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Jaskier is, in his own words, an egalitarian lover.
To Geralt’s knowledge, Jaskier has fucked someone of just about every intelligent person-shaped race, colour, creed, gender identity, and sexual identity.
Apparently, he was just as satisfied holding a person who felt no desire for sex all night long as he was the morning after he spent the night with a succubus.
A specific incident which happened only under Geralt’s strict…not supervision per say because the idea of seeing Jaskier actually FUCK a succubus over and over, all night long, had set off a white noise in Geralt’s head and a heat in his gut that he doesn’t like to think too deeply on.
It is notable that the succubus agreed to peacefully leave the city the very next day and that Jaskier had been, in her words, “the most delectable feast; sure to keep me sated for the long journey ahead”.
Those words also set off the white noise and heat again and Geralt didn’t enjoy it one bit.
But Jaskier emerged smiling and loose-limbed, more tired than usual but in no way harmed so Geralt let it go.
For a while.
He did ask at last, after a decent amount of ale had gotten Jaskier drunk and Geralt pleasantly tipsy.
“As I am but a mortal man with maybe 80 years to live-“
“-unless you get executed for debauchery.”
Jaskier had glared but his nose scrunched up so cutely when his eyes narrowed that Geralt found the effect more adorable than menacing.
He drank more ale.
“Don’t interrupt. Rude! And you asked, so I answer.” He frowned. “Answered. Will answer. Fuck It, I can’t be buggered with declension right now.”
Geralt was simply impressed Jaskier had managed the word declension when his head kept vaguely lolling towards the table.
“My point is….” Jaskier trailed off, then looked up at the ceiling. “Ah! My point is… I only have so long to live. So why not enjoy things now? Even when I know they will end. Even when I’m sure they will end,” he sent Geralt a smile just tinged a little too sad. “I would rather spend my last breaths remembering that I tried everything that seemed interesting at least once. That I enjoyed my time amongst the breathing. That I loved as wide and as far as I could, as far and wide as the ocean.”
“Not as deep though.”
Jaskier blinked the blink of one in the midst of a soliloquy, who is very confused as to why someone else started saying lines. “Eh, what?” Was his very eloquent response.
Geralt shrugged. “You don’t love deeply. It’s all surface feelings. You love everyone. Your love gets all spread around thin, because you’ve never loved anyone deeply.”
“Oh fuck you very much, when I have loved you so deep I think I touched the bottom of the very world.” Satisfied his point was made, Jaskier closed his eyes to savour his next gulp of ale.
A beat of silence went by. Then two.
Halfway through the next, Jaskier’s brain caught up and he snapped his eyes open to look at Geralt in shock, as if the witcher had been the one to drop a love confession in the midst of some friendly drinking. “Oh fuck me sideways.”
Geralt couldn’t help it; he laughed. He laughed more heartily than Jaskier’s antics usually warranted. The laugh of someone carrying something in their chest, that finally meets its match behind someone else’s ribs.
Unfortunately, Jaskier wasn’t a mind-reader like Yennefer, so Geralt saw the way the bard’s eyes blanked as surely as if closing shutters against the wind and cold. “Yes, what a ridiculous thing for me to say. What are they putting in ale these days, I ask you,” the forced levity grated like lower vampire shrieks to Geralt’s ear. Wrong, and terrible, and heralding something that could destroy him if he’s not quick with his next move.
“Do you?”
Jaskier dropped his eyes to his drink. “Of course not; I’m just drunk, eh? Just drunk and in love with everyone, like you said.” His scent bloomed with liar’s sweat and his heartbeat picked up. “I sure haven’t been in love with you for two decades because that would just be pathetic, wouldn’t it?” a bitter forced laugh here. “Pay the tab, Geralt,” Jaskier said, handing over his coin purse. “I should probably go sleep this stupor off.” Without another word he got up and all but ran for the room their things were stored in.
“Shit,” Geralt said, only barely resisting the urge to bang his fist on the table. “Fuck.” He paid for their drinks and frowned down at the barmaid. “Do you have anything sweet for sale? Honeycake or gingerbakings?”
“Got some fruit pies. Sugar on the crust and all,” she offered with a helpful smile.
Geralt shook his head so hard it swam for a moment. “No, no pie. Pie is bad.”
The girl sniffed, offended. “Suit yourself.”
“Something else. Fruit. You must have fruit then. Do you have grapes or strawberries?”
