Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jaskier considered himself a great musician, writer, artist, etc. Each of his songs were a work of art. But not all of them saw the light of day, or even the music from his lute.

But far from burning those lyrics, Jaskier had kept all of them in a little diary, which he always kept on his person. That diary had somehow survived the attack on Kaer Morhen by Voleth Meir and was preserved inside his coat pocket. He scribbled idly in it all day, writing new songs, but never forgetting the old ones.

His songs said everything about him, about his feelings. The song that could most definitely not see the light of day was the one about his first love.

No, it wasn't about Geralt. It wasn't about the milkmaid he fell in love with when he was seventeen, either. And no, it wasn't even the farm hand who was his first kiss at the age of fourteen.

The song was about his true first love, whose memories he still carried well into his adulthood, in the form of thin white lines on his thighs.

Well, not all of the lines were thin, but you understand his point, yes?

He had never spoken to anyone about his first love, had hidden it from everyone, including Geralt, in the form of never taking his trousers off in front of the Witcher.

Not that they spent much time together anymore, since his days at Kaer Morhen mostly consisted of sitting on the highest ledge of the Keep, scribbling away in his diary. His little spot hadn't been found by anyone else at Kaer Morhen, leaving him to isolate himself in peace.

And if he ever looked over the side of the ledge and imagined throwing himself off of it, then that was just for him to know.

Him and Ciri and formed a rapport in the meantime, the only person with whom he still spoke. The girl was intelligent for her age, with many opinions regarding everything that was going on in the Keep. She was plagued by nightmares, and Jaskier apparently helped keep her out of her head with his rambling and his stories, be they about Geralt, Yennefer, his days at Oxenfurt, anything, really.

The girl was snarky, and sassy, and reminded Jaskier of who he used to be before the war, before the…

Before the mountain.

He had even shown her some of his older songs, which were plenty appreciated by her, but not the one about his first love. He contemplated just burning it, since he knew he would never be able to sing it, but something in the back of his head urged him to hold onto it.

Not that he would be able to compose a tune for it anytime soon, even if he wanted to. His hand was still fragile and tender from Rience's torture. The infection had healed from his hand, the fluids had finally stopped leaking, and the blisters had also healed somewhat. But the skin was still very much raw and burnt, and he could do practically nothing with that hand.

And what was a bard who could not sing, could not compose?

Nothing, that's what.

Despite mixing well with the daughter, Jaskier kept his distance from the father, not even joining the others in the Main Hall for meals, making up an excuse about being not hungry, or nauseous, or anything that would allow him to just not eat in the Main Hall.

Or to eat at all.

One such evening, while everyone else was downstairs, eating dinner, the bard was lounging right on the edge of the wall, one leg swinging off of it precariously. He didn't care much.

Jaskier's glove was on the floor beside him. He wore it during the day to hide his hand from the others, but when he was alone, he could allow the damaged skin to breathe.

Tender fingers flipped through the pages of his diary, and the brunette vaguely began humming a tune. The tune began to form into something more solid, something which had substance to it.

He flipped the pages backwards, to the one titled 'First Love'. He began singing softly, as in tune as he could without an instrument to support his voice.

So neat, so clean,
So very enthralling.
Resisting you is a feat,
So why won't you stop calling?

Why won't you stop calling?
Why won't you stop calling?
I can't let myself forget you,
You are my heart, my darling.

I know you, I am you,
You bring me so much joy.
But I know your nature true,
And I know you will destroy.
Can't remember who I was
Way before I met you.
A stormy evening it was
When I first saw you.

Why won't you stop calling?
Why won't you stop calling?
I can't let myself forget you,
You are my heart, my darling.

All red and sharp,
And nicely parallel.
I may not like to harp,
But that's when I fell.
That sting, that hiss,
That rush of hormones.
It's everything I miss
When you leave me alone.

Why won't you stop calling?
Why won't you stop calling?
I can't let myself forget you,
You are my heart, my darling.

When I push you away,
You pull me close.
I know I'll never be the same,
No longer a victim to my woes.
But I know one day
I'll go too deep
And there's no damn way
I'll wake up from that sleep.

Why won't you stop calling?
Why won't you stop calling?
I can't let myself forget you,
You are my heart, my darling.
I love you, I breathe you,
You keep me alive.
When I see you again,
That's when I'll start to jive.

