A Little Life

Jaskier

"You have to let me ride him at some point," Jaskier says, tucking his chin over Geralt's shoulder. He smells clean there, like linen and cypress trees, unencumbered by the oiled leather and inevitable sweat of his armor. Jaskier's fingers act in opposition to his protest, happy enough to fan out against the firm planes of Geralt's stomach as they ride together on Roach's back, Acorn - of all fucking things, Geralt had groaned when he settled on the obivously perfect name - trailing amiably behind.

"I don't trust him yet," Geralt rumbles, pressing a hand atop Jaskier's, holding it there. "And he hasn't been saddled. The last thing we need is for you to slip off and break your neck."

This is perhaps the tenth time they have ridden together this way in the fortnight since Geralt returned - Jaskier behind Roach's saddle, happily plastered to Geralt's back as the witcher and the mare lead the well-meaning but somewhat aloof gelding to various destinations around Kaer Morhen. Without a leader rope, they quickly discovered Acorn's preoccupation with wandering off to find brambleberry bushes and wild peppermint - and once, a family of bears - not so very unlike his new rider.

"You should know I take offense to that. I was taught to ride by the finest horsemen and women in Kerack."

Jaskier nips playfully at Geralt's shoulder, and the witcher makes his thinking grunt.

"Why, then? Why did we never get you a horse?"
Jaskier leans back, correcting his posture and putting space between them that Geralt huffs about as they continue on.

"Well, it's easier to compose while I'm walking."
Geralt turns in the saddle to shoot an incredulous look back at Jaskier.

"You've traipsed around the Continent for two decades because you can't play your lute atop a horse?"
"I'm an artist, Geralt," Jaskier squawks, feigning outrage. "Inspiration could strike at any time!"

"You're saying I could have just put you on a horse twenty years ago?"

"Oh, jokes, he's got jokes now, Acorn. Frightening," Jaskier laments to the horse, who snorts in clear agreement.

Summer has come swiftly, brutally, chasing out the last chill of northern spring and scorching the top of the tall grass fields they cut through. Beyond the walls of Kaer Morhen, the wilderness of the Blue Mountains is ancient, wild in a way that stops even Jaskier from speaking too loudly lest he break its peaceful spell. The prickly hum of cicadas and the wild birdsong is music enough, for now.

Just when the heat becomes unbearable, when the sun seems to stop mercilessly in its eternal circuit to hang above them, their little caravan reaches its destination - a clear, wide river flowing down from the mountain. The bank is rocky and moss-mottled where it joins the lush valley to the lazily flowing water. Jaskier whistles at the sight of it, tapping restlessly at Geralt's stomach until the witcher hops down and reaches up to help him. Broad hands steady him, gripping his waist as he dismounts carefully from the patient mare and stumbles a bit on the landing.

Maybe it's the heat, or the long ride, or Geralt's solid arms catching him, but he stays there - suspended between one breath and the next, his chin tipped up toward Geralt's patient face, until his traitorous heart flips in his chest. That pleasant pressure disappears from his waist and Geralt gives him a gracious smile before turning away to retrieve their packs.

Jaskier had asked for space of his own, for time to think, after that first embrace in Geralt's bedroom. Geralt has indulged him, accepting his lingering touches and letting him shy away in turn, while Jaskier has carefully attended to the space inside him that swirled with pain and need. Now, beneath the unrelenting sun, with his witcher beckoning him toward the water, that space feels smaller and smaller.