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It was an old poem, really, something from years ago before Jaskier could be sure the Witcher had even a semblance of emotion for him. He’s not sure if he meant it to be so cryptic or not. Part of him wanted to scream from the rooftops about his love for his muse, but back then, his muse didn’t know Jaskier loved him. So, he thought he would be sly about it.
He wrote about all the treasures only the richest of kings could possess, about bathing in pools of gold, and of jewels and precious metals. But what he meant to write about was the beauty he saw- maybe only he saw. So, it was a poem for him and him alone.
He doesn’t often write so heavily in metaphors and certainly not of riches. It became somewhat of an obsession for his dearest fans to parse the meaning behind it. Most often it was his students at Oxenfurt that did their best, arguments between if the poem was about greed, wealth, or a metaphor for heaven took place all while the young professor smirked, unwilling to share the deep personal truths behind it.
He once feared the Witcher would discover he was Jaskier’s muse for more than tales of heroics, but the big oaf seemed not to pay attention to such things. Besides, that was before- now, as lovers Jaskier writes him poems and sonnets by the handful, sending anything from a sweet haiku to a scandalous sonnet in his letters when the two must be separated. Said big oaf keeps them now, though he doubts Geralt would ever admit it.
So, the silly little love poem was all but forgotten. The last time he thought about it, he considered telling his lover the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter when considering all that he had written and said since then.
These days, he pops in to teach an occasional class or give a guest lecture at Oxenfurt from time to time. It’s the very most fun when Geralt joins him, much like this evening. The sun is beginning to set over the university, and orangey pink hues fill the elaborate hallways. Outside, the birds chirp with glee, reveling in the coming warmth of spring. He’s just finished a lecture on epics, one of his best genres. His witcher and him walk down halls littered with students as they head to his office.
“Pools of Gold is about a greedy man’s obsession for wealth. It’s satirical, can’t you tell?” A first-year student says, his nose turned up at the more experienced artists he spoke to.
“Don’t be foolish,” a girl retorts “It’s clearly about the afterlife for the righteous hearted.”
“Pft,” another boy scoffs “Don’t be so ideological. Maybe it’s about the social constructs of the afterlife, but even then, I doubt it.”
The bard can’t help but smirk as they walk past, the focus of the very poem walking next to him.
“I’ve always wondered about that poem. Isn’t like you to write with so much metaphor.” Geralt muses once they’re out of the students’ earshot.
Jaskier almost chokes on the air he breathes, a little startled to hear the mighty warrior use the word ‘metaphor’. Jaskier must be rubbing off on him. That, and sleeping with someone is quite a motivating factor to make someone pay more attention to their interests.
“I thought you would have figured out by now,” Jaskier chuckles, pulling Geralt in a more secluded hall where students are less likely to see them. He stops once they’re far enough away he’s sure no one will hear, most students having left this part of the university already.
“Hm,” Geralt hums softly, “It’s not about greed; you’re too direct with your criticisms. And you’ve never been one to dwell on the afterlife much- unless it has to do with curses and ghosts,” Geralt smirks.
“Even when I admit I’m in love with you, you can’t figure it out!” Jaskier says exasperatedly.
“What? But you wrote that years ago, Jask.” Geralt says, though it’s more of a question.
“Mhm,” Jaskier smiles. “There are many guesses to the poem’s meaning, and in a way, most are true. It’s about all the things most valuable to me.”
Geralt’s eyebrows scrunch together “Which is?”
“Pools of gold,” he says softly, staring deep into Geralt’s eyes to exaggerate it. He reaches a hand up to run his fingers through the witcher’s hair “Shining silver or dazzling diamond dust. I couldn’t decide which was more accurate.”
Geralt’s eyes widen as realization hits him. His cheeks grow pink, his elusive blush the bard revels in. Yet Jaskier can see the desire- need to hear more. “the marble?”
It's Jaskier's turn to be surprised. He's almost sure his mouth falls open before he can collect himself "You remember the lines?" he sputters "Geralt, I thought you never listened to me, muchless read anything I wrote that I didn't give you."
The edges of his mouth twitch up in a surprisingly shy smile, Geralt's eyes drifting away. Shy. Jaskier momentarily wonders if anyone else sees the Witcher as he does.
"Oh," Jaskier coos softly, he places one hand on the witcher’s strong chest "Marble," he begins, his other hand moving to caress the long scar running down Geralt’s face. Slowly, he traces it over his eyebrow and down his cheek “with veins of white.”
He hears the witcher’s breath hitch on that one- Marble veining is what makes it beautiful and interesting. So few would compare scars to that, but that’s exactly how Jaskier sees Geralt’s marks. Beautiful. He had hoped the comparison would come across clearly.
Geralt steps nearer, that dark look of desire in his eyes as he crowds Jaskier closer to the wall “And what, little lark, is sweet like honey wine?”
Jaskier shivers at the deepness his voice has taken on. “I believe you skipped a few lines there,” he mumbles, trying to sound confident. Geralt simply raises an eyebrow at him, but it doesn’t hide the desire in his eyes. He wraps his arms around his witcher’s neck, pulling him close for a kiss- gentle and slow, but certainly not lacking in passion, his lips press against the other’s, that familiar sweet taste on his tongue as Geralt pulls him in tightly against his broad and strong chest.
When they part, it’s only for air. When Jaskier’s eyes finally rise to meet Geralt’s, he sees smug amusement dancing in those honey eyes. “And how did you know I would be sweet?” he asks, his lips tickling, bushing against Jaskier’s as he speaks.
“I had a theory,” he smiles “One I’d be happy to test as many times as it takes.”
Geralt hums, kissing him again, a little rougher this time. Though, the bard can feel him smile through it. “Perhaps we should find your office, and you can explain the rest of the poem to me.”