straight from the bottle as he gets comfortable in his couch, ready to deal with all his messes while his This Is Fine (TM) playlist echoes in the apartment.
His run-away-from-your-problems instincts tell him he should leave Geralt for last, but he realizes then he would die waiting for an answer. So a text for his friend(? hopefully?) goes out first, a completely neutrally written message to check on him and test the waters, that way he can distract himself with the other stuff while waiting. Messages are next - he sends a quick thank you to his gang's group chat for coming and for sending him all the pictures and videos they took. They're also asking him for details of last night, and Jaskier decides that for now, it's safer to tell them he just had some drinks and a movie with Geralt until he understands better what is going on.
If he ever does...
And then there's the talk with his sister, who is assuming Jaskier celebrated his big night with a fling, since that's the usual reason why he wouldn't be screaming at her and sending pictures after a successful show. Lizzie does get the whole story, and she's less than amused by it, seeing it all as proof for Jaskier needing to move on because clearly Geralt and her brother aren't compatible. Jaskier pouts and disagrees, and takes revenge by making her uncomfortable by talking about Geralt's giant dick. It's the little things! (Or not so little, in this case.)
By the time food comes, Jaskier has moved onto social media. After posting all the pictures and videos he's gotten his hands on, replying to any post he's been tagged and thanking them as well, Jaskier decides to post the picture of the torn card with a short caption (And a thank you to @ folkwaysrecords for coming and making an offer that included changing who I am! A pity I don't work with homophobic bigots, I guess.) without consulting Yennefer first. To hell with it, frustration is running through his veins at the mere memory, fueled by Geralt leaving like that and his sister's scolding. He WANTS to pick up a fight with someone right now, let out some steam, write some creative insults. Outside some trolls he quickly blocks, though, an argument doesn't come. The tweet gets shared all over, people show their support (including Yen in his DMs, telling him to let her know if someone needs to be destroyed) and the record company ignores the constant mentions of his followers.
He wonders if they're getting a flood of hate. Usually he doesn't approve of crossing the bullying line, but right now, he doesn't give a fuck.
It's the right thing to do. His sister and his friends both congratulate him for being brave, and between that and all the fans speaking up, telling him how important it is for them for Jaskier to make things like this public? Yeah, he's feeling good by the time afternoon comes around. The last thing that ends up helping to improve his mood is Geralt's reply, telling him he just needed to leave because he has a farm to take care of.
Right. Five am. That makes... a lot of sense, actually. It also proves Lizzie right about Jaskier behaving like an idiot about this whole deal, but he doesn't tell her that.
It's back to constantly texting him and visiting the ranch every now and then after that, and Jaskier tries his best to test the waters without pushing Geralt into drowning. He flirts, he drops hints, he asks questions that hide a second meaning behind them. Geralt doesn't react to any of that, behaving like his stoic self as usual, and yet... they have moments when they are alone together in the ranch, there's no other way to describe them. Jaskier is starting to think he needs to write a song for him, something direct, like. You know. Hey, so you're hot as fuck and lots of fun, wanna go out and bang after, but hey if you don't that's cool too, is there a possibility we can stay friends after this? But with more rhyming.
There isn't much time to bother Geralt when June begins, though. Pride is coming and Jaskier has plans to help, even perform if possible. Lots of organization to do, especially if you add the fact this year Pride is the same day as his birthday... But as it turns out, he isn't the only one busy for this event! Yennefer is involved in a bunch of organizations too, and she wants to both genuinely help and get some politics going. So Jaskier agrees to finally meet in person and have brunch together.
Her tastes are as refined as his own, so taking into consideration the summer weather, they choose a modern rooftop restaurant with comfortable couches and wide umbrellas that protect them from the sun. Yennefer wears black dresses no matter the occasion, Jaskier has learned, so he thinks they make the perfect contrast when he shows up with his usual colors - this time a combination of white and red with a touch of purple. He isn't sure who has more rings on, however. It may be a tie.
They don't order quite yet, enjoying their chat while having a drink first - red wine for Yen, piña colada for Jaskier (umbrella with a cherry and a piece of pineapple included, of course). And he can't help choking on said cocktail when he suddenly sees who is approaching the table.
No fucking way.
