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People assumed many things about Jaskier the bard. They assumed blue was his favourite colour; it wasn’t. He loved the way the colour looked on him but he was fond of yellow. Yellow was warmth. It was sunshine, buttercups, golden mead, and the colour of his witcher’s eyes, but they assumed he loved blue.
They were wrong.
They also assumed that he fell in love easily; he didn’t. They weren’t exactly wrong but they weren’t right either. He was a romantic at heart, he was a bard after all, and he loved… in a way. He fell in love with the idea of a person. He saw them from across the room and wondered, yearned, imagined what it might be like to love them, to hold their face in his hands and shower them with love and affection. Sometimes they fell into bed together. Sometimes he even enjoyed cuddling and kissing them after. Sometimes it even happened more than once.
But sometimes it happened one too many times.
“I love you,” they would say.
And just like that the whole illusion was shattered. He froze, walls up, heart turned to stone.
He’d stammer some excuse and run.
And then he’d wallow in self-pity and guilt, writing the whole affair into ballads and poems; stories where he got to say “I love you too.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt’s fingers snapped in front of his face, pulling him from his spiral.
He plastered a fake smile on his face and clapped his hand on the witcher’s back. “She dumped me,” he lied “I will die a brokenhearted man.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You say that every time.”
Jaskier stammered before pointing at the witcher. “I do not!”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t! I’m a poet, a wordsmith! I have range!”
Geralt snorted. “It’s like the monsters.” Jaskier put his hand on his hip and gestured for Geralt to explain. “All words no truth, doubt you’ve ever really been in love.”
Jaskier froze. No, no no no. This wasn’t right. Geralt was terrible at feelings… wasn’t he? How had the witcher seen through his lies? His hands started to shake. He couldn’t do this. Geralt would think he was broken.
He was right.
“Jaskier?”
“Hmm?”
“You know that would be alright? If you hadn’t?” Geralt’s voice was low, soft… grounding.
He bit his lip and hummed again. “Yeah sure,” even to his ears the words were unconvincing.
“My brother, Eskel… he’s the same.”
Jaskier blinked and looked at Geralt, really looked at him. His honey eyes were filled with worry, lips pressed together in a thin line. “The same?”
“Mhmm,” Geralt nodded.
“And you don’t think I’m broken?”
Geralt let out a quiet chuckle and gripped his shoulder, it was warm, heavy, reassuring. “No, Jaskier. You are many things, a pain in my arse mostly, but never broken.”
Jaskier felt his face light up and he threw his arms around Geralt. “Thank you,” he hummed in his witcher’s ear.
“Although…”
“No!” Jaskier whined, pulling back to find Geralt smirking at him. “Don’t ruin it, you arse!”
“Your sense of self-preservation could use some work.”
Jaskier whacked Geralt’s arm. “I hate you.”
“And do you know how to do your doublet up, or is this a choice?”
“Geralt, I mean it!” Jaskier huffed, although his laughs gave him away.
“You’re basically asking for trouble,” Geralt gave him a warm smile.
“Says the man that called the Law of fucking Surprise as a joke!” Jaskier countered, Geralt’s despairing groan making him giggle.
“At least I didn’t walk into a succubus’s layer playing the fucking lute,” Geralt shot back.
Jaskier scoffed. “Oh as if you could,” he hadn’t realised how close they’d gotten until Geralt’s eyes flicked down to his lips. He smirked. “Promise not to fall in love with me?”
Geralt’s cheeks blushed ever so faintly, a beautiful rose pink that looked ever so pretty against his pale skin and snow white hair. He nodded. “Promise.”
Jaskier’s fingers gripped onto the rough black fabric of Geralt’s shirt and pulled his friend into a kiss.