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The room is dim and Geralt sits on the lush furs spread out on the bed, Jaskier between his thighs. Despite their state of undress, the proximity of their bodies keeps them warm against each other. They’re heart to heart, foreheads touching; Jakier’s hands around Geral’ts waist, Geralt’s own cupping Jaskier’s face. It feels like eternity since they’ve been here like this.
Then, Sun had hung from the sky and made it blue, and smiled on the land and made it green, and all the creatures of Earth had looked up and bathed in her grace. Geralt had pulled Jaskier close and taken his face in his hands and had watched. Watched as Apollo, from his perch on Sun, shot golden arrows with languid draws through the stained glass windows, exploding into colorful beams.
Geralt could feel the heartbeat of his lover, and see dust mites dance through slits of light befalling his face, and feel the warmth radiating from his body and had known that he was alive, and felt his own heart pulse at the idea. Because Geralt loves Jaskier; because to hold him, touch him, belong to him, is all he wants.
Geralt ran a hand through Jaskier’s hair and settled it at his nape. Cornflower eyes gazed up at him with warmth, trust, hope, love.Geralt wondered if there exists a human more cherished. No, Jaskier is the most cherished; Geralt is the most fond of him.
Fond, fond, fond… fond of his chestnut hair and sloped eyebrows, smoothed back by two gentle thumbs; honest eyes and sweet voice, bathing him in praise; slender waist and soft belly, perfect for resting his head on; petite hands, fingertips calloused from lute strings.
How pretty, how divine, how lovely that Geralt is the one who gets to hold him, to love him. Yes, he is the most fond.
Now, it is night and Sun has given way to her sister, Moon, who basks in the afterglow of her light, and reflects it across Earth like halcyon memories. Their foreheads are touching, and Geralt feels the steady thrum of heartbeats that had settled into measure long ago. He has sat here for light-years, feeling his lover and enjoying the serene moment.
But suddenly his heart gives a jolt, because though it can feel its tethered partner, it longs to see him once again. The need bubbles up, up, up, and pushes at Geralt’s eyelids until they flick open, and land on his lover.
For a moment, Geralt doesn’t breathe and then the cool air rushes to his lungs all at once and makes his heart rejoice.
How beautiful, it hollers; how tender, how cherished; ours, ours, ours! And we are his, it adds with glee. And Geralt knows that the myths about Witchers being devoid of feeling is not true, because his insides dance with joy and passion and love.
He loves Jaskier, for his head is craned trustingly in his hands and his lashed dust his cheeks and the slope of his nose casts gentle shadows down his face. And then his eyes flick open and Geralt melts into him, falls and keeps falling and makes no effort to stop; he does not ever want to.
And then Jaskier smiles and oh-how joyous! His little lover, little bard, little sparrow. How snugly he fits into his hands, folds into the concave of his heart, bends around the ugly scars littering his body.
Little sparrow, who guides him and sings him praise and has given him his human heart. Geralt feels the beat of that heart always and is emboldened by it and is cherished by it- yes, Geralt is the most cherished. Jaskier smiles and leans in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
Geralt loves him.