He gives Yennefer a questioning look as he pats his chest, but she only smiles behind her glass of wine, looking like fucking Cersei Lannister, scheming and proud of herself. He turns to the new arrivals again when he hears Ciri exclaim "finally!" and sees her approach the table a little quicker, probably in reaction to finally getting to meet Jaskier in person. And Jaskier, well...
He can only panic.
His attempt to standup quickly fails since these couches don't allow for a fast, clumsy movement like throwing a chair back would. Jaskier curses under his breath when he hits his knee against the table, and quickly puts his open hands up in a gesture of innocence when Geralt makes their side looking extremely handsome as always.
"I SWEAR I didn't know you were coming, this is all her fault!" He points at Yen (who just shrugs as she grins) before turning to Ciri. "Cirilla, it's wonderful to finally meet you, believe me, but... I made a promise to your dad. Sorry."
When Geralt arrives late to his own home, he knows that Eskel is going to have questions. Pointed ones, considering how he had left him the previous night. And, sure enough, when Geralt pulls into his driveway, he sees Eskel's truck already there and his brother leaning against the fence, drinking coffee from a thermos. He parks and meets up with him.
"You look like hell," Eskel says as he approaches. Geralt grunts in response; being as nonverbal as possible is his best defense here. "And what happened to your hair? You didn't do that, you can't braid for shit."
"Jaskier." It's a short reply as he starts to make his way down to the pasture fences that need to be repaired.
"Jaskier did it? So you stayed over at his place last night?" Eskel grabs his thermos and his tools, catching up to Geralt in a few long strides. "You sure you know what you're doing? I mean, you usually don't shit where you eat, and he's a customer. Got you a lot of your business."
Geralt's mouth twists. "It's not like that."
"Then why did you stay over at his place? It's not like you drank that much at the bar."
"I..." Damn, there's no good explanation for this other than the truth. "He invited me in for coffee and something to eat. He didn't tell me the brownies were special."
"Seriously?" Eskel barks out a short laugh. "You accidentally got fucking high at this guy's house? Holy shit, Geralt."
Geralt shoves him into one of fence posts and tells him to fuck off. Eskel laughs anyway.
Everything goes back to normal after that. Jaskier seems to take the whole odd episode in stride, still texting him and coming by the ranch like he always does. It's good, and Geralt didn't want to have to apologize about it because it had kind of been a decent night. And, sure, it was just because of the weed, but he hadn't laughed that hard in a long time, and it had been an equally long time since he'd just... laid around with someone and talked.
The first week of June rolls around, though, and that means that it's time for the monthly meeting with Yennefer about Ciri's schedule. As usual, she picks the restaurant in town, the reservation set too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. She does have a certain affinity towards brunch. Geralt sees nothing unusual in the appointment, and dutifully brings Ciri, and they arrive a little early-- traffic was lighter than what he had been anticipating. When he walks in, a quick word with the hostess has him heading up to the rooftop terrace with his daughter, where Yen is, apparently, already waiting.
Yen and, unexpectedly, Jaskier.
Ciri is delighted when she sees who's sitting at the table with her mother, getting to the table quickly enough to snag the nearest seat to the musician.
"Dad wouldn't make you leave, you were here first! And we're early, anyway," Ciri says, looking up at Geralt with the kind of doe eyes that he just knows that Yen taught her. "Right, Dad?"
He looks over at Yen, and the color of her lipstick is almost the same as her wine. She's smiling, which is never a good sign.
"Really, don't be rude, Geralt. Sit down, there's enough room at the table for all of us."
Geralt sighs. Both Yen and Ciri are against him.
"Sit down, Jaskier."
Geralt takes the last remaining spot, already wishing that he had something alcoholic in his hand. If Jaskier and Yen are going to day-drink through this thing, he's at least going to have one to ease this social nightmare along.
"I wasn't aware that the plans had changed, Yen," he says. Yen gives him a withering look over the rim of her glass and takes an elegant sip of her wine.
"You're the one who's early. Jaskier and I just had a little business to discuss, so why should I have to go back and forth to meet with the two of you? I'll get it all done here."
"Hm," he says as the waitress comes back, checking to see if the newcomers to the table want something to drink. Ciri orders some coffee drink that she likes, and Geralt opens his mouth to order a beer when Yen beats him to it.
"A mimosa for him."
Geralt shoots her a look as the waitress takes the orders and assures them that the drinks will be out shortly.
"What? You like mimosas but you never order them."
