Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For Jaskier, to love was as easy and natural as breathing. He found charm in the slightest things, in tiny details, captured by a poet’s eye. His mind often spun a love song just from a few furtive glances shared across a packed bar, and then he made it real, consequences be damned.
He loved things, too, finding pleasure in everything. From the feel of a new silk doublet, to the sight of a field of buttercups caressed by the wind, Jaskier loved all the little details in life to the fullest. The finishing touches on a painting, he’d call it, or the right lilt of voice in a ballad. Something that elevates from ‘good’ to ‘great’.
Unfortunately for Jaskier, when love comes as easily as breathing, hiding it becomes as difficult as drowning, and just as painful.
He thought he’d get over it, he really did. He thought he’d be fine. It wasn’t a bad assumption - nothing caught his attention for long. The buttercups he braided in his hair one second would get thrown away and trampled underfoot the next. The smiles he shared with a pretty barmaid - or barman - would be forgotten when he left town. Not intentionally, no, it’s just that love was like a damselfly, beautiful but ephemeral. That suited Jaskier just fine, as he was also, coincidentally, transient, always on the road to another town.
So, when the man with hair of silver and eyes of gold stood up and Jaskier thought oh, I’ll follow you to the ends of the world, he was confident that he would be fine if nothing happened. A golden damselfly is still a damselfly, and no one would mourn its passing, least of all Jaskier.
He was not, in fact, fine.
Part of it might be that the witcher didn’t even realize he was being flirted with.
The witcher, it seems, did not speak the language of love that hides in shadows, love dispersed by daylight and a prying eye. The language of eccentric, outlandish love, marked by sharing looks and subtle gestures in public, kisses shared only in private.
Maybe someone out there will want you, spoken in those tones, was about as forward as a man with more conventional tastes dropping his trousers and whipping his dick out.
Still, nothing.
And it was becoming a problem.
Had Jaskier believed in accountability, he might have thought at least some of this was the fault of his expectations. Thankfully, he believed in no such thing.
But really, he just… missed a few footsteps in his path from introductions to getting in Geralt’s pants.
He looked at this brilliant, beautiful man, shoved aside by society, yearned to ask are you like me? are we the same? but did not realize Geralt could not give him an answer if he did not perceive the question.
Come to think of it, how could he? He was cast out by society the very moment he made contact with it. He was fashioned into a weapon to defend humanity, then cast aside when not actively in use. He didn’t drop through the cracks, he didn’t live in the margins, he didn’t venture out of the expectations framing society, like Jaskier did. (No Viscount becomes a travelling bard with his stage name as his true name without some truly peculiar circumstances and tastes, after all.)
No, Geralt had no frame of reference - he was not of two worlds, like Jaskier, who weaved through regular society as well as the hidden, underground one. Instead, he was of no worlds, and Jaskier’s heart ached for him.
Every time they passed through a town and someone shied away from Geralt’s look, or crossed the street when they saw him, every time a barkeep squinted suspiciously as if Geralt’s coin was tainted by his touch, Jaskier wanted to scream.
He wanted to scream a lot of things, and he’d have the lungs for it, but one look at Geralt’s expressionless face always silenced him completely. Usually, what he’d wanted to scream was how can you, how can you, don’t you see what he’s like, don’t you know what he’s done for you, how he’s helped you, you ungrateful poxfaced wretch, I hope you choke to death on your own vomit, so he just fumed, vibrating out of his skin.
But sometimes, sometimes what he’d wanted to scream was more like don’t listen, don’t listen to them, I know what you’re like what you’re really like, and I don’t care if you’re not an eccentric like me if you’re not odd and peculiar and queer like me, I will be your home as a friend if not as a lover, I will be yours even if you don’t want to be mine, just don’t listen to them please, but instead, he just trailed after Geralt, and put a hand on his forearm.
The witcher never shied away from his touch. He did not reciprocate - Jaskier wasn’t even certain if Geralt knew how to do that. Who’d have taught him, anyway?
Jaskier’s songs did improve Geralt’s reputation, at least, but it still happened more often than he’d like. The worst part was when it happened right after Geralt risked life and limb to help some ungrateful bastards.
