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Geralt can’t remember the last time someone looked at him the way Jaskier looks at him.
Not even his own mother had looked at him the way this human does.
Seven years have passed in a blur since running into the man in Posada. Several bright, warm years of someone looking after him when he forgets to eat or cheering him up with horribly raunchy songs on the road.
It’s been several years of traveling with Jaskier. To Geralt, it feels as though the man has been with him for much, much longer than that.
Never before has life looked so bright. And it’s not just the obnoxiously colored clothes Jaskier insists on wearing that has Geralt squinting when he looks at the man walking happily beside him on some backwoods road in the bowls of Velen.
Jaskier is just… so bright.
Never has Geralt met a person so fiercely defensive of him while simultaneously being so soft, so caring in every strum of his lute and awful joke thrown his way.
Gods, Jaskier even managed to worm his way into Roach’s heart, for Melitele’s sake. The temperamental beast nearly favors the bard over her own owner, and Geralt can’t blame her for it.
Everything he does radiates kindness. It’s in the way he sneaks apples and wild berries to Roach when he thinks he’s being sly, like he fully believes Geralt can’t smell the sickly sweet scent of the fruits the moment Roach bites into them.
It’s nearly overwhelming when the bard turns to Geralt in the middle of a cheering tavern after the end of his set, ignoring the shouts and compliments from the drunk townspeople in favor of gauging the witcher’s reaction. The color riding high on his sweaty cheeks as he beams at Geralt is enough to knock something loose in the witcher’s chest every time he sees that grin.
During times like those, Jaskier looks at Geralt like Geralt’s opinion is the only opinion that matters.
Sometimes, late at night when Geralt goes over the day’s events, he can’t help but wonder if Jaskier is part Succubus or Siren. The man is too bright and enchanting to be anything entirely mortal, but Geralt knows for a fact that he is.
Jaskier has never smelled of Chaos, never carried a scent that isn’t entirely one hundred percent human.
Years go by with Jaskier acting as Geralt’s personal puppy, singing his praises and refusing to part with him until the absolute last moment. And even then, there’s much whining and pouting from the human as Geralt insists he has to leave before the path to Kaer Morhen becomes too icy to make the climb.
Even winters aren’t as bad as they used to be, holed up in the drafty, icy cold halls of Kaer Morhen. Geralt is immensely thankful for Jaskier replacing his moniker of Butcher of Blaviken in the minds of a good chunk of people, helping plant the seed in their minds that witchers are there to help them, not harm them.
That they aren’t the monsters humans think they are.
Having someone waiting for him once he and his brothers finally descend the mountain at the end of winter floods Geralt with warmth on the coldest nights, the memories of a smile as bright as the sun gracing his dreams instead of the memories of horrors no person should have to witness.
Nightmares of bloodied cobblestones become gentle dreams of lute calloused fingers. Screams of pain become a soft warbled song at the edge of a campfire, perfectly shaped lips forming words that Geralt doesn’t pretend to ignore any longer. The dead eyed stare of slain monsters staring at him disappear, being replaced by the absolutely delighted expression on Jaskier’s face whenever Geralt surprises him with a simple gift he thought the human would like at a passing vendor stall, the scent of pure love wafting off the bard all encompassing.
Since knowing Jaskier, Geralt’s nightmares have been few and far between.
It all hits Geralt one sunny spring afternoon as he’s traveling side by side with his bard, the both of them having met up a mere week ago at the gates of Novigrad. The sun has been baking the both of them for hours; Jaskier has resorted to shedding his fancy doublet Geralt bought for him in Skellige, more than happy to continue on the Path in just his soaked through undershirt.
His mind is filled with the things that need to be done. They’re about a day and a half’s ride away from Maribor, where Geralt knows a few contracts are waiting for him alongside an invitation to play at a royal wedding for Jaskier.
“-swear, Geralt, you’d hate Valdo if you met him. Imagine the most pompous, self important arsehole you've ever met, and multiply that person by twenty. That’s how bad Valdo Marx of fucking Cidaris is. I mean, his songs aren’t even good! He’s such a-”
Geralt hasn’t been listening to Jaskier rambling, too lost in thought, but as he turns to ask Jaskier what’s so bad about this Valdo Marx idividual, the breath gets knocked from his lungs.
It’s a good thing he’s riding Roach, because Geralt’s sure he would have stumbled had he been walking.
The sun bathes Jaskier in an almost golden hue, the rich crimson trousers and crisp white undershirt he’s wearing sticking to his built but lithe form. Soft chestnut hair appears almost like it has a halo as Jaskier tosses his head and runs a hand back through the tresses in an attempt to unstick his bangs from his sweaty forehead.
He’s devastatingly beautiful. Melitele herself would swoon at the picture he paints right now, unaware of his own beauty and rambling whatever thoughts come to mind.
All at once, Geralt understands why humans grieve so badly when they find someone so utterly otherworldly only to lose them to a monster or another suitor.
Oh.
Oh.
“Jaskier.” Geralt says thickly, tongue sticking in his suddenly dry mouth as he pulls Roach to a halt and beckons the bard closer.
“Oh? Are you finally going to let me ride Roach? I’ll have you know, you brute, that I’m still not wearing the right kind of shoes for-”
Whatever Jaskier had been about to say becomes muffled as Geralt gingerly cups the man’s face, admiring the stark contrast of his soft, warm cheeks against his sword calloused palms for a moment before leaning to the side of his saddle to tilt Jaskier’s head back.
Startled cornflower blue eyes regard Geralt with nothing but curiosity and anticipation, the trust shining so brightly and earnestly on his face that Geralt can’t help but lean down to plant his lips on the mouth he’s been watching for years.
The ache in his chest he’s been nursing since their meeting in Posada dulls considerably at the feeling of dry, cracked lips against his own. A gentle gasp breathed against him replaces that ache with a fierce fire Geralt can’t be bothered to smother, allowing the flames to ignite in his chest and race through his veins.
The kiss is slow and sweet, barely a brush of lips before it's over and Geralt is straightening himself in his saddle like nothing happened.
Bright, sparkling baby blue eyes stare up at him in shock as color flushes those high cheekbones Geralt has caught himself staring at for more time than he’s willing to admit.
Not a word is said between them, not even as the beginnings of tears gather at the corners of Jaskier’s expressive eyes, a bashful smile so wide it looks as though it makes his cheeks ache.
No words are needed as the bard up to chase the lips of the man he’s followed for the better part of seven years.
Thank you.