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Jaskier was enjoying, for once, having the TV to himself. Although - he glanced at the clock, noting that it was just past half eleven - he wouldn’t have it to himself for much longer.
Geralt and his brothers were unlikely to stay out till the early hours of the morning: they’d stumble home when the pubs shut just before midnight, instead of traipsing between clubs till the last one closed at 3am like Jaskier and his friends would do. Jaskier wasn’t waiting up for Geralt - not at all - he just happened to be up late, and Geralt would just happen to arrive home before he’d gone to sleep.
Barely even a coincidence.
Besides, Jaskier always enjoyed entertaining Geralt when he drunkenly returned from a night with his brothers. There was always a new story to hear, some fun gossip, and possibly a rushed confession - Jaskier, fucking guess what Lambert and I did—
He heard the front door open, and the tell-tale thumping of Geralt drunkenly removing his boots and coat before making his way into the living room.
“Hey you,” Jaskier said, pausing the movie, “Good ni—” he spotted Geralt’s face. “Gods, Geralt, what’s up with you?”
Geralt blinked at him. To anyone else, Geralt would have looked fine, if a little drunk. But by the way he held his shoulders - the slight droop to his mouth, the curve of his eyebrows - Jaskier immediately could tell something was wrong. Geralt wasn’t like him: he wasn’t all explosive emotions and puffy eyes. When something was bothering him, he kept it close, clamped against his chest. It had taken Jaskier years to figure him out, but now he could read him like a book.
“Nothing,” said Geralt, as Jaskier had expected him to.
“Oh, sure, nothing,” Jaskier rolled his eyes and patted the empty spot on the sofa beside him. “Right.”
Geralt hesitated for just a second before collapsing onto the sofa with a sigh, the plush cushion sagging he pulled his feet up beside him.
“One of those nights, then?” Jaskier asked, passing Geralt his half-finished glass of water.
“Hmm.”
Jaskier was familiar with those nights. Most of the time, Geralt and his brothers would just get smashed and either put the world to rights or get into trouble. But occasionally - like tonight, apparently - they’d end up in a melancholic mood, leaning over their pints and talking in low voices about childhood and family and meaning and, generally, life. Jaskier supposed this was a good thing - it was as close to therapy as Geralt was going to get without significantly more nudging - and while the hangover from such evenings was often more emotional than physical, Jaskier could tell that their long, rambling discussions lifted a weight from Geralt’s shoulders.
“What was it tonight?” He said, then, quickly corrected himself - “Wait, no, you don’t have to tell me. Just… family stuff?”
Geralt sipped at Jaskier’s water, slowly, his unfocused gaze on the TV. “No.”
Oh. That was unusual. Jaskier paused, for a moment, then leant back against the sofa, turned towards Geralt and patted his knees like he was trying to woo a cat.
Geralt scowled at him.
Instead of responding, Jaskier just patted his knees harder, and when Geralt grunted at him again he reached around, grabbed Geralt’s unresisting ankles and pulled his feet into his lap, twisting Geralt around on the sofa.
“Don’t—” Geralt grumbled, as Jaskier reached to pull his socks off.
“What?”
“I’ve been wearing boots all day.”
“So, what, you’ve got gross boot feet?”
A mumble.
“I’ve seen your gross boot feet before, Geralt. The smell can’t be any worse than your farts.”
Another mumble.
“Fine,” said Jaskier, quickly giving up. “Fine!” He pushed the cuffs of Geralt’s dark jeans up instead, wrapping his hands around his ankles. “Good job you don’t wear skinnies, isn’t it?”
Geralt maintained his moody silence, but didn’t complain or move away when Jaskier began to gently twist his hands around his ankles - a soft, only half-conscious little movement he’d done a thousand times before when Geralt had sunk into one of these slumps. Usually, he’d pair it with a cup of tea - or a beer - but given the circumstances he thought it probably best if Geralt continued to sip morosely at the water.
They sat like that for perhaps ten minutes - Jaskier switching the movie back on after three - in comfortable, if heavy silence.
“So,” said Jaskier, judging enough time had passed. “Wanna talk about it?”
“No,” said Geralt, quickly. Then - “Yes. But— Fuck.” He groaned, and deposited the empty glass on the floor beside the sofa.
“That bad?”
“It’s not even…” he paused, gathering his words. “Not really.”
“Not the family? Or your dad, or—”
“No.”
“Right.”
More silence. They’d been friends long enough, now, for Jaskier to know that Geralt would talk to him if he needed to. There was no point pushing.
“It’s me,” Geralt said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.
There was a sudden, rushing crack in Jaskier’s chest. Was there something wrong? Something really wrong, that Geralt had been keeping to himself in that way he always did? Was he— what if he—
“It’s not bad,” Geralt said, again. “It’s nothing.”
Jaskier swallowed down that panic, feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips where they were pressed to Geralt’s skin.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he said, willing himself to sound calm.
“It’s… fuck.” Geralt swore again, clearly struggling. Jaskier felt suddenly guilty.
