.

.

During his travels, far and wide, Jaskier receives coin to perform at a nobleman's manor.

It's nothing unusual. A party of eight and three, wearing silks and satins and huge, expensive jewels. They're drunk on spiced wine and thick, delicious stews of barley and venison. Jaskier gets a whiff of stuffed goose drowning in mulberries. Crumbled cheese. Roasted fowl and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. Nothing short of a selection fit for a king's dinner.

He would like to grow old in a place such as this. Someday. With ceilings as tall as the treetops and painted with gilded colours. Elegant wooden chairs. Plum-dyed, scented velvet laid out on banquet table. Wrought iron candelabras hung above his head.

Jaskier stomps on the floors polished to an irresistible shine, crowing out merrily along with the nobles and other musicians. They all dance with their arms grasping securely onto each other, clapping and thriving with their uplifted voices and laughter and flushed faces. Beauclair is known for many things, but when it comes to the strong desire to be entertained… Jaskier has not known another city who demands so openly in the finer things in life: wine, hot food, music, and sex.

By the marble-white, towering entrance, Geralt observes the nobleman's feast without interest, leaning back and his arms crossed. That familiar brooding look on his face. Perhaps he shouldn't admire that on Geralt, who may well be miserable, but by the gods… that man is a glorious thing to Jaskier to behold. All mountains of muscle. During mid-note, he winks saucily towards Geralt. Those golden Witcher eyes roll in faint irritation. He turns away, leaving for the corridors of the manor, and Jaskier assumes Geralt has decided to go outdoors and attend to his horse. Brush down and water Roach.

Some men just don't have a care in the world.

.

.

The night is long, warm and twinkling with starlight.

He unsuccessfuly flirts with a middle-aged woman from Oxenfurt. Jaskier vaguely remembers it. Many scholars, of sciences and businesses and theories, hail from its muddy and narrow streets. It's three hundred miles west of Tretogor and southeast of Novigrad. Jaskier met a lecturer from the Academy while passing by a crowd of workshops with pointed, colourful roofs.

(The lecturer may have been a shrewd bore, with poor eyes and a countenance like dried, hardened clay, but his high-pitched and whining noises were delightful.)

Jaskier gives up on his newest acquiescence, as she sharply gazes away, raising her nose. He huffs, mumbling to himself.

A man, several namedays older than Jaskier, has sat himself on Jaskier's bench. He picks up Filavandrel aén Fidháil's lute. "EXCUSE ME—" Jaskier bellows, coming over and ripping his instrument out of man's hand. His voice goes up an octave than normal. "You do NOT touch a man's lute WITHOUT his permission—have you gone mad, sir?"

"I do apologise. I couldn't help but notice the loosened string," the man says. He's unbothered by the dramatics, and Jaskier examines his lute, searching for anything wrong with the neck. "I took a moment to tauten it. My name is Gustall, bard."

Jaskier hesitates.

It's a deep and gruff "hm" from Jaskier's throat, and it oddly resembles Geralt. He's been spending too much time with him.

"Is everything alright, my love?"

A young woman approaches, wearing a low-cut gown glimmering like diamonds. She's black of hair and black of eye, with high, pleasing teats that Jaskier dutifully keeps a measured gaze from. He's not in the mood. And he's nearly always in the mood.

"My lady," Jaskier says, nodding courteously. His brows furrow. She nods back, her hands reaching instinctively to Gustall who stands alongside her. They both seem older than Jaskier, but not by much. No wrinkles. No age spots. Not a grey hair in sight. "I happened upon this scoundrel taking hold of my instrument. Perhaps you can speak sense to him."

Gustall laughs, and Jaskier can see all of his teeth are clean and white. He has a rosy, round face and auburn curls and is, quite frankly, the most handsome man in the room besides Jaskier himself, Jaskier thinks.

A wide, pleasing mouth too. Made for kissing. Gustall would kiss him like a hungry beast, devouring all of Jaskier's senses.

The young woman — Gustall's mistress? His wife? Betrothed? — she steps away from Gustall and into Jaskier's space, lying a hand to Jaskier's hand protectively on his instrument. "He can take hold of more than just that… if you like…"

One of her light brown fingers plucks a lute-string, and at the same time, Jaskier's throat visibly clenches. Oh gods. There's a strange silver medallion hanging between her breasts. He shouldn't stare, but he can already see it — Jaskier can already see that the medallion would flash so brilliantly, like a burst of warm, silver flames, when she rode him bare-breasted.

"You're with that Witcher, aren't you…?"

"We're, um… friends…" Jaskier can feel Gustall suddenly behind him. "Yes, he's my good friend," he insists quickly. "I write ballads and poems. He kills monsters. We have an understanding." Jaskier exhales shakily. "Goodness gracious… it's stifling…"

The young woman touches her fingertips lightly over Jaskier's lips. Her nails a bloody, glassy red.