Jaskier kept murmuring the last stanza to himself, remembering his very first dagger. It was gifted to him by his father when he was ten, and that's when he met his muse, the one about whom he wrote songs.

He still carried that dagger, in his boot. It was old, and had lost most of its edge, so he didn't use it anymore. He had to use too much force to make it puncture his skin, and he was scared that he would cut too deep.

If only he could learn how to sharpen his knife…

That didn't stop him, though, and he still had access to many sharp objects. His love was always with him, no matter where he went or what he did. Even when he was completely alone. Especially when he was completely alone.

"What's that one called?" A deep voice mumbled from behind him, making Jaskier jump and stumble off the ledge. Towards the balcony, not the open sky, fortunately.

Or unfortunately. He didn't know anymore.

Jaskier stared at the mop of white hair, golden eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light of the lantern the bard had brought up to the ledge.

"Geralt! Fuck, could've scared me into falling." The bard exclaimed awkwardly.

"You wouldn't have fallen. I'd have caught you." The bold statement made Jaskier raise an eyebrow. Everything Geralt said was measured, had a meaning.

"Yeah, you probably would have." The brunette stood there, rocking back and forth on his heels, not knowing what to say.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Huh?" Was Jaskier's eloquent reply.

"The song. What is it called?" Geralt's gaze dropped down minutely to Jaskier's hand, where he was gripping his blade a bit too tight for comfort.

"It was uh- it's called 'First Love'." the bard mumbled, awkwardly tapping the sheathed dagger against the palm of his hand.

"Hm. You should try playing it." The words made Jaskier let out a bitter laugh.

"If only I could." The incessant tapping had made Geralt zero in on his still-healing hand.

"I didn't think-" His brows furrowed.

"I didn't think it was this bad." Geralt stepped forward, reaching out to examine Jaskier's hand.

"Yeah well, it's healed. A lot. It's finally stopped weeping fluids, so like it's way better already." The bard took a step back when the Witcher came closer, snatching up his glove to slip it on. He knew that if the white-haired man got close enough, he would have Jaskier on his knees, clutching onto him for dear life.

The movement had a look flash across Geralt's face. One of shock, hurt, and regret. Well that's too damn bad.

"What did you compare them to?" Geralt took a step back, putting enough distance between them that Jaskier could finally breathe.

"Compare what to?" The brunette asked.

"Your first love. I heard some analogies there which were a bit… strange." Geralt said, voice still soft.

"I uh-" Jaskier trailed off, unsure of how to reply.

"I compared them to a bad habit, that's all." He chuckled uncomfortably.

"Since when have you been so interested in my music?"

"Since when have you taken to hanging out on high ledges?"

"I think better in the fresh air, even if it's freezing." Jaskier pulled his coat tighter onto his shoulders.

"Hmm. Have you eaten?"

"Oh- uhm, I'm not hungry." The brunette said. He knew the Witcher couldn't tell he was lying, because he had learned how to keep his heart rate steady over the years.

"You haven't been hungry for the past three days. You're paler than I am." Geralt argued.

"Have I? I hadn't realized." The bard asked in feigned surprise.

Geralt stared at him, face neutral. The man seemed to, for the first time in months, really look at him. Golden eyes stared into his own, studying every feature as carefully as he could.

"You've gotten better at lying." He said, eyes widening ever so slightly.

"What?"

"You lied to me just now, and I didn't realize it until I took a good look at your face." The Witcher seemed to be in disbelief.

"I've been smuggling elves out of fucking Oxenfurt for the last year or so, so yeah, I've had to level up my lying skills." Jaskier scoffed, turning around. There was silence in the balcony for several moments.

"I didn't think I'd ever given you a reason to lie to me." Geralt said, sounding almost… mournful.

Jaskier let out a laugh, one borne of so much cynicism and bitterness, that the force of it made him double over. He laughed until his eyes were teary, and still couldn't stop, because the sheer ridiculousness of Geralt saying that statement was enough to fuel his laughter for two decades.

"Jask-" Geralt sounded uncomfortable.

"No, nonononono. You don't get to call me that anymore. Only my friends get to call me that." Jaskier said, his laughter suddenly ceasing.

Geralt looked like he had been slapped.

"I-" The Witcher paused, pupils shrinking as his nostrils flared.

"You're bleeding." Jaskier realized with dawning horror that in the midst of his laughing fit, he had dug his fingers into his thighs, reopening his wounds from the previous day.

"No I'm not." Jaskier replied as convincingly as he could.

