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Jaskier had been following him for twenty years. Twenty years they had been side by side. They had traveled thousands of miles, seen hundreds of cities, bedded even more women, they’d even slain too many monsters to count. Well, Geralt had been the one to slay the monsters, but nevertheless Jaskier had felt the fear and relief from it enough times for it to count.
They had been a team for twenty years. Two decades. One thousand and fourty-three weeks. Seven thousand three hundred and four days. One hundred and seventy-five thousand three hundred and twenty hours. All this time, and Jaskier had never been able to tell Geralt that he was in love with him.
Now it’s not shocking, he had practically fallen head over heels when he had first met the fated witcher, and that’s just not fair to have to be still a young man and tell this clearly well grown man that he happened to be the finest thing that Jaskier could think to sing of. So, begrudgingly, on the witcher’s part, he had joined Geralt on the Path and made him into his muse.
He may not be able to tell the other of his feelings, but damn can he make a song about him.
But as the years went by, he never found it to be a good time to talk about the weight on his heart. The witcher was not one for romance and Jaskier was one for big, bold declarations of love. Jaskier was beginning to understand the distaste of destiny.
But there was one thing that Jaskier could absolutely never find possible to mention: the witcher’s soulmate marking.
Everyone had a tattoo of sorts born upon them in an undetermined location when their soulmate was born. They were always in black, unique to the pair, and matched the partner’s. You could always be able to find your soulmate by recognizing your own tattoo.
As Jaskier had grown up, he’d spent much of his time looking for the familiar icon of a sun being run through by a sword, but as he had gotten older and given into his lust for life, he found it much less important.
That is, until he met Geralt.
He had seen near every inch of skin upon Geralt’s body. The man was not afraid to show his skin before others, or at least before the bard at his side. After all, Jaskier had been there to complain about Geralt’s stench until he was forced into a gleaming bath. But even when the larger man was stripped down to the body he was born in, there was no soulmate design to be found.
He had once asked Geralt what he had thought of soulmates since he had such a bright opinion of destiny, gods, and any sort of driving force beyond the human comprehension. He had gotten a grunt in return which had rapidly spoiled his confidence to ask any more questions.
It was fine. Witcher’s probably just didn’t have soulmates. It would distract them from all of their gruesome fighting and bottling up their emotions.
That being said, it has never stopped the yearning in Jaskier’s heart or the dreams at night.
In fact, it was one of those nights, as Jaskier plucked away a melancholy tune on his lute, that Geralt had suddenly shot to attention. He shot his head from left to right, pausing to listen to the solemn forest. Jaskier stopped his playing, he found a joke comparing Geralt to a wolf rise to his tongue but thought better of it at the last second.
“Sense some baddie nearby? I’d prefer an affirmation so I may pack my things accordingly, but a grunt will do,” Jaskier quipped to the stiff form of Geralt across the fire.
Geralt opened his mouth but was interrupted by a dozen screeches from much closer than Jaskier would have liked.
“Geralt.” Jaskier warned, as he stood and took a step back.
Suddenly, from the shadows of the forest, a group of women emerged from the forest. Their feet pounded the ground, they ran with their fanged mouths open, dripping bloody saliva onto the forest floor, and their dirty, terribly manicured claws raised for attack.
Many went for the clear enemy: Geralt, in all of his mighty witcher glory and long silver hair and matching sword. But too many rushed the poor, defenseless Jaskier, holding his dearest lute like it would be enough of a weapon to keep himself from these pale, rabid women.
“Ladies, you can all get your own song if you just ask,” Jaskier laughed nervously.
One of the nearest Bruxa let out an ear-splitting scream and Jaskier shot off his feet, yelping as he landed a distance away, sliding on the slick forest floor before he was surrounded by the women. He kicked out and tried to hit any that he could reach, but despite his fit build, he was not trained in any sort of fighting and thus only was able to fend off a few before the rest got a clue and pinned him down, slashing at his clothes and leaning forward to bite off bits of his sweet flesh.
But before he could be torn to little strips of bardic inspiration, the familiar silver sword came through the hoard, slashing and swiping, scattering fallen heads and arcs of blood around the two of them.