Oh, look at those doe eyes! This girl is a menace, and Jaskier adores her already. Both women gang up on Geralt and Jaskier would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying this, seeing his serious friend give in to the charms (or more like, scheming) of his beloved family is simply adorable.
Geralt asks him to stay (well, in his own way) and all tension instantly leaves his body - this is fine. They are fine. Jaskier sits down with a huge grin on his face and quickly turns to Cirilla to offer a better greeting and thank her for all her support. While part of him would've loved to sit next to Geralt (let their arms and legs brush, put his hand on his arm when laughing at something, and--), there's nothing like meeting the fans - and this isn't any fan, it's also Geralt's precious daughter, and Jaskier's been dying to meet her just for that. Besides, this way he gets a better look at Yen and Geralt interacting together.
Speaking of... Yen orders for him, and Jaskier's eyebrows could almost touch his hairline. It's a very old married couple thing to do, even if they're exes now, so that's definitely interesting. He should've been getting more dirt from Yen, he realizes. But what surprises him the most is--
"Mimosas?" he asks with a chuckle. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a mimosas kind of bloke, not after all your simple orders of beer and black coffee."
He must've said something funny, because Cirilla giggles and Yennefer snorts. "That's because the black coffee was a lie," Yen clarifies. "He hides his sweet tooth to keep his brooding image."
Jaskier gasps, although it's quite exaggerated - it includes taking a hand to his chest. "And to think I had to make you try my cookies! I'm hurt, Geralt! HURT! Betrayed and affronted!"
"Is this about the day you braided his hair?" Ciri asks, curiosity written all over her face. Jaskier nods, wondering how she knows about that - he seriously doubts Geralt would've shared it... would he? "You did such a great job! Would you do it before his meetings with my teachers too?"
Alright, alright, questioning how they know about the braid is forgotten for now because Jaskier needs to simply laugh his ass off as that request, excuse him for a second.
The black coffee isn't a lie, exactly-- he'll drink coffee however he can get it, and sometimes it's easier to just ask for it black rather than to rattle off his preferred order. People take one look at him and make assumptions, because his big, brutish looks imply certain things about him. He doesn't always have the energy or desire to go against people's expectations of him-- and, really, what's one black coffee or one whiskey when he'd rather have a cocktail? He doesn't want the attention, the looks, the shit from Lambert if he orders something more complicated than a Jack and coke.
Jaskier has a moment of histrionics about the supposed betrayal of having to be coerced into trying his cookies-- which, really, he didn't, he ate them just fine. Especially after that weed had kicked in and he'd gotten hungry.
"Jaskier has better things to do than mess with my hair," Geralt says. The musician isn't a hairdresser, anyway, it's not his job to go around and make sure that Geralt looks presentable. He has music to write and... other things to do, presumably.
At least Jaskier finds it amusing.
"It wouldn't be a bad thing, Geralt, if you showed up to one of these meetings at least looking a bit presentable," Yen says. "That means wearing a shirt that has never been sullied by horse shit."
Geralt grunts in response and looks to see if the waitress is coming back with that drink yet. He could really use it, even if he couldn't drink very many of them because he'd driven.
"What were you here to talk to Mom about, Jaskier?"
Bless Ciri's little fangirl heart, for being willing to carry the conversation where Geralt wouldn't. She's over the moon right now, finally getting the chance to talk to one of her favorite music artists after weeks of being denied.
He thinks the whole deal is just a teen being a teen, but then Yennefer jumps in and approves of the idea. Jaskier worries his lower lip for a second, trying to get a good read of Geralt's reaction and how much Cirilla truly means it. Teasing your dad is one thing, having one of your favorite singers being all buddy with him and even become his personal stylist is another one - he doesn't want her to feel weird, uncomfortable. Then again, it's a little late for that, isn't it? They've fucking cuddled. She just doesn't know about it.
...or knows at least part of the story, apparently. She's unfazed by her dad being friends with him, if anything, she seems to be eager to take advantage of it. Well then, Jaskier thinks as he takes a sip of his drink for some liquid courage, here goes nothing.
"I actually wouldn't mind - I like playing stylist. And Yennefer is right, you need a better wardrobe! A shopping trip is in order, Geralt."
