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Geralt is beautiful when he’s asleep, Jaskier thinks. In the early light of the morning, the harsh lines of time and stress mellow into criss-crossing works of art, giving cadence to the man Geralt could’ve (would’ve) been, had he not undergone his transformation into a witcher. For a brief, brief moment, Jaskier has the urge to run his hands over each and every scar, to wash away the hurt of years past. He doesn’t. Geralt sleeps lightly and fitfully at best and the last thing he wants to do is to be at the receiving end of an irate witcher.
It’s an odd feeling, Jaskier supposes, to love someone so deeply, so desperately, and know that they will be here long after he passes. To know that to the love of his life, he is nothing more than a passing fancy; a way to pass the time for a couple dozen years before moving on to the next. Somehow, the thought gives him peace.
The last thing Jaskier wants to do is hurt Geralt. It’s a preposterous sentiment to think that a spineless human could hurt a battle hardened super soldier, but he dreams nonetheless that a part of that womanizing superbeing could love him too. Even though Jaskier knows, too, that Geralt’s heart hardly belonged to him and him alone. It is a fool’s mission, because only a fool would choose to love someone so deeply enamored with another.
Geralt is to Jaskier as Yennefer is to Geralt. For as much as Jaskier flirts and sleeps around, writing ballads to various nobles, his heart belongs to Geralt and Geralt alone. It has since that fateful day in the tavern, when he asked the handsome stranger in the corner of the bar to critique his performance on a whim.
He wonders, sometimes, why he chooses to feed on the scraps of Geralt’s affection. He could very well have his pick of any noblewoman (or nobleman, for that matter) with a well placed song and whispered seduction. He doesn’t, though, and that stark distinction between the burning love he feels for Gerald and the startling emptiness he feels during one of his affairs fills him with dread. He’d rather be a mistress, a shameful secret for his beloved than the end all be all of someone he couldn’t care less about. The realization almost makes him want to laugh. Jaskier, the man who spun pure emotion into tangible song, so inexperienced with his own.
“Oi, Jaskier!”
He spins around so quickly he fears he may have whiplash. Jaskier briefly panics, so lost in his reverie that he didn’t notice Geralt approach. He wonders if the Witcher ascension process gives the powers of telepathy, and is shocked to see that he doesn’t care. So what if Geralt knows what a fool for him he is; it’d serve him right.
“Let’s head out to the nearest village. I need to find work.” Geralt is curt, and separated from the blissful sunshine of the early morning, the lines of time are evident in his handsome face.
Like chiseled glass, Jaskier thinks. Beautiful, but cold and unfeeling. He finds himself agreeing, stumbling over his words as he pauses to collect his meager belongings.
So what if he’s such a fool for him? Jaskier thinks he is blessed to have been allowed to worship at Geralt’s altar, for as long as it may last.