“You really don’t have to talk abo—”
“I’m in love.”
He said it in a slurred, mad rush, the words blending into one another. If there was a crack in Jaskier’s chest before, now it was a cavern: a deep, treacherous gap that spanned miles, uncaring and empty, ready to accept a willingly flung body.
He kept up the gentle, twisting movements of his hands like the world hadn’t just shattered around him.
“Oh,” he managed. He was aware that perhaps something more was expected of him. “Is it… someone I know?”
Geralt made a choking noise that could have been a sob, or a groan, or even a mirthless laugh.
“Yeah.” A moment of silence. “I’ve… I’ve known them for a while. They’re my friend.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
“Forever.”
“Right.”
That didn’t really narrow it down. Geralt was good at keeping friends but not necessarily adept at making them. Everyone he was close to he’d been close to for years. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he had any friends who hadn’t been such for nearly a decade or more.
Jaskier found himself mentally cataloguing Geralt’s friends. It could be… gods, it could be anyone. It could be Yen - she was the most likely candidate. Perhaps after so many years off again had flicked, gradually, back to on again.
It didn’t matter. Jaskier had to make sure it didn’t matter - couldn’t focus on who or why or how or even when. He couldn’t let himself slide into that split between his ribs. Not yet. Not when Geralt was clearly so distressed by the breadth of his own feelings. He had to just… pretend. Just for now, until Geralt went to bed and Jaskier could find a suitable pillow to scream into.
“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” He asked again.
“No.” Another pause. “Yes.”
Shit. Jaskier continued to rub Geralt’s ankles.
“Well,” he said, trying not to sound anything other than politely interested, “it’s not… it’s not so bad, is it? Love? Isn’t that supposed to be pretty good?”
Geralt wriggled beneath his hands, but still didn’t move away. “I can’t tell them.”
So it was like that. Jaskier was familiar with that kind of love - the hot, painful sort that blinded you and made you wild because you could never, ever give it a voice.
“Because…” he hazarded, “because they’re your friend?”
“Hmm.”
Geralt’s use of various noises instead of words was only exacerbated when he was drunk. It was exacerbated when he was feeling emotional, too. Jaskier sighed, knowing he’d have to try to find a voice for the feeling himself.
“Because if they know,” he said, slowly, “if they know… there’s a dozen ways it could end badly, and only one way it could end well? And the odds aren’t good enough to even risk it?”
“Exactly.”
There was more Jaskier could say. More ways he could describe that feeling - that little voice that urged you to act, even though it could only end in disaster. Confess it all - the horrid little vice you’ve been carrying around beneath your ribs for so long - and throw yourself to their mercy.
There were so many ways it could fall apart beneath your hands. Rejection. Refusal. Hatred, disgust, horror. Gentle acknowledgement and a shared understanding to ignore it - as if one could ignore something like this - which would grow into awkwardness and resentment and then, finally, a parting somehow more devastating than if they’d tossed you aside the moment they learnt how much you loved them.
And despite it all, there was the glimmer of hope. That was what made you want to act. The glimmer, however small, that they could love you back. Was it worth it - the risk - for that shining light, no brighter than a candle lit at the other end of the darkened room?
Jaskier kept his musings to himself. He didn’t want to put words into Geralt’s mouth, and he wasn’t sure he could voice them out loud anyway - not without giving himself away.
“What would you do?” Geralt asked, after a moment’s pause.
Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you genuinely asking what I’d do,” he said, “or are you asking what I think you should do?”
Geralt sniffed. “Both.”
“If I were in your situation?” Jaskier began, aware that he was baring his soul, a little. “I’d… Fuck, Geralt, I wouldn’t tell them either. I’d sit around and pine and mope and hate myself every time they found someone else and want them so much it hurt and even then… I still wouldn’t tell them.”
Geralt had stilled, a little. “You sound like you’ve got experience.”
“Because I do,” Jaskier said. “I know… I know what it’s like. To… feel like that about someone. A friend. When you know exactly how much there is to lose.”
“So I shouldn’t tell them?”
“I didn’t say that,” Jaskier said. “I said I haven’t. Wouldn’t.” He corrected, quickly, hoping Geralt didn’t notice. “But… you should. You should know. What if they love you back?”
“They don’t.”
“How do you know if you don’t ask?” It was a stupid question, Jaskier knew: a hypocritical one.
“What would I even say?”
Jaskier considered this. It was a question he’d asked himself, many times.
“Well,” he said, as if pondering a difficult maths question. “You’ve got… three choices, I’d say.”
“Which are?”
“Firstly, you can sit them down for a proper conversation. All that… ‘I need to talk to you about something important’ bollocks. Lay it all out. Secondly, you could not tell them, but lay the ground a little. Flirt a bit.” He shot Geralt a sideways glance. “I know you can, when you want to.”
“What’s the third choice?”
“Just tell them. No messing about. Next time you see them, before you even say hello, tell them you’re in love with them and then - and this bit is very important, so you need to listen—”
“Yeah?”