He slips into his gotta-push-Geralt-into-doing-things bossy side without meaning to, but it seems the ladies don't mind. In fact, judging by Ciri's grin and Yen's knowing look, they both approve. Big time. The waitress arrives then with Geralt's drink and menus for everyone, Jaskier waits until he's gone to answer Cirilla's question.
"As you probably already know from all my retweets, Pride is next weekend, and your mother and I will be helping out. Both of us are involved with many organizations, and we've confirmed I'll even get to perform!" He explains as he glances at the menu he takes from the pile. But soon blue eyes are quickly moving from face to face around the table, his whole body vibrating with excitement. "It would mean a lot to me if you'd come! Because it shows support for the cause AND my art, aaaaand it's also my--"
Cirilla gasps. "Right! It is your birthday!"
Jaskier has to laugh - it's flattering, honestly. "You'd be correct, little lady." She perks up at that, liking the nickname. "It's my birthday, so you'd be celebrating with me. It'll be lots of fun." He pauses as his eyes stay on Geralt this time. "My buddies will take me to a bar afterward, all friends of mine are invited."
It takes him a second to realize he's staring, so he clears his voice and nods at Yennefer to show she's included in that invitation as well. But it's pretty damn clear who is the person he wants to show up the most...
A shopping trip. Jaskier might as well have put a gun to his head, he'd handle that stress better. A shopping trip meant getting marched around from shop to shop and put into uncomfortable clothing that would be itchy and pinch in strange places and restrict his freedom of movement, and then having someone else pay absurd amounts of money for said uncomfortable clothing that he wouldn't even want to wear. If they were going to spend so much cash on something like shirts and pants, shouldn't they at least be comfortable? And he understands having clothes that he mucks out stalls in and clothes that he goes to nice places in and that these wardrobes should be kept separate, but do all of the nice clothes have to be so awful?
Thankfully, they all move on from the idea of putting Geralt into clothes, and into the reason that Jaskier's sitting at this table to begin with.
Aside from the fact that it'll soon be his birthday, apparently-- and Geralt is briefly concerned at the fact that Ciri knows Jaskier's birthday before he remembers that it's on his Twitter profile and he's a semi-famous musician-- and that Pride weekend coincides with it. It makes complete sense that Jaskier would want to be at Pride, considering that he's part of that community, and even more sense that he'd want to perform at it. The fact that Yen's involved with organizations that are a part of the celebrations makes sense, too, so there's no reason for the two of them not to collaborate.
All friends of mine are invited.
Ciri seems to take that as an invitation extended to her, because she perks up again.
"Oh, could we go, Dad? It'll be fun, and we can see Jaskier play! On his birthday!"
Geralt is thankful for the drink-- it buys him time while he takes a sip. "We'll see, Ciri."
As quickly as he usually concedes to his daughter's whims, Pride is, well, Pride. It's for the people of that community to celebrate, and he doesn't want to be another straight man bursting into a place that isn't for him. It would be breaking the schedule a bit, since he's supposed to have Ciri with him that day, but maybe he could arrange for Yen to take her. She's always been strict about keeping to the agreed-upon schedule, but in light of all this, she might bend a little.
"If you're waiting on my blessing, I see no reason for her not to go, assuming you don't have something else lined up. That's your weekend, if I recall."
He frowns. He really didn't want to get into the details of this right now, but apparently Yen's opening up the conversation. "We could make an adjustment."
"Is there some reason that you wouldn't be able to go? You know how I feel about last minute changes." The way she's looking at him is... more amused than anything, as though she knows what's going on in his head and thinks it's endearingly stupid.
"I'm a straight man, Yen," he says, since they're apparently being blunt today. "I don't want to overstep."
Yen snorts, right at the same time that Ciri says Daaaad! in a voice that's half whine, half secondhand embarrassment. "You do realize that they aren't going to check your sexuality at the door, don't you, Geralt? No one's going to mind if you're there to show support."
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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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Then Geralt turns around and thanks him, and Jaskier knows every thought of his is basically bullshit.
He doesn't know what to do anymore, Jaskier isn't one to dance about a potential conquest like this. Either he goes for it, or he doesn't - life is too short to hesitate. And yet... here he is, trying to navigate Geralt without a map, GPS or compass, not even the freaking stars to guide him. The man is uncharted territory in Jaskier's eyes, nothing like he's ever flirted with before. He should just ask, he's never been afraid of doing so, but he's never had the potential to lose a friendship as consequence either.