Like the ungrateful bastards of Belegish.
Jaskier sat in the one inn of that terrible podunk fishing town, whose only claim to relevance was sitting on the bank of a large river. Belegish, read the peeling letters on a sign post just outside the town, and Jaskier remarked it sounded like some obscure kidney disease found in goats.
Geralt had just grunted, and deposited Jaskier neatly outside the inn. It was an easy job, for someone as experienced as Geralt - an infestation of drowners blocking both the river traffic and the fishing. But, drowners run in packs, and so Geralt deemed it unwise for Jaskier to follow, lest he get targeted as well.
Jaskier, a man of true valor, only stayed behind because he’d already chronicled a drowner battle, and people disliked repeats.
The barmaid serving him was gaunt and tired, with hands that trembled occasionally. She seemed more like a ghost haunting the inn than a woman of flesh and blood, a stark contrast to the solid wall of fat and muscle the barman was. “Your witcher,” she said, voice quiet, “do you think he’ll kill the monsters?”
“Oh, of course!” said Jaskier, brightening up at the words your witcher. He sorely wished they were accurate. “He’s unparalleled in combat, you know, a pack of drowners can’t hope to be a match for the White Wolf.”
The barman grunted, and the barmaid - his wife or daughter? - flinched. Jaskier frowned, an action he wasn’t particularly fond of as forehead wrinkles are the most devastating thing that could happen to a person. He finished off his mug of distressingly substandard ale, and wished for Geralt’s speedy return.
Just then, the doors opened, letting in some much needed fresh air and natural light. Geralt stood in the doorway, figure framed by light like a saviour of legend. Which, Jaskier figured, he actually was, at least as far as Jaskier’s songs were concerned.
“Ah, Geralt! Speak of the wolf, and he’s at your door,” Jaskier rose from his seat. “Hunt went well?”
“Yes,” said Geralt, reaching the bar. “Paid in full, too,” he added. "A mug of ale,” he said to the barman, putting down enough coin on the counter.
The barmaid, now trembling, seemed to hold in a breath. Jaskier’s frown deepened - this inn was bad for his future forehead wrinkles, it seemed - as he joined Geralt at the counter.
“We’re all out,” said the barman, jutting his chin out like it was a challenge. Jaskier looked at him, looked at the barrels of ale right behind him, and looked at him again. Really? Really?
He was going to say something, say a lot of somethings, but Geralt just said one of his philosophical ‘hm’s, scooped the coin back into his purse, and turned away.
“You’re right,” sneered Jaskier, unable to help himself. “You can’t exactly call your swill ale, huh?” He strode off in a huff before the barkeep could react, trailing after Geralt.
“Geralt?” he said, catching up to the witcher, still frowning. They stood just outside the inn, in what could charitably be called a street. Jaskier did not feel charitable at the moment.
“Hm,” said Geralt, conversationally.
“Why do you let them treat you like that? You just saved this entire goat disease village from a slow starvation!”
“Was I supposed to wrest ale out of his hands?” asked Geralt, raising an eyebrow. His voice was not unkind. “Demand to be served? Threaten him? Be exactly what he thinks I am?”
Jaskier deflated like a bagpipe, which is to say, stubbornly and angrily. “I just don’t understand. I can’t understand. You slay monsters, you risk your life so they don’t have to, you protect everyone… I’d love to see that waste of kneecaps take on a pack of drowners without becoming a heap of jiggly flesh,” he sneered.
“Witchers slay monsters. Many monsters lurk in the hearts of men,” said Geralt, simply, light heartedly, shrugging his shoulders. As if that was that. It probably was, to him.
Jaskier seemed to develop a crippling addiction to frowning. Perhaps Geralt’s facial expressions rubbed off on him. Or maybe this town was bad for his health.
He met Geralt’s gaze, and stopped in his tracks. It struck Jaskier then, how they matched - his own eyes as blue as the sky, Geralt’s eyes as golden as the sun. And Jaskier would gladly be the sky to Geralt’s sun, would gladly be the backdrop to make his witcher’s true nature stand center stage. Was that not what his songs were about, in the end? If the world was a stage, Jaskier, bard and minstrel, would craft the scenery, paint it in beautiful words, paint over Blaviken’s blood stains with a brush made of the White Wolf’s selfless deeds, until everyone saw him the way Jaskier did.
“We’re wasting daylight,” said Geralt, breaking the spell on Jaskier. “Let’s go get Roach.”
“Ah, yes, quite,” said Jaskier, blinking like the sun got in his eyes. In a way, it did. “I can’t wait to get out of this place - I swear, all these people smell like the fish they...fish.”

