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Jaskier whined holding his bandaged hand to his chest, barely able to flex his fingers without wincing. It had been his own fault as it so often was. His father had taught him how to throw a punch properly but every time he got mad he just forgot everything. His rage burned through him, hotter than the sun that gave them life, or the blaze that warmed them beneath the stars.
And when somebody insulted his favourite witcher… Jaskier saw red.
His poor fingers had paid the price, and now he was left without his lute whilst he recovered. The witcher had been thrown out of the last town without pay, and they were running out of money… fast.
The bard playing in the square had stunning, gorgeous long blond hair and a lute that was almost as beautiful as Jaskier’s own elven one. His fingers danced across the strings elegantly and his voice has been blessed by Melitele herself. His eyes were a brilliant cornflower blue and his clothes were shimmering like fireflies dancing in the moonlight.
Jaskier loved him.
His witcher would laugh, of course, at how easily Jaskier always fell in love - usually without even speaking to the person, but Jaskier counted it amongst his blessings. It was the spark that drove him through life, brightening even the darkest nights as he flitted from one flower to another, taking their nectar and singing the sweetest songs in their honour. So no, he didn’t regret losing his heart so often, how could one ever regret love?
“Jaskier, stop fiddling with it,” Geralt grumbled, pulling Jaskier’s wrist into his hands.
Calloused fingers brushed along the bandages that kept his fingers bound together, a bright orange light erupting from the tips and settling over the woven linen. Jaskier’s brow furrowed and he glanced up at his witcher, quickly caught in irises of liquid gold. The bard in the square was completely forgotten as Geralt brought Jaskier’s injured hand up to his lips, placing a tender kiss to the bruised skin.
“What-?”
“Quen, it will protect you, bard,” Geralt smiled faintly, but his eyes shone with the love he held for Jaskier.
“I don’t need Quen, dear heart, I have you, big old scary witcher,” Jaskier teased.
“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, narrowing his eyes at the musician who was singing a rather divine cover of one of Jaskier’s own compositions. “Looks like you.”
Jaskier gasped, his uninjured hand flying to his chest. Whilst, the bard was very pretty, he looked nothing like Jaskier and that was just an insult. “He most certainly does not!”
“Same eyes,” Geralt argued. “Sings like a nightingale.”
“As opposed to ‘fillingless pie’, witcher?”
“Let it go, Jask.”
“Never!” he declared, cackling despite the pain in his hand and the ache in his heart as he caught the twinkling blue eyes of the bard. His hands would recover soon enough, and at least the world was still full of music and love.