Geralt came closer, this time refusing to back down when the bard took a few steps back.

"Maybe you should back up, Geralt-" Jaskier said with a scared laugh, continuing to move backwards.

Geralt let out a low growl, this time grabbing the brunette by his arm, pulling him closer and holding him in place.

"Where are you hurt, Jaskier?"

"I-I'm not. Maybe something is wrong with your sense of smell. You're getting up there in age, y'know." The bard knew he was focusing on the wrong thing at the wrong time, but all his thoughts consisted of how much strength was in the Witcher's grasp.

He missed that strength, that touch.

"I don't buy it." Geralt growled in his face.

"Well, it's not my problem, because I'm very clearly not bleeding-" Jaskier looked anywhere but at Geralt's face.

"Stop. Fucking. Lying. To. Me. Bard." The man was so close Jaskier could smell the ale on his breath.

The brunette swallowed, his heart beating hard enough to jump out of his chest. He couldn't take this, not again.

He remembered the first time he had been caught by his father, blade in hand, trousers around his ankles, and blood on his thighs. The beating he had gotten kept him from putting any clothes on his back for two days, because it had caused him excruciating pain whenever something made contact with his tender skin.

His father was a human. Geralt was a mutant Witcher.

Whatever reaction he saw, the Witcher backed off the slightest bit, face becoming less angry and more… standard Geralt. Which still looked angry to the common eye, but Jaskier knew the difference.

"You reek of fear." Geralt mumbled, sorrow in his voice.

"You've never smelled like fear when it was just the two of us." The meaning of the words was as clear as day.

'You've never been scared of me before.'

"Yes, well, things change, Geralt." Jaskier said, clearing his throat.

"Tell me where you're bleeding, Jaskier." Geralt finally said after a few moments of silence, sounding defeated.

"Or what, Geralt?" The bard gave up the pretense.

"Or-"

"Will you force me to somehow reveal my wounds to you? I don't fucking owe you that, Geralt, not anymore. All you need to know, is that whatever I have, won't kill me, so you can fuck right off and spend your time with those that deserve it- your friends and your family, and leave me to my own devices, like you had no fucking problem doing before. So please, feel free to not inconvenience yourself and leave me alone." Jaskier aggressively ripped his arm out of the Witcher's grasp, which had slowly begun loosening as he kept talking.

The brunette stormed off, walking down the stairs as fast as he could without stumbling and dropping his lantern. He walked straight down to his room, mumbling to himself.

"Hey, Jaskier!" The bard was snapped out of his thoughts by a certain princess, who stood in front of his room with a bowl of broth in his hand.

"Hey Ciri."

"You didn't come to dinner, so I got you some food." The girl offered it to him with a small smile.

"Thank you, Your Royal Highness." Jaskier's irritation faded a bit as he grabbed the bowl from Ciri's hand.

"You're welcome, my favourite subject." Ciri said in a posh accent.

"Oh? I'm the favourite, am I? Well, isn't that an honour!" He giggled, as did Ciri. Alright, his bad mood was definitely fading.

"You okay? You seemed all grouchy on your way here. And you were mumbling to yourself, something about 'stupid Witchers and their stupid audacities'?" She asked in a suggestive tone of voice.

Jaskier sighed, shaking his head.

"He- finally decided to talk to me. After a fortnight of me being here. And he acted like I owed him information about-" Jaskier cut himself off, realizing how close he was to spilling his guts, "about certain things in my life, despite not even properly apologizing to me for what happened at the mountain."

"Yeah, that's Geralt for you." Ciri sighed. He had finally told the blonde some details of what had happened on the mountain that forced the two fri- travel companions to part ways.

He didn't tell her exactly what the Witcher had said, obviously. But the girl was hungry for gossip about Geralt's life, and Jaskier couldn't help but indulge her.

"Keep him busy if he tries looking for me, yeah? I might punch him if I see him right now, and I don't think my damaged hand can take that right now." The statement made Ciri giggle again.

"No- I'm being serious. Don't you laugh at me." The bard frowned exaggeratedly.

"Ah, yes, right. Because you're always serious. I'll try my best to keep him out of your way." The girl promised, leaving Jaskier to finally enter his room and eat some of his food.

It, realistically, should have been appetizing to him, but his appetite seemed to have run away from him these days.

Oh well, he might as well force a few bites down his throat. After all, Ciri was thoughtful enough to get him a bowl.