Chapter Text

“What should I name my fine steed?” asked Jaskier, shifting in the saddle. His new horse plodded on, keeping pace with Geralt and Roach. She was a fine horse, if a bit fat - she had a charming dark chestnut coloring and Jaskier picked her solely because she matched his hair.

“Roach is a good name,” said Geralt, patting his own mare, who flicked an ear at the mention of her name. She snuffled gently, and Jaskier could have sworn they made eye contact.
Roach was ridiculously perceptive, to the point of unnerving Jaskier - was it a side effect of being the steed of a witcher? Or did Geralt just have a really good eye for horses? Possibly both.

“Geralt, I’m not naming her Roach! We already have a Roach,” said Jaskier, and hastily added “And she’s already the best Roach,” in case Roach got mad at him.
“I already have a Roach,” corrected Geralt, patting her again. He showed more outright affection for that horse than he did for any human.
But, to be fair, Roach showed more care for her witcher than any human - except for Jaskier, of course. But he wasn’t about to start competing with a horse!
The only worse thing than competing with a horse, would be losing to a horse.

“I think I shall name my mare...Countess de Stael!” pronounced Jasker, grin spreading across his face as he gestured in the air. “For you see, I am astride this mare, just as I once rode--”
“Jaskier,” interrupted Geralt, in the tone of voice Jaskier thought of as ‘fond but exasperated’.
“What? Is it not a good name?” asked Jaskier, faux offended. He gestured with both hands, dropping the reins to do so. “It’s a name with pedigree and class! Only the most prestigious name can suit the steed of Jaskier, the best bard in the--”
“Jaskier,” sighed Geralt, “when Countess de Stael sends men after you for besmirching her honour, I am going to stand there. I am going to point. And I am going to laugh.”
“Well,” huffed Jaskier, “at least something will get you to laugh, even if it’s my untimely demise.”
Geralt and Roach, in a startling display of rider-horse convergence, huffed at the exact same time. Jaskier could see Geralt’s eyebrows lift a tiny bit, for half a second. “What demise?”
“My demise, at the hands of Countess de Stael’s hypothetical men, yes? Ignobly murdered for having a fantastic sense of humour?”
“I wouldn’t call it fantastic. I would barely call it humour.”
“Geralt!” gasped Jaskier, clutching his chest with his hands. “I am seconds away from hypothetical death, and you insult me like this!”
Geralt sighed in an exasperated fashion, momentarily closing his eyes in annoyance. “I’d do more than laugh, Jaskier.”
“Yes, you would also point.”
“Jaskier… Don’t name your horse Countess de Stael.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier strummed his lute at their campsite, watching the light from the fire dance in Geralt’s hair. His plan had been to practice and refine a new song so it’s all ready for his performance in Leskobor, but his mind was determined to be unhelpful. You couldn’t compel a poet’s muse to act, the inspiration must be felt rather than summoned. Jaskier’s inspiration was Geralt, and tonight, instead of heroics and fortitude, Jaskier was inspired to write stanzas about Geralt’s jawline and the curve of his lips.
Jaskier’s life was unduly difficult.
Geralt was content, it seemed, sitting with his back to a large rock and doing some swordfighter-y thing to his sword. It involved some cloth, strange smelling oil, and a rock, and that was all Jaskier cared to learn about it. Presumably it had to be a special rock, as it was always the same one, but he didn’t know if it was some special witcher-y rock or the normal kind of special rock.
Jaskier’s mind, stuck on the most absurd thing imaginable, was not cooperating with him at all.
He tried, with mixed success, to stop focusing on Geralt’s appearance, or at least to focus on aspects that could be fierce. How his eyes were made of fire and his gaze warmed everything he saw - no, no, burned, burned everything in his path, yeah that’s the ticket. How his hair fell down his face like a river bathed in moonlight - uhhhh, no, like the, uhhh, future ghosts of his enemies, sure. How he had a little bit of fang when he smiled - no, snarled - and once something Jaskier said caught him so off balance he actually laughed, fangs on full display and eyes closing in mirth in an unguarded moment of- -- no, scratch that. This wasn’t going to work at all.