And he wouldn't know what he'd do if he lost this. It's so different from his usual friendships, but in a good way - great, even. There's a comfort in having him laying with him like this, chatting casually with soft music playing in the background. Geralt may not talk as much, but he listens, pays attention to him, and when he does say something, his words never go to waste. It's what Jaskier needs right now - not only because of what happened earlier in the bar, but because there's a huge con to living in complete independence: loneliness. Jaskier is a people person, social and touchy, he hates silence and being alone. His carefree schedule doesn't make him the right person to have a pet, considering the way he can disappear for days at a time without warning (there's a reason why he asked Geralt to help him with the bird feeders after all); and roommates usually want some level of commitment as well.
Jaskier can't have that. He values not having to answer to anyone, so living alone is still the best option for him at the end of the day. But he still craves company, a kind of company that cares about more than just sex and cuddling, and well--
Having Geralt fall asleep like his with him? So trusting and comfortable, not pushing him away when Jaskier comes closer in his sleep? It warms his heart in a way flings simply can't.
After being nervous over his show, the gig himself, the emotionally shaken moment with the talent-scout and staying up with Geralt chatting, Jaskier is exhausted, so he's sleeping quite deeply when Geralt awakes (besides, 5am isn't a time his brain would register as apt to wake up anyway). So when Geralt finally manages to bring him back from dreamland, Jaskier can only reply with a very articulated question.
"--what?"
Blinking at the figure in front of him, Jaskier sits up and lets consciousness slowly return to him, memories of last night filling his mind one by one: riding the bike with his body pressed to Geralt's, falling on the touch under Geralt's might weight, brushing braiding Geralt's hair, falling asleep together and-
...cuddling him...
Fuck. And now Geralt is leaving. By the time Jaskier is fully aware of what's going on and cries out "WAIT!", Geralt is gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck, has it been too much? Has he finally pushed him away? Jaskier looks around the apartment, as if trying to convince his brain that Geralt's presence in it has been a real thing. He finds the rugby shirt on top of the washer and nope, to Jaskier's disappointment, it doesn't smell like Geralt - it smells like his own body wash. There's a mess to be dealt with here, but he's too sleepy to deal with it, so Jaskier climbs under the covers of his couch and sleeps a few more hours, cuddling the t-shirt like a lovesick idiot.
When he wakes up hours later, his phone is exploding with notifications. Boy, today is going to be a day, isn't it? Jaskier sighs and decides it's going to be a pajamas-and-wine-all-day kind of day. He orders food through an app because there's no way he'll cook in his current mood, uncorks a bottle of wine without caring what time is it (he'll need it) and drinks straight from the bottle as he gets comfortable in his couch, ready to deal with all his messes while his This Is Fine (TM) playlist echoes in the apartment.
His run-away-from-your-problems instincts tell him he should leave Geralt for last, but he realizes then he would die waiting for an answer. So a text for his friend(? hopefully?) goes out first, a completely neutrally written message to check on him and test the waters, that way he can distract himself with the other stuff while waiting. Messages are next - he sends a quick thank you to his gang's group chat for coming and for sending him all the pictures and videos they took. They're also asking him for details of last night, and Jaskier decides that for now, it's safer to tell them he just had some drinks and a movie with Geralt until he understands better what is going on.
If he ever does...
And then there's the talk with his sister, who is assuming Jaskier celebrated his big night with a fling, since that's the usual reason why he wouldn't be screaming at her and sending pictures after a successful show. Lizzie does get the whole story, and she's less than amused by it, seeing it all as proof for Jaskier needing to move on because clearly Geralt and her brother aren't compatible. Jaskier pouts and disagrees, and takes revenge by making her uncomfortable by talking about Geralt's giant dick. It's the little things! (Or not so little, in this case.)
By the time food comes, Jaskier has moved onto social media. After posting all the pictures and videos he's gotten his hands on, replying to any post he's been tagged and thanking them as well, Jaskier decides to post the picture of the torn card with a short caption (And a thank you to @ folkwaysrecords for coming and making an offer that included changing who I am! A pity I don't work with homophobic bigots, I guess.) without consulting Yennefer first. To hell with it, frustration is running through his veins at the mere memory, fueled by Geralt leaving like that and his sister's scolding. He WANTS to pick up a fight with someone right now, let out some steam, write some creative insults. Outside some trolls he quickly blocks, though, an argument doesn't come. The tweet gets shared all over, people show their support (including Yen in his DMs, telling him to let her know if someone needs to be destroyed) and the record company ignores the constant mentions of his followers.
