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Geralt assumed that Jaskier’s home would be neat and tidy. Given how meticulously he cares for his appearance and fusses over his hair and clothes, as well as his lute, Geralt expected to find his place at Oxenfurt similarly cared for. At first he wonders if someone broke in – there are piles of manuscripts and letters everywhere, several eclectic items gathered in odd places such as the windowsill and on a table by the fireside. Geralt looks around, realising that things haven’t been touched in months. This is how Jaskier left it.
“Did you leave in a rush?” he wonders.
“Hm? Oh yes, a little bit, but that’s often the case – winter lecturing likes to try to turn into spring lecturing, and if I don’t start making my excuses at midwinter I’m here until summer.”
Geralt hums in acknowledgment of the words, walking over to the fireplace. The hearth is still filled with the ashes of the last fire. On the mantle, several little objects live, wooden and stone carved mushrooms and deer, miniature flowers and three little lutes. His eyes are drawn to a wolf made of white stone, but he doesn’t reach out to touch it.
Behind him, Jaskier is fussing, moving things around as he looks for something. It seems that it was a few loose sheets of parchment, given the way he crows with success and then hastily rehomes them beneath a few books in a pile by the window.
“Let me show you the bedroom,” Jaskier says, and Geralt nods, following him. “Big enough to share,” Jaskier comments as he opens the door and steps into the bedroom.
The bedroom itself is as neat as Geralt expected the rest of the house to be. The good-sized bed has been left unmade, but, other than that, everything is in place. All of one wall is taken up with a wardrobe, and a wry smile tugs at Geralt’s lips as he thinks about how many offensively colourful garments it must contain. There’s a vanity too, with drawers hiding who knows what, and several perfumes and beauty products set neatly out on top.
“It’s very you,” he manages.
“I shall take that as a compliment!” Jaskier decides, and then ushers Geralt back out of the bedroom. “Now, some food, I think. I’m ravenous. Give me a minute and I’ll be ready!”
He looks ready to Geralt, but he doesn’t argue the point. He finds himself left alone as Jaskier disappears back into the bedroom. Behind the door, he can hear drawers and wardrobe doors being opened, garments being undone. Jaskier looked presentable enough as he was, but Geralt supposed he can’t be in Jaskier’s home and not expect him to preen a little after so long away from his obviously extensive collection of fine things.
There are enough distractions to keep him busy while he waits, but curiosity makes Geralt go to the pages Jaskier had hunted down and relocated. He eases them out, turning them over. Jaskier’s handwriting greets him, neat and orderly on the parchment, looking as if it was written with delicate care. The words are, at first glance, a love song. As Geralt skims them a little more closely, he realises they’re a love song about him. There are seven pages in total. Only one is blank on one side. The rest hold full and fragmented songs, and Geralt stares down at some of the words, almost dropping the bundle. Well over half the content is very explicit, some of it in an artful way, of just what Jaskier longs for them to do.
Geralt doesn’t read it all. There’s not enough time. Jaskier is at the vanity now, humming almost nervously. Geralt puts the pages back before he’s discovered.
When Jaskier comes back out of the bedroom, he’s dressed in deep green, silver embroidery accentuating the edges of his doublet and sky blue layered underneath. His appearance is as neat and considered as ever, but this time Geralt lets his gaze linger a little longer than usual, his thoughts turning over carefully in his head. Jaskier has dressed up no doubt in large part because he takes pride in his appearance, but also because, as the songs Geralt has just seen explicitly state, he is enamoured with Geralt.
It’s something to deal with later, on a full stomach, so he lets Jaskier lead the way to whichever inn he likes. As they walk, Jaskier chattering as enthusiastically as ever, Geralt is already thinking about how he had been planning to sleep by the hearth – there’s a ridiculously plush rug there that would make for a very nice cushion beneath his bedroll – but now he thinks he’ll take Jaskier up on that offer to share the bed.
And then he’ll see if the words in those songs are as sincere as he hopes they are.