Exhaustion was nothing new to Geralt — the bone deep weariness that dogged his every step was his oldest and most frequent companion. It was rare for him to sleep more than a few hours at a time; his earliest memory was of slipping from his small bed, blanket fraying at the edges but wrapped around his shoulders like a cape as he padded to his mother, moonlight illuminating the way.

The mutations hadn't helped, set his veins to fire and ripped the colour from him until he was barely more than a ghost with pitch black eyes, throat torn to shreds from screaming. Whether they were spending the night in a tavern — voices carrying, too drunk to regulate their volume, singing out of key that stabbed into Geralt's head, too used to Jaskier's voice as it sang of his exploits (and only Geralt's) — or in the depths of the forest — the scream of an owl too close to a human scream, every distant noise jolting him awake, heart roaring in his ears as he prepared to fight — Geralt rarely slept for long.

Jaskier had noticed. Geralt could see the way the bard studied him, never scared of the Witcher but simply curious in a way that twisted Geralt's stomach, flinching away from being known. Jaskier had started to complain of tiredness when the sun just began to dip below the horizon, everything awash in burning oranges and reds as if the sky was on fire. It was kind — the very thought of Jaskier wanting to help Geralt caused his heart to stutter — but ultimately useless, but Geralt couldn't find it in himself to tell the bard so.

"Geralt!"

Geralt pretended he hadn't heard, fighting back the soft smile that blossomed through his chest at the call Jaskier gave like clockwork. It would be cruel to entertain the idea that Jaskier could care for him; the bard was meant for the world of sunlight and courtly refrains, Geralt was created for a world of night and the very worst of humanity.

"Geralt, I know you can hear me!"

"So can half the forest Jaskier," Geralt answered, glancing back over his shoulder as if he hadn't been tracking Jaskier's approach through the steady beating of the other man's heart, the snap and crunch of branches beneath his boots, his blatant ignoring of Geralt's request for him to stay in the inn.

Jaskier pouted, drawing Geralt's eyes to his mouth, stained purple with berry juice, silhouetted in golden dying light. Sweat glistened at his hairline, a faint sheen at the base of his throat as the bard advanced on Geralt, gasping for breath.

"I have been calling for you for ages—"

"No, you haven't."

Jaskier drew himself up to his full height, eyebrow raised, words caught in his throat.

"There's a good place to make camp just there," Geralt sighed, jerking his head towards the small clearing he had found on a previous trip to this town. It had been a few years since he last passed through here — he was able to fully enter the town this time without guards following him like ill fitting shadows — but given that they hadn't changed their burial place in that time, leading to their need for a Witcher again, it was likely still a good place to camp.

Jaskier's mouth shut with a click, the bard peering up at Geralt suspiciously. Geralt allowed himself a moment, just a moment to imagine what it would be like to kiss Jaskier, to lean down and taste the tartness of the juice on his lips, to swallow down his joking complaints—

"You're insufferable," Jaskier settled on, shaking his head at Geralt but grinning despite himself.

Geralt started walking again, Jaskier already starting to hum his recent song, the noise a comfort Geralt never realised he missed until they were separated again. Geralt couldn't look, couldn't bring himself to see the closeness between them — the air around his hand was cold and the warmth of Jaskier's hand was so close to him he could almost feel it—

It was going to be a long night.

⁂

"Geralt?"

Fuck.

His heartbeat roared in his ears, the heavy pulsing accelerated in preparation of a fight that was not going to occur. Geralt sunk back down onto his bedroll, staring up into the night sky as he carefully breathed slowly, rhythmically, hoping that Jaskier would slip back into sleep, write this off as a dream.

Geralt had been so careful before, tearing flesh from his hand rather than shout, the iron tang of his black blood wiping out the sour taste of fear.

Stars span overhead, the night sky a riot of colour. Distant galaxies crowded his vision, delicate swirls reminding him of the endless paths of embroidery on Jaskier's doublets — the bard still dragged him to various parties, glittering like a diamond as Geralt traced the patterns with his eyes again and again, claiming Geralt was an excellent deterrent for angry husbands or furious wives; but he shone for Geralt's eyes alone in the quiet moments between — a single falling star burnt up far above him. Geralt closed his eyes, and wished.

⁂

Jaskier sighed gently, knowing that Geralt could hear the noise. The Witcher on the other side of the fire — banked and glowing amber in the waning moonlight — was nothing more than a distant shadow, but Jaskier knew he wasn't asleep.

