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The dagger was hardly larger than a steak knife, and hardly sharper at that. The blade had a carving in it, some sort of wavy pattern that held no functional purpose, unlike the serrations found near the base of the blade. The handle was polished, and wrapped with tight red leather to grip surely. The sheath was a similar red, if less vibrant, and the whole thing was overpriced in Geralt's opinion, even if it was pure iron.
When they met, Jaskier had naught for protection or utilitarianism but a dulled switchblade to his name, and even that he used with little skill or grace in contrast to his abilities with his instruments and tailoring. Just one of the many earlier indicators that Dandelion's priorities were rather askew. After a fair few month's travel together, Geralt had relinquished one of his own small daggers to the troubadour, stating that he was permitted to borrow it until he purchased his own. He had fawned over the gesture much like he fawned over everything else that even remotely pleased him, and now, many more months later, had yet to purchase his own, even as Geralt took the dagger back from him when they separated in their travels, only returning it again when they rejoined.
The next time they departed, and Geralt lifted his dagger from the bard, it was replaced with the red handled one, and Jaskier near enough broke his own jaw against Geralt’s shoulder with force with which he launched himself into a hug. Geralt had decided, when he purchased the thing, to not pay any mind to the concept of it being considered a gift, or show of affection, but in contrast Dandelion only paid attention to that, seeming to brush off all of Geralt’s grumbling that it was a tool not some token or something equally silly that Jaskier decided to call it.
Geralt was pleased when he met Jaskier again, and he had it perched snugly in its sheath against his hip, and neither of them saw Jaskier’s old useless switchblade again, and Geralt didn’t hand off one of his own either.
It was a tool, meant to be used for hunting, skinning, fighting, wielding. But between the two of them, Geralt did the hunting. He’d occasionally have Dandelion do the skinning, but he always seemed to grab Geralt’s little skinning knife to do it. Geralt wouldn’t allow Dandelion the need to draw the dagger to fight, not as long as he could draw his own weapon and firmly lodge himself between the bard and the threat, an impassable barrier to both man and beast. And so, that only left wielding, really. And Jaskier wielded his dagger like one might wield a feather quill; that is to say, he didn’t. He held it, certainly, and he used it, even. But to use the word ‘wield’ when the task he had assigned himself to was using it to stir his cup of tea would be ludicrous.
Geralt had chastised him, of course, for the misuse of the item, but Dandelion paid him no heed, and when he was satisfied that the honey had indeed been well blended into the tea, he gently tapped the blade on the rim of the cup, and gingerly pressed the flat end of the blade to his mouth to lick off the remaining sweetness.
Geralt was struck dumb for a long while, entirely unable and unwilling to part his lips to speak, instead cementing them together in a hard line.
It didn’t help that the next time he saw Jaskier using his dagger, days later, after he had time to recover, it was to crush berries for a syrup he was attempting to make, and again felt it necessary to lick the blade clean when he was done.
Geralt ground out an admonishment, stating that he would cut his tongue if he did that, and the impish smile and denial that he’d be so careless, words spoken right against the edge of the blade, that Geralt received in response once again muted him.
Geralt had a better handle on himself after that. Jaskier used his dagger to strip bark, to widdle little figures, to cut apples for Roach. That was all fine. He was using it for things it was intended to be used for, after all. A blade to cut. But Geralt found he felt differently when Jaskier twirled the thing about in his hands like he might twirl a baton, had he one, or when he used it as if it were a fork, to spear bits of food to bring to his lips. Something about the way Jaskier handled the blade was… well, something, to be certain.
And so as Dandelion toyed with the thing in his hands absentmindedly as he rambled on, Geralt busied himself with building up their campfire for the night, pointedly not looking at Dandelion in the process.
~
The man was dead, and therefore it would not be missed, Geralt reasoned. He had no qualms stealing supplies and coin from the dead, after all, and this should be no different. He lifted the man’s hand and plucked off the ring. He held it up, examining it for any sign of family crest or name. He found none, but did find a pattern of leaves winding the outside of the shimmering gold ring that had caught his eye in the sunlight. It wasn’t a wedding band, either, as it hand been on the corpse’s wrong hand and finger. The man seemed to have died from some sort of animal attack, body not yet discovered by another traveller. Such was the way when travelling alone in the wild. He pocketed the thing and moved on to pick over what few rations had been left untouched in the pouch on the abandoned saddle. The horse must have run at the first whiff of danger, smart thing. Too bad the man hadn’t the chance to mount it. Geralt took what he deemed useful, and carried on, leaving nature to take its course on what remained of the dead man’s body. Vultures had to eat too, after all.