"Perhaps we can relieve you…"

"Jaskier," Geralt interrupts, not sparing a glance to anyone else. "Time to go."

Geralt's harsh, rumbling voice pulls Jaskier back from his vivid, wild imaginings of bedding nobles.

"I, uh…" Jaskier flounders, muttering and nudging aside the young woman. "Goodbye." He can feel Geralt's palm on the back of his neck, squeezing down roughly. Jaskier hisses out something childishly argumentative to Geralt who only grunts.

Within all of the magical aura surrounding the city of Beauclair, they never notice any of it harnessed specifically towards them.

.

.

Until it's too late.

.

.

Jaskier wanders out, a bit sore and hungover. His bowl of grainy, tasteless porridge ice-cold and his flagon of beer piss-warm. He's been sleeping in this small and dingy tavern for two nights, and Jaskier can tell no-one has a song in their hearts. Not a melody in their bones. All of the tavern-goers dismiss his existence, staring heatedly if Jaskier utters so much as a greeting.

His mood feels like shite. He and Geralt argued over nonsense until dawn, and he doesn't even remember why. Jaskier assumes Geralt is unhappy at him for some reason, but the mystery is inconceivable to Jaskier right now.

He chooses to sit alone by the stained, dirtied window, bobbing his head along to an invisible tune and strumming.

A maiden — her hair straw-yellow and her eyes blue as the waters of Seidhe Llygad — rushes up to Jaskier. "That's a lovely sound," she proclaims, beaming and seating herself beside him. Jaskier perks up, eager for friendly conversation.

"Why, thank you… what may I call a lovelier girl such as yourself?"

"Dofia," she says. There's a smear of rouge on her lips, and oh, he wants to see all of her eagerness and lust when they're on the sheets. "Oh, would you play for me? Would you?"

"If you insist, darling." Jaskier lifts his instrument, cheerful. "How about… The Woe of Marianne Longbow?"

Another lovely girl, with dark brown ringlets and green eyes, appears. She throws herself with such a force that Jaskier startles, her hand landing on top of the melting, lit candle on Jaskier's table. The girl doesn't even wince.

"Would you play something for me as well?!"

"And me!" shouts a man. Jaskier looks round but cannot locate who it is. There's two whole tavern tables of men and women, and unlike yesterday — all of them are fixated on Jaskier. Their gazes seem torn between hawkish intent and rapacious.

A soldier in full Toussaint Guard armour and helmet bangs his empty goblet. He's furious.

"And me! I want to hear it!"

"One at a time, good people… there's enough of me to go around…" Jaskier announces, chuckling nervously.

Somehow that's not the answer they wanted to hear. Two of the men from the crowd punch each other. A riot breaks out, as more of the tavern-goes notice and notice Jaskier. Shrieking, biting, kicking, and more punching. He can feel Dofia and the other girl clutch him by the middle, as well as the tavern-keeper. Jaskier yelps, protesting, holding up his hands and swaying.

Hands yank off his belt. Blunt, hard nails scratch over Jaskier's quivering eyelid and his cheek. His hair fisted and grabbed.

Jaskier acts on instinct, snatching up his lute and knocking a screaming, hysterical Dofia away. He barely escapes, running for the back-rooms. Geralt — he needs Geralt. Gerlat would know what to do. Jaskier flings himself into the nearest tavern room, barricading the door, gasping for air. He holds it, frightened by the rattling as what must be bodies hitting against it.

"The fuck are you doing?"

An undignified squeal chokes out of Jaskier. He spins round, glimpsing his companion eyeing him in distrust.

"Something—" Jaskier gulps, wide-eyed. "Something has gone very wrong—"

The rattling of the wooden door increases. Banging like pots and pans against it. He winces.

"What did you do?"

At the slightly accusing tone, Jaskier's fear burns into indignation. "I haven't DONE anything!" he blurts out, frantic. "I was minding my own business—believe it or not—and then a beautiful, fair maiden sat with me and asked me to play, AND THEN—!"

Jaskier gestures rudely to the tavern-room door.

"THAT!"

Geralt has stopped listening, picking up Jaskier's fallen lute and sniffs it. He grunts loudly.

"This is a curse."

"Fantastic!" Jaskier cries out, throwing up his hands and smacking them to his own face. "I'll never play in this town again…! It's fine… it's fine… we're probably trapped in here forever and will likely die of starvation and thirst… but it's fine…!"