“Pear harvest came in, few days past.”
Being nice to someone was hard, hence why Geralt made the effort so rarely. “No, he hates pears. Fuck.”
The barmaid’s eyes narrowed and her gaze sharpened like she was studying him. “Ah, like that is it?”
“It’s not like anything,” Geralt said, near a growl.
For her part, the girl didn’t cower or even back away. An annoyed witcher wasn’t the worst thing she’d dealt with this week, he guessed. “Mate,” she had the tone Vesemir used to adopt when drilling him on his footwork, “if you think I have not seen every human interaction in my time here, you’re as mindless as those silly old folk legends say you are.”
Geralt bristled.
“I’ve seen this exact sort of thing before. Not with Master Jaskier, the most famous bard on the Continent, but trust me, I’ll be keeping that to myself, you’ve no worry. You love him and he loves you and you said something stupid and now he thinks you don’t love him and you’re trying to find a peace offering so you can tell him you do love him after all. And the fact you know he hates pears when my man has been with me seven years and still brings home raspberries as if I don’t hate even the smell of them, tells me you really do love him.” She put her hands on the counter and stared up at Geralt as if she weren’t more than half a foot shorter.
Under her stern gaze, Geralt did feel like the lesser of the two of them.
“You don’t need treats and gifts. Just go up those stairs and tell that man you love him in plain and normal talk. It isn’t complicated, mate.”
Geralt swallowed. He was surprised his medallion didn’t hum, as nearly every woman he knew with that kind of confidence was a sorceress. Except Nenekke. “Have you ever been to the Temple of Ellander?”
The girl blew out a harsh breath. “Do you want my life story or do you want to make amends before your man goes to sleep?” She raised her eyebrows. “Or packs his things?”
The idea of Jaskier leaving drove Geralt up the stairs like a burst of Aard was under his heels. His hearing caught the edge of, “Men, I swear to fucking Freya…” before it honed in on the grounding sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat, too elevated for him to be sleeping.
“Fuck,” Geralt said again, debating between knocking on the door or just opening it.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice drifted through the wood. “I hear big stompy boots, so I’m assuming it’s you, Geralt. I’ll be done in a moment, just give me two shakes of-“
Geralt opened the door to find Jaskier stripped to the waist and running a damp rag over himself. The muscles of his shoulders, his back drew Geralt’s eye and made a fierce burst of want spark inside him.
At the entrance, Jaskier startled, his ever so long legs twisted around each other and he nearly fell to the floor.
Except Geralt propelled himself forward, catching Jaskier’s weight before he dropped. His skin was cool from the washing and so smooth Geralt couldn’t resist running a finger along his shoulder blade.
Jaskier blinked up at him in surprise for a moment, then pulled away gracelessly and regained his balance against the table the ewer and bowl sat on. “What the fuck?” He said, almost to himself. “What the actual fuck is this night even?” He ran a still wet hand through his hair. “Hello, Geralt. Nice to see you finally remembered the way to ou- the room. Did the barmaid turn you down?”
“She’s married.”
“And since you’re so noble, you of course had no recourse but to come join me. After all, I’m the one who sleeps with married people, right?” Jaskier looked around for the chemise he sleeps in. “Fucks anyone who breathes near me since I can’t love properly anyway.” The bitterness in Jaskier’s voice was almost a flavour in the air.
Geralt was losing ground faster than he could keep up with. “I’m sorry.”
That stopped Jaskier from where he was twisting his shirt in his hands instead of donning it. “No, I’m sorry. I’m drunk and rambling. It’s not your fault you don’t- you shouldn’t apologize for my idiotic, empty words. That’s all they are, empty, like me, a fillingless pie.”
Desperation was growing in Geralt’s chest to make Jaskier stop sounding so sad, stop saying such horrible things about himself. “Please,” he said at last, trying to beg for something without knowing exactly what it is. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t… no that’s a lie, I did. I knew-“
Jaskier’s body went as rigid as if hit with a paralysing spell.
“I didn’t mean… You can love deeply. You do, you have for years. You have followed me when I spurned you and taken care of me when I’m injured and helped me in a million small ways. I knew it was love. I didn’t know… I didn’t dare hope you were… in love. With me. As I am in love with you.” Plain and normal words.
Jaskier stared. He didn’t flail or wave his arms about, nor did he make those gasping fish faces as he grasps for his next tirade. He just stared like a statue. “We’re not friends,” he said at last.