Geralt didn't seem to sleep much, despite the exhaustion Jaskier could see dog his every step, eyes slipping closed at almost every opportunity, just for some respite against the pressures of the waking world.

Geralt was still, chest rising and falling slowly from what little Jaskier could see. He was half blind in this low twilight and wondered what Geralt saw, what he saw when his eyes were black from the potions that poisoned him even as they enhanced his abilities. Jaskier wondered — heart breaking in his chest at the mere thought — what Geralt saw when he looked at him ?

Jaskier loved Geralt, loved him totally and truly. But they could never be together, never be anything more than friends despite the desperate pleas of Jaskier's weak heart. He could content himself with friendship. Jaskier just had to keep telling himself that.

A soft shift of cloth on the other side of the fire caused Jaskier to freeze, breath catching in his throat. He'd been humming again, the bard realised, the final pieces of the song slotting into place, words bubbling in his throat.

"Keep going."

Geralt's words were soft, hesitant, quiet enough for them to almost be lost in the wind whispering round the clearing. Jaskier's heart broke anew and, in that moment, he would have torn the sun and moon from the sky just to stay in this moment forever, the precipice of something new and terrifying.

His words were true and strong as Jaskier sang, his training making it impossible for him to put less than his whole self into his song. It was a song meant for the outdoors, meant to be sung beneath the open sky where it was born, echoing and doubling back on itself until Jaskier was almost gasping for breath.

It was a song of a love that could never be but it persevered, it hoped, and Jaskier hoped too.

Finally, Jaskier dared to drop his gaze from the sky and glanced across at Geralt. The Witcher didn't move, curled onto one side. The bard was on his feet, moving round to the other side of the fire before the thought had fully registered in his mind. He just had to see…

The mornings where Jaskier woke before Geralt were precious ones, each one a memory to be treasured, before the moment was broken by Geralt's waking, face falling from peaceful slumber to weary wakefulness.

Geralt was asleep, truly asleep, curled up on his side and facing Jaskier. What had he seen on Jaskier's face as he sang about a love that wasn't lost because it had never been realised, the bittersweet pain of wanting something you could never have?

Geralt's face creased into a sudden frown, eyes fluttering behind closed lids and Jaskier began to sing quietly once more, a half forgotten lullaby overheard in one of the taverns. Geralt had sat against the adjourning wall, head resting against the slightly sticky wood to listen to the innkeeper's wife sing to her youngest child.

The Witcher calmed in an instant, breaths slow and deep, face uncreased. Geralt looked so young in the faint moonlight, hair slipped loose from it's braid, a few strands draped across his face. Jaskier's hand shook as he reached out, fingers sliding over slight scratchy skin to move them away, heart in his throat. The tips of his fingers burned, the memory of Geralt's skin imprinted on them.

Carefully Jaskier sat next to Geralt and stared out into the clearing. The night was still young, but he would sing. He would sing so Geralt could sleep, sing of his love to a man who would never accept it, sing of his hope that one day he would.

⁂

Geralt came into wakefulness in fits and starts, sleep digging its claws into him willingly. Birds sang joyfully in the trees, fluttering from branch to branch with sharp beats of their wings. Sunlight was warm on his skin, and he tried to move, stones digging into the soft spots in his hip and side, but he froze. Something was resting across his hip, warm and unmoving.

Carefully, Geralt slipped a hand to the blade concealed beneath his folded arm, iron and silver cold to the touch. The sunlight was almost blinding, pollen twisting on every beam of light, but it shone on Jaskier's sleeping form, draped over Geralt's hip, purple blooming beneath his eyes. The bard looked exhausted, fallen asleep where he sat in the early hours of the morning, all to let Geralt sleep. The love that bloomed in Geralt's heart was bittersweet in it's fierceness, and he couldn't stop himself from reaching out for Jaskier.

The other man curled into his arms so easily, tucking himself closer to Geralt's chest with barely a noise of protest, face pressed into the hollow of his throat. Geralt sighed, resting a hand on Jaskier's back as if he was made of glass and would shatter beneath his touch. This couldn't last, but Geralt would enjoy this closeness while he could. He'd let Jaskier sleep, and the Witcher would enjoy this morning free from the nightmares that haunted him for the first time in decades.