"The man and woman from the lord's manor…"

"They've done this?" he questions, slowly recognising what Geralt has recognised. Jaskier's eyes go a little wider. "Hold on… what about YOU?" Jaskier says, backing himself up against the stone wall. "What if YOU want to fuck me and kill me next?"

"I don't want to kill you," Geralt tells him shortly.

"That's a lie! You ALWAYS give me death glares!"

"Because you're an idiot."

He's not expecting Jaskier to go quiet. Jaskier isn't expecting it either. Geralt lets out a deep, exasperated noise, looking over his traveling companion. How ghastly pale and trembling Jaskier is. His white, lacy tunic has been ruined, clawed open. A dribble of blood gleams against Jaskier's face and jaw. There's several, raw-pink scratches on his face done by human fingernails.

The longer the screaming and the aggressive thudding behind the door goes on, the more Geralt feels an emotion likening to anger wells up inside him. He would put a stop to this now, but with no idea how. Jaskier can't be left alone either.

Geralt prepares to seize him by the collar, to lead Jaskier to rest somewhere while he can consider a plan. Or two. As soon as his darkly leathered hand stretches out, Jaskier flinches so violently that Geralt's great, golden eyes briefly go round. Jaskier's features scrunching up and his teeth baring. Jaskier heaves out an awkward, mocking laugh, smiling unconvincingly.

"S'rry…" he mumbles in earnest. Jaskier's eyes visibly water and avoid Geralt's direction. "I dunno why I did that…"

"Hm."

With a decent translation, Geralt conveys go sit down then and watches him obey, respecting Jaskier's personal space.

.

.

It's been hours.

The noise hasn't ceased. Geralt can see the door's hinges straining to keep together. He seats himself on a table's edge, folding his arms and keeping a vigilant eye on both the tavern-room door and the small window directly behind him.

Jaskier hunches up on the cot, head lowered. It's unbearable. All of these people, yelling and battering themselves onto the wood — for what?

A curse? Revenge?

Is it against Geralt who is a famed Witcher and has killed before? Did they try to get to Geralt through his companion?

Or is it against Jaskier himself for sleeping with someone he shouldn't have?

Again?

He shuts his eyes and hum-sings under his breath, as a comfort, mouthing along to Toss A Coin To Your Witcher. Jaskier rocks himself, dropping his face into his knees, trying to ignore how his heart batters against his ribs like the cursed townsfolk.

A woolen, musty-smelling blanket drapes round Jaskier. Gerald maneuvers it carefully onto Jaskier's shoulders, not saying anything. He doesn't need to. Jaskier doesn't look up at first, his blue eyes fluttering open. When he does, Geralt's expression seems soft. Softer than Jaskier ever remembers seeing it, and he wants to sing and play and write about all of these horribly complicated feelings that Jaskier has been living with on the road with Geralt, buzzing like hornets, desperate to lunge out…

"My lute…" Jaskier whispers, now awestruck.

He leaps onto his feet, scooting around Geralt and hoisting it up high in victory.

"That's it! That's how we stop this!"

Geralt pries it from Jaskier's hand, cracking the lute over his knee and shattering it. Jaskier nearly collapses, terrified.

"GERALT!"

As expected, the deafening noise stops. There's murmuring on the other side of the tavern-room door. Footsteps fading. Jaskier wrinkles his nose, open-mouthed gawking at Geralt who tosses aside the lute. "Was… it really that easy…?"

"We're leaving, Jaskier," Geralt says curtly. It's more of an order.

But somehow hearing his own name pass from Geralt's lips… Jaskier forgets about forgetting. Overthinking. He captures Geralt's face, moving in and kissing him hard. His mouth feels hot, tingly all-over. Soaking in Geralt's closeness. It goes away as soon as it happens, leaving them where they are: speechless, dizzy off the adrenaline and the new, tremendous intimacy.

"I shouldn't have…" Jaskier begins, inhaling tightly. There's that soft, studious look from Geralt again, and he doesn't think it's fair that this is happening right now. Rubbish fucking timing and all. Geralt lowers Jaskier's fingers from holding his cheeks.

"Are you cursed now?"

"No, no," Jaskier answers, weary and frowning. "No, I know you aren't burdened with thoughts of longing for me…"

Geralt passes him, clapping Jaskier's shoulder. "I said I wouldn't kill you, not fuck you," he rasps. "There's a difference."

"Right," Jaskier processes this, half-nodding. Or rather he doesn't. After a moment of complete silence, Jaskier blaunches. "Now, hold on—" He turns, getting hit squarely in the head with Geralt's stinking, black-leather trousers. "—OI!"

Jaskier flings them aside, gagging and waving his hands.

"Idiot," Geralt mutters. He's naked from the waist down, and — right, right. Jaskier's mouth waters.

He's ready to not have a damned care in the world.

.

.