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Jaskier sat on a bench behind the tavern, cross-legged, one arm thrown over the back of the bench in his usual effortless elegance and sipped from a bottle of what was undoubtedly alcohol, though he had his doubts as to its origin.
He looked at the stars. Stargazing was the excuse he would have given to anyone who asked him why he was sitting here so alone. Well, not that anyone cared. In fact, he was just staring dully at the sky, which coincidentally had stars in it, and his thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking about the next day. The danger they were all in. The danger they will all be in.
He had heard from the few soldiers he'd met (and slept with) in his life that the night before the battle was worse than the battle itself. Waiting for the inevitable. And that the best thing one could do to keep from going mad on such a night was to kill time. By any means necessary. By playing games, by songs, by stories, alcohol, sex (and with Jaskier they usually managed everything on that list, even with more than one soldier on one memorable night).
He took another swig from his bottle. The tangy bitter taste didn't even seem so bad to him anymore.
Nobody cared about him anyway. He'd lost his lute, and his performance just wasn't the same without it, so he had nothing to offer to the rest of the company. And Geralt? He was probably somewhere fucking Yennefer.
He was disturbed from his cranky musings by approaching footsteps.
Speak of the devil...
"Hello, Geralt."
The White Wolf nodded a greeting. He seemed to be in a good mood. Sex in the style of This may be our last night in this world must have been great.
Jaskier took another swig. "Where's Yennefer?" You done fucking? He didn't add.
"I don't know. Why?"
The bard shrugged, but the suggestion that they hadn't actually fucked pleased him. Then he mentally slapped himself. He wished Geralt to be happy, after all.
"What are you doing here?" Geralt asked.
"Me? I'm here drinking with all my friends," he waved his hand towards the empty air.
Geralt tilted his head to the side. Then, without a word, he took the bottle from Jaskier and took a big gulp, then said with an almost smug smile, "You are now."
Jaskier laughed. He wanted to thank Geralt, because that was exactly what he really needed to hear, but he didn't want to look desperate. Not that shunning society and drinking outside a tavern in near-total darkness on the eve before battle was the picture of dignified equanimity with one's inevitable fate, but that was beside the point.
The witcher sat down beside him.
Then he did something Jaskier had not expected.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Geralt asked him with genuine interest.
Jaskier frowned in confusion. "About what?"
"I don't know. Yen told me to ask Ciri this precise question if she's upset."
That made Jaskier laugh. "Do I look upset to you?"
"Well..." Geralt paused for a moment. Then he took a breath and continued. "You're usually the center of attention, but tonight I hardly even noticed you in the pub. You're sitting here all alone with a nearly empty bottle that could probably get an entire Nilfgaardian army drunk. And you're unusually quiet."
Jaskier blinked a few times before he recovered. "You on the other hand are quite talkative tonight."
"You’re afraid of tomorrow," it wasn't a question. Geralt had gotten to know his companion a little over the years, after all.
Jaskier didn't answer at first. Then he spoke reluctantly. "I'm no fighter."
"Jaskier." Geralt willed the bard to look at him, but he was sitting with his head down. So, he wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders and shook him lightly in an attempted gesture of encouragement. "I'll protect you."
The bard looked at him with a look so vulnerable, so open, that Geralt had a hard time not kissing him on the spot. Especially after the bard silently thanked him.
The witcher dropped his hand from the bard's shoulders, but still patted him encouragingly. He felt like he wasn't helping his friend much. He tried to change the subject. "The stars look beautiful tonight."
"Ever the romantic," Jaskier couldn’t resist the jab.
Geralt gave him a look that meant "very funny, Jaskier" in his vocabulary. Then he pointed his finger at one prominent group of stars and said, "That's the constellation of the Great Bear."
"Really? It looks more like a rocking horse to me." Jaskier cocked his head to the side. "Or a folding stool."
Geralt tilted his head, too. "Yeah, I can see it there, too."
They were silent for a moment.
Jaskier broke the silence, his gaze still fixed on the newly renamed constellation of the rocking horse. "This may be our last night on this world."
More silence. Then, "Maybe it is."
Jaskier could feel Geralt looking at him. Bravely, he decided to return his gaze.
They looked at each other for a second, two, three. Jaskier's gaze wandered from Geralt's eyes, whose cat-like pupils were dilated in the darkness, to his lips.
That was the only signal Geralt needed.
There was no telling which one moved first. A split second later, they were kissing, expressing their emotions in other ways than words. Geralt wrapped one arm around Jaskier's waist, with the other he ran through his hair. Jaskier expressed his mild frustration by gently biting Geralt's bottom lip. He returned it by deepening the kiss.
After a small eternity, their kiss ended. They leaned their foreheads against each other, both a little breathless.
"Explain to me," Jaskier's voice trembled a little, "why haven't we done this a long time ago?"
Since he could think of no suitable words, Geralt kissed his bard again.