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Jaskier had chosen his outfit for the feast with care, trying on several options until he identified one that promised, according to his reflection in the mirror, to be the brightest, most unmistakable presentation of the evening. He wasn’t disappointed with the result.
“Oh, how delightful,” tittered the third daughter of a baron, and stroked a hand up the feather perched on Jaskier’s cap. “I’ve heard about your fashion and your…ways.”
“All scandalous lies, I assure you,” Jaskier said, pressing a kiss to her hand.
“You are quite the little popinjay,” she laughed.
Jaskier preened under the praise, and let himself be led into the gardens, away from the heat and bustle of his parent’s banquet hall. The paths, lit here and there by shaded lanterns, led to some out-of-the-way grottos where the baron’s daughter pinned him to the wall, kissing him and pressing against him with enthusiasm.
He enjoyed the touching—skin against his, warm and soft. The kissing was endurable, though it always felt a bit silly. The attention, though—that was well worth putting up with the rest. She praised his style, his wit, his talent. The baron’s daughter—along with the others who admired Jaskier’s flashy costumes and flamboyant manners—looked at him with desire, delight, fond amusement. Never disappointment, disdain, or condescension, which was what he endured from his family.
To Jaskier’s relief, she did not pursue the encounter further than enthusiastic petting, but left him with a final throat-swabbing kiss. Once she’d gone, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and attempted to feel pleased with the encounter. This kind of thing was romance, as all the tales and ballads defined it. Jaskier felt the love and affection spoken of in all the songs—felt it more keenly and more frequently than anyone else he knew, in fact. Surely he only needed practice to understand why the other things the poets spoke of—passionate embraces, sweet kisses, rolls in the hay—had so far left him cold. He straightened his cap and his sky-blue doublet and strode back out into the gardens, looking for someone else to impress.
*****
At Oxenfurt, with so many aspiring bards and young romantics, love was a commodity much in demand. And as it had been back home, nice manners and impeccable appearance were a reliable way to gain the attention of possible amours. Once Jaskier had caught their eye, enduring an hour or two of uncomfortable mechanical exertion seemed the surest way to earn the affection he craved. The annoyance of enduring such encounters seemed a fair trade for the return of his love.
For he did love them—he could love anyone if he made even the slightest effort—and if they couldn’t love him for himself, at least they could appreciate what he did for them in bed. Certainly his musical talents had failed to win him acclaim. He played proficiently and had mastered musical theory. He was improving at wordplay and rhyme. He understood, deeply, the love the master bards sang of in their ballads. But so far his reach had exceeded his grasp, and the songs he penned were politely complimented by those he bedded, but never requested again. So what else did he have to offer anyone but the physical?
Jaskier continued to spend the stipend sent by his father at the tailor, lest he lose the attention his pretty face and impressive wardrobe earned him.
*****
During his second year at Oxenfurt, Jaskier thought for a brief while that he’d discovered the reason that bedsport with ladies had always left him cold. He’d been invited to a gathering of older students at a tavern in the city. And there he met Valdo Marx.
“Quite the plumage you’ve got there,” Valdo said as he came to stand with his back to the wall, next to Jaskier, looking out at the jovial crowd. “Anyone in particular you’re hoping to attract?”
Jaskier had attended mostly to mourn the loss of his most recent lover, who’d reportedly found more enthusiastic company elsewhere. But sharing such information was not likely to charm. “Thought I’d see what comes of it,” Jaskier returned, with a wink.
“I see.” Valdo leaned closer to him. His eyes were a rich, deep brown. “Do you want to, then?”
“Want to what?” Jaskier said faintly.
Valdo leaned in to whisper, “Come of it, little bird.” His hand stroked Jaskier’s arm, his breath teased the shell of Jaskier’s ear, and Jaskier thought that here, at last, was an answer to his previous failure. Perhaps bedding a man would be different.
*****
It was not.
*****
Jaskier’s years at Oxenfurt were illuminating. Beauty, showmanship, panache: those things won Jaskier adoration. But that adoration, Jaskier found, bred expectations he had neither anticipated nor desired.
On his own, Jaskier wasn’t enough to entice the people he loved to stay. He’d learned that lesson through hard experience. Jaskier was too loud, too impulsive, too much. He needed to provide some additional compensation to make up for his other flaws. And so, though whatever force that seemed to inflame physical desire in all others had always failed to touch Jaskier, he studied lovemaking as he’d studied the hurdy-gurdy: more out of duty and necessity than genuine interest. And, as with the hurdy-gurdy, he learned the craft sufficiently to please those who sought out his talents, though it excited him not at all.
There was certainly something deficient about him, something broken, something others would detest if they knew. So Jaskier was determined that no one should know. He would dress himself as brightly as any court flower and pay the toll of physical involvement for the affection it earned him in return, and that would have to do.
*****
Then there was Geralt.
*****
Geralt was becoming fond of Jaskier, despite his statements to the contrary. Jaskier knew the signs: he laughed at Jaskier’s jokes (though only the really good ones). He trusted Jaskier with his half of the camp chores, and even let him groom Roach. He put himself between Jaskier and danger, be it a nekker or a jealous spouse. He didn’t move away when Jaskier drunkenly leaned against him as they sat on a bench in a tavern.
It was pleasant, having a companion who endured him for so long, who listened to Jaskier’s songs attentively enough to critique them, who noticed immediately when Jaskier acquired a new outfit or tried a new scent. And of course, Geralt was easy to love. Jaskier had known that even before Geralt had offered his life for Jaskier’s in Dol Blathanna, on the first day of their acquaintance. How could Jaskier fail to love him?
