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He became aware, as he rose gently from sleep, of two things; first, that the bed he was lying on was far more comfortable than he was accustomed to, the pillows soft, the mattress plush and giving; second, that there was a warm body lying beside his.
For a few minutes he lay there, peacefully between sleep and wakefulness. He listened to the gentle, easy breathes of the person beside him – in, and out – in, and out – a swell of comfort and contentment in his chest.
His bedmate shifting, mumbling, and the firm nudge of an elbow to his ribs jolted him to full wakefulness.
He remembered the wine festival. He remembered drinking – drinking more than he should have done, swept up in the celebration and Jaskier’s enthusiasm. He remembered accepting a kind offer of a room for a night. He remembered falling into bed.
He remembered wet, wine-scented kisses. Remembered a lot more than kisses.
Opening his eyes he looking up at the unfamiliar ceiling, at the pale morning sunlight streaming through the window. He turned his head.
Jaskier gazed back at him, muzzy, hair tousled and breath still smelling of wine. Awake, and bright-eyed.
Geralt’s head fell back against the pillow. “Fuck.”
“Hey, things could be worse,” said Jaskier. “There are far less attractive people you could have drunkenly ended up in bed with. You have excellent taste, even when heavily inebriated.”
“Don’t start,” said Geralt. “It’s too early.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s midmorning already,” said Jaskier. “But that’s beside the point.”
He laid his hand on Geralt’s bare chest, familiar, intimate, as if they were already lovers, and lapsed into silence.
Outside the town was waking up, people laughing, sharing stories about the night before, their voices carrying up through the window. Jaskier was right; it was well into the morning. He ought to have been awake hours ago. Would have been, if he hadn’t let himself be talked into getting so drunk.
At length, Jaskier breathed out. “Last night was fun,” he remarked.
“Hm,” Geralt agreed.
“I want you to know that I value our friendship, and I dearly hope this doesn’t change anything between us,” Jaskier went on. “Would you agree?”
Geralt looked at him, his mussed hair, the earnest look in his eyes. His mouth, the tip of his tongue poking out. He was suddenly and vividly aware that mere hours ago he’d had his cock in that mouth.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
Jaskier patted his chest. “That’s settled, then.” Leaning in, he said in a vaguely conspiratorial manner, “are you sticky? Because I am so sticky. The sheets have become as a second skin.”
“Yeah.” Steeling himself, he said, “it was good.”
“Hm?” said Jaskier.
“Last night,” said Geralt. “It was good.”
“Mmm,” Jaskier hummed. “Wasn’t it just.”