When he saw Dandelion again, it had been a few weeks since Geralt had procured the ring, and he had near enough forgotten about it. Only, he hadn’t completely, not really. He didn’t mention it, though, and didn’t allow it to surface from the depths of his bag he had buried it in either. Geralt might not have ever produced it at all, if not for a passing comment Dandelion made one afternoon.
He was readying himself for a court appearance, his music having been requested for a lady’s betrothal ceremony, and he had been fretting over himself for the better half of an hour. Geralt hadn’t paid much mind, until Jaskier mentioned how he wished he had more gold accessories, worrying the silver ring on his thumb in displeasure. Geralt rose from where he had been mending his armour, dug about in his bag, and produced the gold ring. He held it out without any fuss, any preamble, and Jaskier stared from it to him and back again. He questioned when Geralt had begun to wear rings, and Geralt said he hadn’t. At that, Jaskier accepted the ring, albeit he had become much quieter than he had been a moment ago, no longer seeming to want to bewail his wardrobe. He slipped off the silver ring and tested the gold one on a half dozen different fingers. Geralt would deny watching if asked, but he wouldn’t be asked. It fit on Jaskier’s ring fingers, left and right, and he settled it onto his right hand.
Jaskier said some words of thanks, but they weren’t nearly as flowery and buttered as they normally were from the bard. Geralt thought he might have done something wrong, if it weren’t for the way Jaskier smiled at him so softly Geralt almost got a headache. He went back to his armour, pointedly paying little further attention as Jaskier preened in the mirror. He no longer complained of his accessories, having moved on to his hair.
That night, the ring glittered under the lights of the ballroom, the candle glow of the halls, the moonlight through the bedroom window. It was distracting, and Geralt felt grateful that Dandelion was used to him ignoring his idle chatter, as he couldn’t concentrate anyhow with the way he was twisting the thing about his finger not so absentmindedly.
He continued to twist it even weeks later. Sometimes with his opposite hand, sometimes with the thumb of the same hand. It became another one of Jaskier’s idle gestures he often did to keep his hands busy, like tuning his lute when it didn’t need it, or tapping out beats with a hum, or twirling his dagger as he spoke.
He never took it off, as well, Geralt noted, though neither he nor Dandelion would acknowledge it. Why would they, after all? Dandelion wore it when performing, when travelling, when bathing, of which the latter had sent him straight to bed, pointedly facing away from the bath. Even as he traded around other accessories, even as he donned silver for another invitation, he never removed the ring, even as Geralt himself could tell it was clashing. But neither said a thing.
When Jaskier held the dagger loosely in the hand that housed the ring, only to rest his chin on the back of the same hand as he smiled at Geralt across the campfire’s light, the witcher forgot what he was doing, what Jaskier had been saying, and what a normal amount of staring would be considered. Only when Jaskier’s expression twitched into a slight confusion was Geralt spurred to turn away, no, get away, rising to go hunt down their dinner.
He took his time before returning. It didn’t matter the time, though. The image was seared into his mind, and everytime he looked at Dandelion for the rest of the night, the knot in his stomach only doubled down, though he didn’t quite grasp why he felt so wrongfooted. He knew Dandelion was attractive, of course, and he knew he held… a level of affection for him. But that was something that Geralt understood, to a degree, and managed to ignore quite well. Whatever this sort of stupefying feeling was, on the other hand, had no name readily available in Geralt’s mind. He ought to try to avoid it, he knew. It was a stupid thing to chase. He watched Jaskier twist about the band anyway.
~
Dandelion had run out of perfume. How such a thing could happen mystified the both of them, as he’d had three different scents he’d been cycling through, and all three were gone. Geralt suggested they might have spilled at some point, but he knew it was a long shot. He’d have smelt a disaster such as that. Dandelion swore he’d die if they didn’t get to a town and get more soon. Luckily for him, the next town was only a few days away, and they made excellent time. Unluckily for him, the herbalist, apothecary owner, and merchant all had no stock that Jaskier approved of. Too floral, too citrusy, too musky… Jaskier was nothing if not particular. He’d flopped into bed that night utterly crestfallen, and over something so unimportant in Geralt’s mind. But it was important to Dandelion.