Well. If Jaskier wished that love to be requited, then it was time to make sure Geralt was getting what he wanted as well.
*****
Jaskier set about his task subtly at first, dropping hints here and there that his fellow Oxenfurt students or bored married folk they encountered on their travels would have picked up without hesitation. Geralt responded to none of these.
Jaskier became bolder in his insinuations, and then bolder still, knowing that Geralt was not accustomed to offers of affection. He acquired increasingly dashing clothing: a doublet in a rich orange, bright as a sunrise and trimmed in dusty red; a jacket of purest blue, embroidered with a hypnotic pattern of green and white circles; a hat with three ostrich feathers arrayed in a tall plumage that stood out in any room.
These efforts drew attention and admiration from others, but still Geralt gave no sign that he intended any closer association.
One dreary afternoon, after they’d made camp under a rocky overhang, Jaskier prepared to accompany Geralt on a hunt of some unknown beast who’d been snatching livestock in nearby villages. He reluctantly set aside his magnificent hat, not willing to risk it among the reaching branches of the trees, and chose a beautifully dyed set of hunting leathers, a brilliant red, to change into. Surely Geralt couldn’t fail to admire them.
“That won’t be comfortable in the rain,” Geralt said, as soon as Jaskier had turned around. “Don’t you have anything else?”
Jaskier blinked at him, a bit wounded. “I am a bard, witcher dear.”
Geralt glared at him, an expression that had become utterly unintimidating through long familiarity.
Jaskier patted Geralt on the arm and offered a sly smile. “If you wish to get me out of my clothes, you only have to say.”
“You don’t want that, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said brightly. Perhaps Geralt thought him afraid? Well, that was a problem Jaskier could rectify. “Anyone would be lucky to–”
“No.” Geralt’s voice had turned flat, cold as the fall rain that pattered on the trees beyond their shelter. “I’m a witcher. I’m very aware when someone does not want to fuck me.”
“You…” Jaskier blinked at him. “You’re saying you don’t want to sleep with me?” The thought sent a shiver of panic through him. If he couldn't offer Geralt that, then what—
“I don’t sleep with people who don’t want it,” Geralt said in a tightly controlled tone that meant he was quite angry indeed. “That’s not some price you have to pay to travel with me. What makes you think I’d want that?”
“Everyone else does!” Jaskier shot back, throwing up his hands. When Geralt’s eyes narrowed, Jaskier waved his words away. “Oh, never mind.”
“What do you mean?” Geralt asked, with a severe frown.
“Companionship can never be just affection, in my experience,” Jaskier said, failing somewhat in his attempt to keep bitterness from his voice. “Holding onto someone requires giving them what they want, which is always, always sex. There’s no need to get so offended. It has nothing to do with your—your witcheriness.”
Geralt’s frown deepened. “Mm.”
Jaskier ground the toe of his boot into the dirt and ignored the flush rising to his cheeks. Oh, well done. Well done, indeed, he told himself. Not only had he offended Geralt, he’d also all but confessed how pathetic and broken he was, how miserably far from the feelings normal people took for granted.
Then again, he reflected, as Geralt continued to frown, he supposed witchers weren’t exactly normal people. Perhaps there was some hope that Geralt wouldn’t judge him as harshly as other humans might.
“Affection doesn’t have to mean fucking,” Geralt said at last.
“Ah.” That, Jaskier supposed, was Geralt’s polite way of saying that Jaskier’s offer of himself as a lover was not sufficient enticement for Geralt to return his affection. Jaskier felt a familiar sinking feeling, the one that always came when his efforts to prove himself worthy of love fell short. “I’m sorry to have—that is, I apologise for…” Jaskier wasn’t quite sure how to finish that. I’m sorry for loving you. I apologise that I can’t offer you more sincere desire. I regret letting you find out how deficient I am.
“Jaskier.” Geralt stepped closer–close enough to touch, if Jaskier had dared. “Why have you been travelling with me?”
“Because I—” No, best not to say what Geralt wouldn’t want to hear. He settled on, “Because I enjoy your company.”
“Mm.” Geralt sounded almost…smug? “And how many humans have I allowed to accompany me, in my sixty-two years walking the Path?”
“You’ve spent—” Jaskier shook his head. “No, never mind. Seven? Will this take much maths, because that’s not really my—”
“None,” Geralt said. “Just you.”
“Oh.” Jaskier smoothed a hand down the front of his hunting leathers, suddenly feeling the weight of Geralt’s attention on him more than ever before. To think that Jaskier had earned the privilege of Geralt’s company somehow, where others had failed… Well, it kindled something warm in his chest that eased the ache of Geralt's ostensible rejection. “I see.”
“You can leave those on if you want, but it won’t be comfortable.” Geralt looked out at the drizzle. “If you change, you’ll be warmer.”
“No, I’ll…” Jaskier had spent so long composing a wardrobe that maximised his flamboyance, he wasn’t certain what else he even had. He vaguely remembered wool hose and a warm tunic somewhere near the bottom of his saddlebags. “Give me a moment.”
“I’ll wait,” Geralt said, and settled down on a rock next to the overhang to do so.
When Jaskier had cobbled together an outfit more appropriate to an afternoon in the wet woods, Geralt rose to join him. Jaskier pulled at the front of his tunic, which did not particularly flatter his figure. “This what you had in mind? I won’t be turning the heads of any court beauties in this, you know.”
Geralt looked Jaskier up and down, then gave a brisk nod. “It’ll do,” he said, and set off at a pace easy enough for Jaskier to follow.