“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled when the multitude had been reduced to a heap upon the rotting leaves and mushrooms.
“Thank you.” Jaskier gasped out, his voice hardly audible.
“Jaskier.” Geralt lifted the man off the ground, helping him to his feet and inspecting the damage the beasts had inflicted.
Jaskier’s head dipped to look with him, “Well at least I’m artfully disheveled.”
Geralt grunted before leading him back to the fire, grabbing salve and bandages from a pack on Roach.
Jaskier sat there shaking. It’s not like it was his first time being wounded in battle with Geralt, but it wasn’t exactly something you got used to either. He picked at the scraps of his tunic, mentally pouting about the loss of such fine tailorship as it had been.
Geralt walked over to the man and knelt before him, moving aside the scraps and cleaning at the wounds as best as he could. As he had brushed over a particularly painful opening from the dreadful talons, Jaskier had gasped, causing Geralt to mutter something of “being more careful” and “actually listening when I teach you to use a weapon”.
They had sat in silence otherwise, each mulling over thoughts alone, letting the sounds of the autumn forest fill their ears as Jaskier was patched up.
That was until the silence grew unbearable to Jaskier: “You really don’t have to patch me up, I can do it myself. I’m not a damsel in distress.”
Geralt grunted, “You don’t act like it.”
Jaskier scoffed. “Rude. I fought for myself out there, thank you very much. It may not have been well but I did.”
“You did,” Geralt smiled just a fraction.
Jaskier felt his heart squeeze. It’s not the first time that he had seen that infinitesimal smile. In fact he had made Geralt laugh with a wide smile on a few occasions. But just knowing that he was the one who could bring the smile to Geralt’s face made all the world to him.
But just as soon as Geralt had tied off a final bandage, he looked at Jaskier’s chest and his smile dropped.
Fuck, Jaskier thought to himself.
Geralt had caught sight of the palm sized marking upon the bard’s sternum, something Jaskier had been very careful to be sure to keep covered. Even in his tastefully unbuttoned tunics and doublets, he had left just enough buttons to cover the rising sun imprinted onto him.
“Where did you get that.” Geralt’s eyes stayed fixed upon the mark.
Jaskier self-consciously went to wrap his arms over his chest, before being impeded by the strong witcher hands locking his arms apart. “Always had it.”
“No, you haven’t”
“Wow, shows how much you notice.” The witcher looked into his eyes. “I’ve always kept it covered. No decadent baths for me. You’ll have to see my bollocks the normal way, thank you very much.”
The yellow eyes of the witcher bore into his skull, as if trying to read over every inch of his face. For sign of what, Jaskier did not know.
“What are you looking for?” Jaskier asked after the Geralt made no sign of moving.
“A lie.”
“I’m not lying. Why are you so off-put by a tattoo? You didn't strike me as the prejudiced type.”
Geralt did not reply. He merely looked at Jaskier carefully, before dropping his eyes once more to the mark. Before Jaskier could attempt to move again, Geralt released his arms and carefully grabbed his face, leaning forward, and kissing the bard.
Jaskier’s heart exploded. He was almost too caught up in the rush of emotion to kiss back.
Almost.
He’s not just going to let an opportunity like this slip by.
Geralt tasted like salt and longing and the bread the two had split for lunch. Jaskier thought it might be the best kiss he’d ever had, even if it wasn’t great by technical means. All that mattered was that it was Geralt that he was kissing, the same man that he had spent two decades of his life imagining kissing. It was everything he could dream of.
When Geralt broke the kiss, he wore a mask that Jaskier could not see through. Before Jaskier could analyze it at all, the man turned before him, displaying his broad shoulders and his silver hair, before lifting his locks, he’s got so much fucking hair, and showing-
This can’t be real.
Lying upon Geralt’s nape was the mark that Jaskier had spent so much of his life looking for. The rising sun, fallen by the glistening sword.
“Geralt.” Jaskier whispered, slowly extending his hand to lay his fingertips upon the smooth flesh.
Geralt hummed before turning and pulling Jaskier into his arms. They sat there in silence, their embrace saying all their unspoken thoughts. And for some reason it sounded like “I love you”.