“Then you run the fuck away as fast as you can.”
Geralt laughed - a real laugh. The knot in Jaskier’s stomach loosened. “No?”
“That’s a shitty idea.”
“Full of them, I am.”
Geralt hummed at him again. He was cheering up, at least. In the morning, he’d feel silly - and he’d have a headache - but hopefully he’d be feeling a little happier, too. Jaskier could tend to his own invisible wounds once he was alone in his bedroom.
He was still, he realised, gently rubbing at Geralt’s ankles. His feet did stink, but it truly wasn’t so bad - Jaskier had been correct when he’d teased him about his farts smelling worse. He didn’t want to stop, either - even this casual, unthinking touch made his heart skip, even though they were talking about Geralt’s unrequited love for another.
Gods. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.
And still he didn’t stop. He’d allow himself this, for now.
The movie ended, the credits rolling over slow music. Jaskier hadn’t even been paying attention.
“Thanks, Jask.”
He turned. Geralt was looking at him, a little sadly.
“It’s alright,” he said. “Anything I can do to help, you know.”
“I know.” Geralt sighed, then pulled his legs away from Jaskier’s grip. Jaskier’s hands flexed instinctively around the empty air.
“You’re my very best friend in, might I add, the whole wide world,” said Jaskier, teasingly. “It’s my job to listen to you moan about having a crush like a bloody teenager.”
Geralt chuckled. “Yeah.” He took a short breath. “I love you, Jask.”
Jaskier tried to ignore the shard digging into his heart. “Of course you do,” he said. “I love you too, you soppy, drunken sod.”
“No, you’re not—”
And then, suddenly, Geralt had half-crawled and half-fallen down the sofa till he was right beside Jaskier, pressed against him.
“I love you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier blinked. His heart was in his throat, trying to escape his lips, trying to explode out. This wasn’t happening. It was impossible.
“But—” He swallowed. “You don’t.. It’s me—”
“It is you.”
“But you said—”
“What did I say?”
Jaskier’s mind reeled. Geralt hadn’t said anything more telling than saying that the object of his affections had been his friend. Had been his friend for a while.
“You’re not in love with me,” Jaskier said. “You’re drunk.”
“I can be both.”
“I can’t…” Jaskier didn’t lean back, even though Geralt was pressing even closer. “I don’t—”
And then Geralt’s expression - careful, yet hopeful - broke, a fraction. A second of hurt. Jaskier felt his own heart break a little, in response.
“I mean, Gods, Geralt, I…” he held himself back, forcing himself to restrain the feeling trying to claw up his throat. “You need to go to bed. You need to sober up. And tomorrow, if you still want to… we’ll talk about it. Okay?”
“Jask—”
“In the morning. Sober. Okay?”
Geralt blinked. “Okay.”
“Right.”
Jaskier stood, finally, and switched off the TV. His legs felt a little wobbly beneath him, but he pulled Geralt up beside him anyway, then ushered him from the room and up the stairs. He pushed open Geralt’s bedroom door, and they both hovered in the threshold.
Geralt was watching him with that careful expression again, edged with hurt - and with hope.
Fuck it.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” said Jaskier. “I swear.”
And then - before he could change his mind, before he could rationalise himself out of it - he surged forwards and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Geralt’s lips. He pulled away before Geralt could kiss him back.
“I swear,” he repeated, then - without looking back - he dashed into his own room.
Geralt awoke with an ache behind his eyes and a strange sense of foreboding in his stomach. The ache he could place - he could still taste stale beer on his tongue - but the dread? That was—
Fuck.
He sat up in bed, head spinning.
He’d told Jaskier. He’d told Jaskier everything, and had been persistent and awful and—
He’d told Jaskier he loved him, and Jaskier had kissed him.
Geralt swung his legs out of bed and was standing in front of Jaskier’s door wearing the rumpled clothes from the night before in thirty seconds. He hesitated before he knocked. What if he’d dreamed it? What if Jaskier was just distracting him, getting him to shut up in the nicest way he knew how?
He had to know. He knocked, swiftly, and barely had to wait a few seconds before Jaskier’s door swung open.
Jaskier stood, hair tousled, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms that were slipping from one hip.
“Geralt—”
“You kissed me.” It sounded like an accusation. Maybe it was.
“And you told me you loved me,” Jaskier retorted, quickly.
He had a point.
“Would you…” Geralt took a steadying breath. “Would you do it again?”
Jaskier took a step forward, closing the gap between them.
“Depends,” he said, eyes darting down to Geralt’s lips for just a moment. “Would you? In the cold, sober light of day?”
Geralt leaned in. It was clear, from the tilt of his head and the pout of his lips, that Jaskier was expecting another kiss. But Geralt nestled into his neck, instead, his mouth drifting just above his ear.
He didn’t shout it and run away. He didn’t drag it out, like a confession.
He whispered it.
And then - face flushed, and arms covered in goose bumps - Jaskier kissed him again.