He wonders if they're getting a flood of hate. Usually he doesn't approve of crossing the bullying line, but right now, he doesn't give a fuck.
It's the right thing to do. His sister and his friends both congratulate him for being brave, and between that and all the fans speaking up, telling him how important it is for them for Jaskier to make things like this public? Yeah, he's feeling good by the time afternoon comes around. The last thing that ends up helping to improve his mood is Geralt's reply, telling him he just needed to leave because he has a farm to take care of.
Right. Five am. That makes... a lot of sense, actually. It also proves Lizzie right about Jaskier behaving like an idiot about this whole deal, but he doesn't tell her that.
It's back to constantly texting him and visiting the ranch every now and then after that, and Jaskier tries his best to test the waters without pushing Geralt into drowning. He flirts, he drops hints, he asks questions that hide a second meaning behind them. Geralt doesn't react to any of that, behaving like his stoic self as usual, and yet... they have moments when they are alone together in the ranch, there's no other way to describe them. Jaskier is starting to think he needs to write a song for him, something direct, like. You know. Hey, so you're hot as fuck and lots of fun, wanna go out and bang after, but hey if you don't that's cool too, is there a possibility we can stay friends after this? But with more rhyming.
There isn't much time to bother Geralt when June begins, though. Pride is coming and Jaskier has plans to help, even perform if possible. Lots of organization to do, especially if you add the fact this year Pride is the same day as his birthday... But as it turns out, he isn't the only one busy for this event! Yennefer is involved in a bunch of organizations too, and she wants to both genuinely help and get some politics going. So Jaskier agrees to finally meet in person and have brunch together.
Her tastes are as refined as his own, so taking into consideration the summer weather, they choose a modern rooftop restaurant with comfortable couches and wide umbrellas that protect them from the sun. Yennefer wears black dresses no matter the occasion, Jaskier has learned, so he thinks they make the perfect contrast when he shows up with his usual colors - this time a combination of white and red with a touch of purple. He isn't sure who has more rings on, however. It may be a tie.
They don't order quite yet, enjoying their chat while having a drink first - red wine for Yen, piña colada for Jaskier (umbrella with a cherry and a piece of pineapple included, of course). And he can't help choking on said cocktail when he suddenly sees who is approaching the table.
No fucking way.
He gives Yennefer a questioning look as he pats his chest, but she only smiles behind her glass of wine, looking like fucking Cersei Lannister, scheming and proud of herself. He turns to the new arrivals again when he hears Ciri exclaim "finally!" and sees her approach the table a little quicker, probably in reaction to finally getting to meet Jaskier in person. And Jaskier, well...
He can only panic.
His attempt to standup quickly fails since these couches don't allow for a fast, clumsy movement like throwing a chair back would. Jaskier curses under his breath when he hits his knee against the table, and quickly puts his open hands up in a gesture of innocence when Geralt makes their side looking extremely handsome as always.
"I SWEAR I didn't know you were coming, this is all her fault!" He points at Yen (who just shrugs as she grins) before turning to Ciri. "Cirilla, it's wonderful to finally meet you, believe me, but... I made a promise to your dad. Sorry."
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"You look like hell," Eskel says as he approaches. Geralt grunts in response; being as nonverbal as possible is his best defense here. "And what happened to your hair? You didn't do that, you can't braid for shit."
"Jaskier." It's a short reply as he starts to make his way down to the pasture fences that need to be repaired.
"Jaskier did it? So you stayed over at his place last night?" Eskel grabs his thermos and his tools, catching up to Geralt in a few long strides. "You sure you know what you're doing? I mean, you usually don't shit where you eat, and he's a customer. Got you a lot of your business."
Geralt's mouth twists. "It's not like that."
"Then why did you stay over at his place? It's not like you drank that much at the bar."
"I..." Damn, there's no good explanation for this other than the truth. "He invited me in for coffee and something to eat. He didn't tell me the brownies were special."
"Seriously?" Eskel barks out a short laugh. "You accidentally got fucking high at this guy's house? Holy shit, Geralt."
Geralt shoves him into one of fence posts and tells him to fuck off. Eskel laughs anyway.