Jaskier groaned, and slumped against Geralt’s shoulder. Maybe if he didn’t look at him, his mind wouldn’t be besieged by the intensity of his feelings.
Geralt paused in his swording maintenance for half a second, giving an inquisitive ‘hm?’ noise before resuming. It was really a miracle how Jaskier could interpret the most monosyllabic noises into complete sentences, or maybe it was a miracle how Geralt could imbue so much meaning into a grunt.
This one was just a noise of vague curiosity, and possibly a question about what beleaguered Jaskier now. Jaskier hated how he found that endearing. Geralt could be so stoic and count every word he says like a miser counts coin, something that should by all right annoy Jaskier, who never met a silence he didn’t immediately fill. But no, if anything, it was endearing, especially because it made the times Geralt did speak all the more meaningful and profound. He could fit a paragraph of meaning into a sentence. Had he not been a witcher, he would have made an excellent poet.
Turns out, averting his gaze could not stem the intensity of his feelings, and Jaskier groaned again, rubbing his face with his hands. He didn’t even want to describe Geralt as fierce anymore, not when those same features made his heart skip beats like it was crafting an experimental rhythm for a song. Especially not when people would take Jaskier’s words, composed with admiration, and use them as an excuse for fear.
He didn’t want to describe Geralt snarling at a monster with his fangs, he wanted to kiss them. No, not them, him, just kissing someone’s teeth would be weird and Jaskier really wished he could dislodge this whole chunk of thoughts from his mind and forget them. Maybe it would be nice if he didn’t have thoughts, at least for a moment.
“Got a headache?” asked Geralt, thankfully interrupting Jaskier’s thoughts. He gave his sword a final polish with the cloth and stowed away the rock. Jaskier watched him do that in silence, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for his behaviour, that wasn’t saying I care about you so much it’s ruining my life.
“No,” said Jaskier, and straightened up from where he was draped, still touching shoulders with Geralt.
Physical contact held no romantic or sexual undertones for Jaskier. He wasn’t the kind of person that treats closeness as an invitation, despite what reputation he might have acquired at various courts. Geralt never reciprocated. The witcher never slung his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, or patted him on the back, or anything - well, no, he did a few times, when Jaskier was injured, or in one memorable occasion, dying from a djinn curse.
But he also never shrugged him off, or made any inclination that Jaskier was unwelcome. Jaskier was learning how to interpret the minute expressions of his face, and was discovering quite a few things as he did. Sometimes he’d intentionally get up, stretch, and sit back down elsewhere, only to watch the imperceptible change in Geralt’s expression. Could it be… that Geralt actually enjoyed it? And if he did, or if Jaskier let himself believe so, then… Maybe he didn’t have to craft a fearsome battle epic.
He’d been a fool trying to twist his feelings into an appropriate shape for it. To squash and tamp down his emotions until they were a fertile ground to grow battle-hymns and valorous boasts. Of course it failed! He hadn’t been listening to his muse.
He’ll sing his heart out, taste it on his tongue, stain his chin, his shirt with it, sing it out till the room overflowed with it, till his own love drowned him. He’ll let it pour out of him and wash over everyone, soaking them and pulling at their own guarded hearts until they thrummed and reverbated in harmony, like the strings on his lute.
He’ll drown in his love and go down singing.
And, gloriously, no one will know. He’ll wrap a secret into a song and send it out into the world. It will wrap around people’s hearts, nestling or gripping, depending on how closely their situations aligned with Jaskier’s, and they will feel but they will not know. No one will.
And maybe Jaskier will breathe a little easier, with a heart a bit lighter, with the entire world shouldering his burden, even if unknowingly.

Oh, your path to joy
You need to find on your own
And my path is that piece of sky
Next to him, I know…

I’ll tell you the secret
Behind that gleam in my eye
It’s cause now there’s a hello
After every goodbye…