The next morning, he rose before Jaskier and went back to the herbalist’s shop. He made a few purchases, then wandered back to the merchant from before to buy a few other items, including an empty vial with a proper stopper, not a cork. He spoke to the apothecary owner, and paid a small fee to use their work station, as they had tools he didn’t keep on hand, as he had no usual use for them. He had to restart twice, displeased with the direction things were going, until he finally was satisfied with the end result. After their time travelling together, of course he had come to learn the types of scents Jaskier preferred to wear. And even less time to learn what Geralt preferred him to wear, which ones wouldn’t twinge and cloy at his nose. Vial now full, he left for the inn again. Jaskier was still asleep, as he was apt to when Geralt allowed him the luxury of sleeping in whilst he himself ran errands.
His morning errand was finished, though, and he woke Dandelion without a care to how he’d bemoan the loss of ‘sweet oblivion.’ Instead of entertaining his complaints, Geralt held out the vial in front of his nose, making Dandelion go near cross-eyed as he tried to focus, eventually snatching the thing up to get a proper look. He questioned what it was, and Geralt hesitantly told him it was a perfume. Jaskier twitched at that, surprised, but he didn’t seem particularly excited. He asked which one Geralt had selected, raising a brow. That was when Geralt clarified that he hadn’t picked one, he had made it. That seemed to intrigue him much more, and he gently popped the top of the vial, bringing it closer to his nose to inhale. Geralt didn’t need it that close to smell it. It was a blend of soft dulcet high notes, easily balanced by an undercurrent of warm richness that balanced between sweet and spicy. It was a comforting scent, something that smelled like falling into bed or clear skies beside a campfire, or Dandelion laughing as Geralt smiled at him fondly…
Geralt only had but a moment to worry that Jaskier didn’t like it, watching him re-cap it carefully with an entirely frozen expression, before Jaskier fully sat up in the bed and pulled at Geralt softly. He went down only to find himself wrapped in an utterly tender embrace, Jaskier’s arms wrapped around his neck and face buried in loose hair. Geralt’s hands fluttered aimlessly for a moment before they settled on the small of his back. He pushed his tongue against the back of his teeth and sealed his jaw shut, not daring to even breathe too hard. It was to Dandelion to move first, and it was to Dandelion to speak.
Dandelion breathed his thanks into the hair by Geralt’s ear, and when he pulled away Geralt couldn’t quite puzzle out the expression he wore.
When Jaskier readied himself for the day, he put on his perfume in the same spots he always did; his neck, working down any extra product to his collarbones, his wrists, again any extra product travelling up his arms towards his elbows. It was a process Geralt had witnessed many times, and had up until then been ambivalent towards. But there was a thickness in the air that had nothing to do with the actual scent as Geralt watched that day, and Jaskier cast a look back at Geralt as he did so that would’ve made him blush if he were a weaker man, as though he had been caught out watching something indecent. As it was, it made Geralt’s gaze wander away, only to return when Jaskier stopped looking. Geralt didn’t need to draw closer to smell the perfume against Jaskier’s skin; it was Jaskier who drew closer to him, asking him how it smelt now that it was on, presenting his wrist after giving himself a whiff first. Geralt held Dandelion’s wrist in his hand, the glint of the gold ring on his finger and the cool feel of it pressed against his own hand only giving him a moment’s pause before he leaned in to give a short sniff.
It was, as he had hoped, perfectly tailored to compliment Dandelion’s natural scent, and Dandelion’s preferences, without tickling his own nose in the process.
The knot was back in his stomach, as though something had come alive and was clawing its way through his insides, and as if that something possessed him, he rose from Jaskier’s wrist and leaned into his neck, nose practically grazing him as he scented there as well. Dandelion, for his part, was doing a tremendous job at imitating a rock; he’d even stopped breathing, to complete the image. Unfortunately, this close, Geralt could hear the quick pittering of his heartbeat flying far too fast, and Geralt pulled away again, guilt plucking at his heart and head, knowing he had taken more than what was offered.
Neither of them mentioned it again, but Jaskier did not replenish his perfume stock to rotate through, only using what Geralt had made anytime he donned perfume, and eventually when Jaskier ran out, he asked Geralt to make it again. It was only slightly painstaking to recreate it exactly, and Geralt would do it a hundred times over if asked.
~
It was unbearable. It was a tailor-made hell. Tailor-made by him, for him. It had been manageable, before. But due to his own actions, it turned from ignorable idle thoughts to all-consuming desire, need, and it was his own fault.
Jaskier would rest a hand on the handle of his sheathed dagger while walking, as though its touch were a comfort, drawing unnecessary attention to the object at his hip.