Everything goes back to normal after that. Jaskier seems to take the whole odd episode in stride, still texting him and coming by the ranch like he always does. It's good, and Geralt didn't want to have to apologize about it because it had kind of been a decent night. And, sure, it was just because of the weed, but he hadn't laughed that hard in a long time, and it had been an equally long time since he'd just... laid around with someone and talked.
The first week of June rolls around, though, and that means that it's time for the monthly meeting with Yennefer about Ciri's schedule. As usual, she picks the restaurant in town, the reservation set too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. She does have a certain affinity towards brunch. Geralt sees nothing unusual in the appointment, and dutifully brings Ciri, and they arrive a little early-- traffic was lighter than what he had been anticipating. When he walks in, a quick word with the hostess has him heading up to the rooftop terrace with his daughter, where Yen is, apparently, already waiting.
Yen and, unexpectedly, Jaskier.
Ciri is delighted when she sees who's sitting at the table with her mother, getting to the table quickly enough to snag the nearest seat to the musician.
"Dad wouldn't make you leave, you were here first! And we're early, anyway," Ciri says, looking up at Geralt with the kind of doe eyes that he just knows that Yen taught her. "Right, Dad?"
He looks over at Yen, and the color of her lipstick is almost the same as her wine. She's smiling, which is never a good sign.
"Really, don't be rude, Geralt. Sit down, there's enough room at the table for all of us."
Geralt sighs. Both Yen and Ciri are against him.
"Sit down, Jaskier."
Geralt takes the last remaining spot, already wishing that he had something alcoholic in his hand. If Jaskier and Yen are going to day-drink through this thing, he's at least going to have one to ease this social nightmare along.
"I wasn't aware that the plans had changed, Yen," he says. Yen gives him a withering look over the rim of her glass and takes an elegant sip of her wine.
"You're the one who's early. Jaskier and I just had a little business to discuss, so why should I have to go back and forth to meet with the two of you? I'll get it all done here."
"Hm," he says as the waitress comes back, checking to see if the newcomers to the table want something to drink. Ciri orders some coffee drink that she likes, and Geralt opens his mouth to order a beer when Yen beats him to it.
"A mimosa for him."
Geralt shoots her a look as the waitress takes the orders and assures them that the drinks will be out shortly.
"What? You like mimosas but you never order them."
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Geralt asks him to stay (well, in his own way) and all tension instantly leaves his body - this is fine. They are fine. Jaskier sits down with a huge grin on his face and quickly turns to Cirilla to offer a better greeting and thank her for all her support. While part of him would've loved to sit next to Geralt (let their arms and legs brush, put his hand on his arm when laughing at something, and--), there's nothing like meeting the fans - and this isn't any fan, it's also Geralt's precious daughter, and Jaskier's been dying to meet her just for that. Besides, this way he gets a better look at Yen and Geralt interacting together.
Speaking of... Yen orders for him, and Jaskier's eyebrows could almost touch his hairline. It's a very old married couple thing to do, even if they're exes now, so that's definitely interesting. He should've been getting more dirt from Yen, he realizes. But what surprises him the most is--
"Mimosas?" he asks with a chuckle. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a mimosas kind of bloke, not after all your simple orders of beer and black coffee."
He must've said something funny, because Cirilla giggles and Yennefer snorts. "That's because the black coffee was a lie," Yen clarifies. "He hides his sweet tooth to keep his brooding image."
Jaskier gasps, although it's quite exaggerated - it includes taking a hand to his chest. "And to think I had to make you try my cookies! I'm hurt, Geralt! HURT! Betrayed and affronted!"
"Is this about the day you braided his hair?" Ciri asks, curiosity written all over her face. Jaskier nods, wondering how she knows about that - he seriously doubts Geralt would've shared it... would he? "You did such a great job! Would you do it before his meetings with my teachers too?"
Alright, alright, questioning how they know about the braid is forgotten for now because Jaskier needs to simply laugh his ass off as that request, excuse him for a second.
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Jaskier has a moment of histrionics about the supposed betrayal of having to be coerced into trying his cookies-- which, really, he didn't, he ate them just fine. Especially after that weed had kicked in and he'd gotten hungry.
"Jaskier has better things to do than mess with my hair," Geralt says. The musician isn't a hairdresser, anyway, it's not his job to go around and make sure that Geralt looks presentable. He has music to write and... other things to do, presumably.