Geralt felt the words like a claw through the gut.
“We are not friends,” Jaskier repeated. “You have said over and fucking over for years that we are not friends and now you have the… fucking gall to act as though you are in love with me? As if you have been in love with me for some time? Bullshit, Geralt of fucking Rivia. That’s bullshit and knowing what you know it’s cruel in a way I have never thought you could be.” He pulled his shirt on roughly and Geralt could see the next few moments play out.
Jaskier grabs his bag and his lute and he leaves. He leaves and he doesn’t seek Geralt out. Geralt sees Jaskier’s back clad in red leather walking away, with the wind whipping across a mountaintop. He sees months spent without Jaskier, without his chatter as comfortable background noise, without his childish enthusiasm for adventure, as if he doesn’t know he’ll be sleeping on the hard ground and hungry most of the time, without his perfect eyes that see beauty in everything, everyone.
Even a grumpy witcher so covered in armour even when his gear is off. “I’m scared.”
Jaskier’s hand stopped where it was reaching for his lute. “What the fuck could you possibly be scared of, witcher?”
“I’m scared of what my loving you will do to you, when just knowing mean has already…”
Geralt trailed off but his eyes fastened on Jaskier’s hands and face as if seeing the old wounds afresh.
Jaskier curled and uncurled his hands, as if the ache lingers under all Yennefer’s and Triss’s healing spells. “I would rather spend my last breaths howling in unimaginable pain than be without you. I was ready for that to be my end; I was. If I didn’t make it back from that, and at times it seemed like I wouldn’t, I gave Yennefer permission to tell you that I’d loved you all along. Because I wanted you to know that before Ciri, before Yennefer, that you were loved. You were always fucking loved. Deeper than the oceans around Skellige. I love you all the way to the bottom of my heart, puppyish thing that it is. You’re right that all my paramours were surface loves. How could they not be when you claimed every other fathom for yourself before I was twenty?”
There are so many words he needed to say, Geralt knew. But for the moment, the only possible thing could do was cross the room and grab Jaskier into a kiss because he doesn’t think he’ll survive another second without kissing Jaskier.
The bard melted in his arms for a glorious moment, before pulling back. “No, you… you can’t just give me some half-hearted line about being in love with me when you’ve barely acknowledged our friendship most of the time. My heart has been yours to flick away, and growl at, and kick down mountains for decades. If you can’t give me yours…” he turned away, “then we shouldn’t do this at all.”
Fuck, Geralt had hoped kissing would have bought him more time. More time to search for the right words, because he knows if he doesn’t find the right words, the taste of Jaskier on his lips will be all that’s left of the other man by the morning. “Triss is my friend. Mousesack was my friend.”
Jaskier’s face scrunched in confusion, but he was clearly going to let Geralt continue until he made anything resembling sense.
“I have friends. And Eskel, Lambert, Coen, the few other witchers left, they are my brothers.” Geralt took a deep breath. “Ciri is my Destiny. So is Yennefer.” He continued quickly because he can see Jaskier drawing away again, “But you are… more. You have always been more, even when I didn’t know why I didn’t just… leave you behind, especially at the start. You’re not my friend because you are so much more than just a friend. You are mine in a way no one else can lay claim to; that I don’t have a word for. You are mine because you choose to walk with me and I choose to walk with you. Because my days are better when you are there. Friends come and go, my brothers are only together a few months of the year. Ciri has a bigger part to play in this world than I do, as does Yennefer. I’m a supporting character in their stories, I know.” Geralt risked stepping close enough to pull an unresisting Jaskier into his arms again. “You have made me the hero in your songs, but you are the hero in my heart.”
Jaskier’s eyes grew bigger and somehow bluer as they teared up. “You cocking bastard.”
Not exactly the response Geralt had hoped for.
“You emotionally stunted pile of muscles,” Jaskier was still talking. “You absolute and total cunt. You are not allowed to have a better love confession than me. I’m the poet,” he broke into one of his smiles that lights up every corner of the world. “How dare you,” Jaskier laughed as he said it, still laughing as he pressed his mouth to Geralt’s.
Geralt clutched him tighter, terrified he might pull away again, might demand more specific words about his love for Jaskier, the hows and whys and whens: things Geralt doesn’t even know. He’d been falling in love with Jaskier for so long he doesn’t know when it started.
But he knows when it will end. Never.