He’d wave his hands about while talking passionately, and the ring would glint and shine, light bouncing from its well cared for surface.
He’d perform on stage, working up a sweat, and then come flop himself down practically on top of Geralt, his sweat and perfume and excited buzz overwhelming the senses.
He’d sleep beside Geralt, ringed hand wrapped around Geralt’s arm or shoulder or waist, pressing the cool gold into his skin, leaving a little mark of leaves that would fade in minutes.
He’d cut a bit of cooked rabbit in a practised motion with the dagger and offer it to Geralt, still resting on the blade that he’d given him.
He’d have a hot bath ready for Geralt after a hunt, air thick with steam and warmth and his perfume, only drowning in it further as Jaskier came close behind him to wash his hair.
Geralt couldn’t continue on with the state of things as they were. Something had to give.
As it was, Geralt was oscillating between two extremes, either pliant to Dandelion’s every request, buying him anything he’d want and sharing his food, his bedroll, listening to his ramblings and lute, or irate to Dandelion’s every move, snapping at him harsher than ever before for touching his shoulder, for spoiling Roach, for not listening when he told him to stay put. He was constantly either completely disarmed or aggressively defensive, and he knew that Jaskier couldn’t possibly find his footing within the quake, couldn’t possibly understand what was going on, not when Geralt couldn’t really understand it himself.
The breaking point came when Dandelion tried to lay down in bed beside Geralt one sticky warm summer’s evening.
Geralt all but shoved him off the bed, and when he sputtered, Geralt simply demanded he either bathe or sleep on the floor. Of course, it was an unreasonable request. It was late, the inn staff having retired for the evening and of no mind to draw a bath, and neither of them had bothered to sleep like that, one in bed and one on the floor, for such a long time, barring injuries requiring space in the bed, that the idea was simply offensive. Dandelion said as much, but before he weaselled his way back into the bed, Geralt stopped him at arm’s length, and suggested he rent a separate room, then, if neither previous suggestion were good enough. And at that, Dandelion fully blanched.
The argument that ensued was potentially one of the weirdest ones they’d had, which was saying something, considering they’d once argued over whether or not the sky was blue.
Dandelion demanded to know what was going on. Geralt said he smelt, to which Dandelion had quite the earful to hand over about how he smelled fine, and Geralt was being ridiculous, and all he smelled of was a bit of sweat and perfume. Dandelion pointed out that Geralt liked the perfume, and he’d be a dirty liar to say otherwise. Geralt didn’t say otherwise, but also still refused to say Dandelion didn’t smell.
The truth was, Dandelion did smell. Geralt never said the word ‘bad,’ however. Dandelion loved his baths, and would normally have washed off before laying down in an inn. Out on the open road, when bathes were more scarce, it hardly mattered, each to their own bedroll for the most part, and even when they scooted together, the open air and smell of nature around them helped to filter in and make it less all-encompassing to Geralt. But here, in this little room with little windows and a little bed, with hot, thick summer air making everything feel tighter, Jaskier smelled, like sweat from the summer heat and perfume tailor-made by Geralt and musk from not having bathed after a long day and ale from dinner and it didn’t help that his ringed hand was at his hip again, resting on the dagger handle, a habit he’d gotten into instead of putting it on his hip.
And something in Geralt just broke and he lunged up to where Dandelion had been standing mid-lecture about fucking manners or something equally asinine, and shoved him with admittedly too much force until the backs of his legs clanged against the little desk that could barely be called as such. Jaskier didn’t get the chance to question what was happening before Geralt’s lips were on his, an intensity behind the act that would have burned both of their mouths away if the heat was literal instead of figurative. It was hot enough in the damn room anyway.
Dandelion made a small, weak noise in the back of his throat as Geralt licked into his mouth deep enough for it to be utter debauchery, and the sound simultaneously spurred Geralt on and brought him back to himself, and he tore himself away with just as much forceful abruption as he had put himself upon Dandelion.
Immediate regret flooded ice through his veins.
He couldn’t apologise for it. Not in any way that would reverse what he’d done, not that would take away everything he’d just admitted to in one move, not that would remove the desire to do it again from his being.
But he’d still try anyway.
He didn’t get far before Dandelion was calling him stupid and launching himself forward, back into Geralt’s arms. Geralt, for his part, did try to put up a defence, as weak as it was, but Jaskier had slid a hand up under his shirt and Geralt could feel the band of the ring pressing against his chest, and he found any arguments fading into the background as Jaskier captured his lips.
The bed was little, but it would do.