At least Jaskier finds it amusing.
"It wouldn't be a bad thing, Geralt, if you showed up to one of these meetings at least looking a bit presentable," Yen says. "That means wearing a shirt that has never been sullied by horse shit."
Geralt grunts in response and looks to see if the waitress is coming back with that drink yet. He could really use it, even if he couldn't drink very many of them because he'd driven.
"What were you here to talk to Mom about, Jaskier?"
Bless Ciri's little fangirl heart, for being willing to carry the conversation where Geralt wouldn't. She's over the moon right now, finally getting the chance to talk to one of her favorite music artists after weeks of being denied.
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...or knows at least part of the story, apparently. She's unfazed by her dad being friends with him, if anything, she seems to be eager to take advantage of it. Well then, Jaskier thinks as he takes a sip of his drink for some liquid courage, here goes nothing.
"I actually wouldn't mind - I like playing stylist. And Yennefer is right, you need a better wardrobe! A shopping trip is in order, Geralt."
He slips into his gotta-push-Geralt-into-doing-things bossy side without meaning to, but it seems the ladies don't mind. In fact, judging by Ciri's grin and Yen's knowing look, they both approve. Big time. The waitress arrives then with Geralt's drink and menus for everyone, Jaskier waits until he's gone to answer Cirilla's question.
"As you probably already know from all my retweets, Pride is next weekend, and your mother and I will be helping out. Both of us are involved with many organizations, and we've confirmed I'll even get to perform!" He explains as he glances at the menu he takes from the pile. But soon blue eyes are quickly moving from face to face around the table, his whole body vibrating with excitement. "It would mean a lot to me if you'd come! Because it shows support for the cause AND my art, aaaaand it's also my--"
Cirilla gasps. "Right! It is your birthday!"
Jaskier has to laugh - it's flattering, honestly. "You'd be correct, little lady." She perks up at that, liking the nickname. "It's my birthday, so you'd be celebrating with me. It'll be lots of fun." He pauses as his eyes stay on Geralt this time. "My buddies will take me to a bar afterward, all friends of mine are invited."
It takes him a second to realize he's staring, so he clears his voice and nods at Yennefer to show she's included in that invitation as well. But it's pretty damn clear who is the person he wants to show up the most...
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Thankfully, they all move on from the idea of putting Geralt into clothes, and into the reason that Jaskier's sitting at this table to begin with.
Aside from the fact that it'll soon be his birthday, apparently-- and Geralt is briefly concerned at the fact that Ciri knows Jaskier's birthday before he remembers that it's on his Twitter profile and he's a semi-famous musician-- and that Pride weekend coincides with it. It makes complete sense that Jaskier would want to be at Pride, considering that he's part of that community, and even more sense that he'd want to perform at it. The fact that Yen's involved with organizations that are a part of the celebrations makes sense, too, so there's no reason for the two of them not to collaborate.
All friends of mine are invited.
Ciri seems to take that as an invitation extended to her, because she perks up again.
"Oh, could we go, Dad? It'll be fun, and we can see Jaskier play! On his birthday!"
Geralt is thankful for the drink-- it buys him time while he takes a sip. "We'll see, Ciri."
As quickly as he usually concedes to his daughter's whims, Pride is, well, Pride. It's for the people of that community to celebrate, and he doesn't want to be another straight man bursting into a place that isn't for him. It would be breaking the schedule a bit, since he's supposed to have Ciri with him that day, but maybe he could arrange for Yen to take her. She's always been strict about keeping to the agreed-upon schedule, but in light of all this, she might bend a little.
"If you're waiting on my blessing, I see no reason for her not to go, assuming you don't have something else lined up. That's your weekend, if I recall."
He frowns. He really didn't want to get into the details of this right now, but apparently Yen's opening up the conversation. "We could make an adjustment."
"Is there some reason that you wouldn't be able to go? You know how I feel about last minute changes." The way she's looking at him is... more amused than anything, as though she knows what's going on in his head and thinks it's endearingly stupid.
"I'm a straight man, Yen," he says, since they're apparently being blunt today. "I don't want to overstep."
Yen snorts, right at the same time that Ciri says Daaaad! in a voice that's half whine, half secondhand embarrassment. "You do realize that they aren't going to check your sexuality at the door, don't you, Geralt? No one's going to mind if you're there to show support."
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