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Jaskier was flitting around the room, humming to himself in between ramblings about everything and nothing. He folded clothes, and sniffed at perfume bottles, glancing back and forth between the selection of fine silks on the bed and where Geralt was sat on a stool in the middle of the room. He felt incredibly out of place, whereas Jaskier, with his brightly coloured clothes, softly tousled hair and flawless soft skin, clearly belonged. The castle belonged to a local lord, some relation of Jaskier’s, if Geralt had understood correctly. But the bard had brushed it off and had successfully diverted the topic of conversation every time Geralt tried to ask about it.
Now that Geralt thought about it, he really didn’t know Jaskier very well. It was all superficial. What colour he liked, his preference in perfumes… and that he played music?
Geralt frowned. The man called him his best friend, and Jaskier had done a truly remarkable job of immortalising Geralt’s own life in poems and ballads. He had an annoying knack of getting Geralt to open up, even when he didn’t want to… particularly when he didn’t want to. When they were stuck alone at night in the middle of the forests, it was easier to give in and tell Jaskier stories of his past, the earlier hunts he’d undertaken, the loss of his family and home before the humans had come. It all came tumbling out of Geralt’s mouth, and Jaskier remained silent, the scratching of his quill on the parchment being the only sound in the camp.
It almost felt like talking to Roach when Jaskier listened like that, only occasionally asking questions if he didn’t understand something.
When the songs came out they were just far enough away from the truth that it didn’t hurt. The epic retelling of the sacking of Kaer Morhen hadn’t mentioned the keep by name, and instead of witchers it had been a settlement of human warriors, knights, that had been attacked by villainous and greedy monsters.
Only Geralt knew the truth, he recognised the tale underneath the web of lies, and he was finally beginning to understand Jaskier’s trade. He was a storyteller, not a gossip. If asked, Jaskier could pledge that the tales were fictional, only inspired by Geralt but not necessarily a truthful account of his nature.
It allowed Geralt to keep his precious privacy intact.
But… what did Geralt really know about the bard?
He’d studied at Oxenfurt, graduated with the highest degree in the seven liberal arts, whatever the fuck that meant. He… he had blue eyes?
Geralt wasn’t even sure he knew how old Jaskier was, or when his birthday was?
He frowned, his eyes trailing after Jaskier as he danced around the room, an enigma dressed in silver and gold. Geralt cleared his throat. “Why did you become a bard?”
Jaskier finally stopped, hands freezing above a selection of wildflowers. The sudden tension in the room was palpable, swirling around them in a fog of emotions. There was a sinking feeling in Geralt’s gut, only getting worse the longer Jaskier remained silent but finally he was caught in a flash of cornflower blue eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re my friend.”
Jaskier scoffed. “Well, yes. I know that, but… why do you ask now?”
“Curiosity?”
“Hmm…” Jaskier peered back at him as they fell back into an uneasy silence. Eventually, Jaskier gave up. He smiled brightly, the kind he used in his performances. “Music, poetry, stories. They are the fabric of society, Geralt. Everyone needs to escape sometimes, and bards provide the means.”
Geralt cocked his head, “What were you escaping from?”
“Oh, you know, this and that. I wanted to see the world, Geralt, and now I do, with quite honestly, the best man by my side.”
Flattery. Diversion.
“The Lord was your family.”
“Was, yes. You’re my family now, Geralt.”
Geralt sighed. He wasn’t going to get any information from Jaskier tonight, but maybe if he continued to show an interest the bard would lower the walls that he was so good at hiding behind. Geralt wanted to see the man behind the mask. Instead, he sat in silence as Jaskier dressed him and braided his hair. The gentle tug at his scalp felt good, helping release tension he hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying. He stood when Jaskier asked, swatting the bard away when he tried to help him into his trousers, only relenting when he’d finished with the fastenings and Jaskier insisted that he turn around.
Jaskier’s fingers brushed against his arse, a sensation that almost felt more intimate than the massages and the chamomile oil. Geralt was just thankful that Jaskier couldn’t hear the way his heartbeat picked up, couldn’t smell the waves of affection that he knew were rolling off him. He licked his lips, and fingered the braids in his hair. They felt strange under his fingertips, thin ropes of hair on either side of his head, twisting around into his usual half-up style. In the back, there were flowers. Geralt sniffed his fingers… buttercups.
Jaskier had weaved buttercups into his hair.
He was about to question it when he caught sight of his arse in the mirror. “Jaskier what the fuck is this?” A large bow was tied neatly at the base of his spine, just above his butt.
“A gift from the gods, Geralt,” Jaskier said, winking at him with a mischievous smile. The bard’s tongue flicked out, running along his lips in a way that was so utterly entrancing, and Geralt was momentarily stunned until Jaskier spun around and wiggled his own arse. Geralt blinked, his gaze dropping to ogle the bard’s butt. “And look, we match!”
And they did, Jaskier also had a bow tied less neatly on his own trousers. It wasn’t fair though, Jaskier had put so much effort into making Geralt look presentable for the evening, he shouldn’t look anything less than perfect. So, Geralt reached out and untied the messy bow, making Jaskier whine.
“Sh, bard,” Geralt hummed, his nimble fingers took the loose silver silk ribbons and deftly tied them into a bow, neater than Jaskier’s efforts. “There, fixed.”
“Oh.”
Their eyes met as Jaskier spun around, and Geralt felt lost in the sea of blue. Jaskier’s eyes always seemed to cut straight into his soul, piercing his heart. Gorgeous, enchanting and beautiful, just like the rest of him. Suddenly it felt like the whole world had shrunk around them, leaving only the two of them. It was hard to breathe and Geralt felt like his heart was trying to escape his chest. Jaskier’s gaze flicked down to his lips, and it was all the permission he needed. He cupped Jaskier’s cheek in his hand and pressed their lips together in a kiss.