As he chewed on a piece of meat in the stew, the vague feeling of having forgotten something scratched at the back of his mind, but Jaskier shrugged it off.

After all, if he'd forgotten it, how important could it be?

There was a sharp knocking on his door that woke him up, making Jaskier grumble to himself. No one ever came to wake him up, since they didn't need him for anything. Not that he was useful for anything, but his point still stands.

Looking outside, the bard frowned. It was still night.

The knocking grew more frantic, forcing Jaskier out of bed, across the room, only to frown as soon as he opened the door. Geralt stood there, looking almost… guilty.

"Geralt, what do you-" Jaskier rubbed one of his eyes as the other began drifting down towards the ground.

On their path, the brunette caught sight of a little brown diary in Geralt's hand, wrapped with a little leather cord.

"You forgot this." The Witcher handed the diary over to a wide-eyed Jaskier, who took the thing with shaky hands.

"Did you-" His eyes shot up to Geralt's face. He swallowed nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"Jaskier, I-" The look on the Witcher's face was enough to indicate his answer.

Now, the big deal about Geralt reading his songs was that they were all surrounded by little sketches, illustrations of what the songs were about.

'First Love' was surrounded by sketches of a dagger, with blood dripping off of it, and thin parallel red lines on a pale leg.

Another horrible realization- despite the freezing cold, Jaskier liked sleeping with his trousers off. Which meant he was standing in front of Geralt in nothing but his chemise and smallclothes. Which meant his thighs were exposed to the Witcher's gaze.

"Your-" The man's voice had gone all growly again.

"Go sit down on your bed." He ordered, and Jaskier did what he was told, scared of Geralt lashing out in anger and-

No, he was just scared of upsetting Geralt. No matter what, the Witcher would never physically hurt him.

Geralt came back with a bowl of what seemed to be warm water, a rag, and some salve, cleaning and applying it to the wounds while Jaskier sat there and twiddled his thumbs.

Even after he was done, the Witcher stayed where he was, kneeling in front of the bard, staring at his scars, new and old.

"Geralt-" Jaskier started, before cutting herself off, realizing he had nothing to explain his behaviour.

"Some of these scars are quite old. The others are newer. You stopped for a while." Yellow eyes looked up at him.

"Yeah. When I met you." Jaskier admitted quietly.

"And you started again-"

"After the mountain."

He saw Geralt swallow, clenching his jaw. His hand on the brunette's thigh tensed.

"I'm sorry. Not just for what I said to you that day, but for the half-assed apology afterwards. You are the reason why fewer people want to kill us Witchers in our sleep. You… deserved a better friend, and this is me trying to be that friend. You are a good person with a good heart, and you are my friend. The best one I have." Geralt looked up at him with an honesty in his eyes that stopped Jaskier's breath in his chest.

Geralt reached up a hesitant hand, resting it awkwardly on the side of Jaskier's neck. The latter leaned forward, touching their foreheads together.

"I forgave you a long time ago, Geralt. For fuck's sake, I love you. Even when I knew it would end in nothing but heartache." The Witcher let out a pained noise, lifting himself off of the ground to properly embrace the bard- his bard.

Geralt rubbed his nose against Jaskier's neck, scenting and breathing him in deeply, something the brunette had seen him do with the other Witchers from time to time.

The older man let out a small growl as he smothered Jaskier, pressing small kisses to the top of his head, his browbone, his jaw, neck, collarbone, all of the skin he could reach.

Any chill Jaskier was feeling was taken away as Geralt pressed him against himself, slotting the two of them together almost perfectly.

"Took you long enough." Jaskier mumbled as he cuddled closer to the Witcher's muscular chest, the way he had wanted to do for years.

"Yes, well, I may have been lectured by a certain strong-willed teenager for my misconduct." Geralt admitted, a smile in his voice.

Jaskier laughed, burying his face into the White Wolf's chest.

"I thought you'd be angrier with me." It didn't take long for Geralt to understand what he was talking about.

"I'm not angry, I just- I don't want you hurting, Jask. Come to me when you feel like doing that again, please." The bard didn't think he could take much more of this soft, kind, and tender Geralt.

"But what if you're-"

"But nothing. You come to me whenever you need me, okay?" Geralt directed Jaskier's face upwards, pressing a kiss to his chapped, dried lips. The Witcher tasted like sweat and herbs, like smoke from the fire, like something familiar.

"I love you, my bard."