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Geralt has never understood how Jaskier manages to see the world the way he does.
When Geralt himself travels through well-used dirt roads, easily meeting dozens of new people each week and being bared to every aspect of humanity- he sees misery. War, hatred, death, pain.
He sees these things every day as he battles the spirits of the dead who adamantly refuse to rest in their life or after, fighting tooth and nail for the neverending need to obtain justice even once they've been corrupted into something mindless and vicious.
He sees them at the end of nearly every contract he gets, the living grateful that the terrors they requested the Witcher for are finally over. Yet ongoingly mournful in the knowledge that those lost will remain that way forever, and that the longer-lasting threats of the world are still very much at large.
He sees them in the faces of the mourners he and Roach trot past on their way to yet another troubled town, weeping openly on the side of the road with gasping breaths and racing hearts for those who were cut down long, long before their time.
Hell, he even sees it in the faces of those directly causing the whole shit show, lamenting how much of a dystopia they've single-handedly formed and yet greedily unwilling to change.
He sees it in every mirror he walks past, too.
Shiny, red scars cross his chest, his face, his arms, his stomach- his face is set in a permanent grimace, and he can hardly look himself in the eyes without hearing the slurs and abuse people spit at him- sometimes literally- every day: heartless, monster, cruel, violent, unloveable, unwanted. His eyes (ugly and frightening, slitted and piss-colored as they are) only worsen the situation.
When he was younger- much, much younger than he is now- he did try to see the beauty in the world.
He had his brothers, and they loved him as much as he did them. His hair was a pretty shade of red, and his curls were soft. He picked up quickly on all the fighting they were learning, and that made him feel good about himself.
One of the younger ones whose name he'd regretfully forgotten long ago had an affinity for poetry. He'd cling to whatever books he could find and read them aloud when the weight of their collective training would drop his brothers into a low mood. His voice, soft as warm butter, never failed to get the whole pack surrounding him, taking comfort in piling on each other like pups.
He hadn't managed to find the tears when he realized he'd never hear it again. Nor when his hair bleached itself and fell flat, or when he came to discover one day that his fighting was all he was good for anymore. He only glanced at his reflection and saw the beginnings of exhaustion and loss that he'd never seen there before.
It didn't take long for him to start avoiding the sight altogether.
Now, he didn't have the energy nor the will to stay optimistic. It would be a fool's errand. What would be the point of hoping that things would turn out alright other than to purposefully set himself up for disappointment, and thereon heartbreak?
This is why he'd found Jaskier stupid and naive when he met him.
The bard, barely older than a child at the time, had followed him around cluelessly, prattling on about nothing of importance.
Look, Geralt, there are some lovely flowers over there! They were weeds.
Oh, I think there's a bird's nest in that tree, isn't there? How precious. They weren't likely to last long. Too many predators in the area.
I'm so glad it's warm today. It's been dreadfully cold as of late. Warm weather meant they'd be miserable as they traveled, and Geralt in particular (in his several pounds of armor and weapons) would be sweating like a pig.
Plus, they needed to stop on the road more often to let Roach and Jaskier rehydrate and rest. Their Witcher would stand, tense and vigilant as ever, ears and eyes perked for any sign of danger as his companions restored their strength.
Yet none of this seemed to deter the young boy. Geralt had thought for a while that maybe he didn't realize, but he only got exasperated glances and admonishments when he tried to tell him.
Rose-colored glasses aren't as bad as you seem to think, love. Geralt didn't know what that was supposed to mean. He'd never seen Jaskier wear any glasses at all, much less colored ones.
After a few years, he'd come to accept that this is just who Jaskier is. Stupid still very much being on the table, he's resolutely determined to see everything in as bright a light as it can be seen. Why he did this, the Witcher still wasn't sure. Not even his sleepless nights could provide that answer for him.
But, it warmed Geralt in a near-foreign way when his bard pointed out the small beauties that he wouldn't have minded on his own, so he stayed quiet about it.
Truthfully, the most confusing part was the way the man viewed Geralt himself. The reverent way he gets stitched into his stories, the absolute adoration in Jaskier's eyes as he gazes upon his Witcher, the gentleness of his hands when he takes it upon himself to wipe the grime and dirt of a Witcher's work off of him in the bath.
Witchers remained overstimulated after a hunt for several hours, caused by the need to be alert and strain their senses, adrenaline leaving their skin crawling. Jaskier had been surprisingly understanding when Geralt had tried to explain this to him using minimal words. It was difficult for him to express his thoughts, and he found it easier to force out if he kept it short and vague. Jaskier never minded.
He had barely even reacted when Geralt undressed in front of him the first time. If he'd been human, he wouldn't have noticed any response. But he wasn't. So he took note of his quickened heart rate, and the way he allowed himself a moment to take in all of Geralt's physical trauma, his breath pausing as he did so.
All of this was confusing to the Witcher. Jaskier somehow always, always managed to look into the ruined, gruff mess that was the White Wolf and find something to love, some shard of beauty that he never hesitated to hold out to the world and present as evidence that Geralt is something precious.
Even when it got him in trouble. Stupid bard could hardly go one day without getting into a fight, verbal or otherwise, over Geralt's treatment.
But it wasn't just him who got that attention. The same world Geralt thought so lowly of, Jaskier would smile at and tell it that it's okay to be flawed sometimes, that change is possible even in great amounts and that even at its lowest points, there is beauty. That it's okay to admire the flowers and the birds and the music and the food and the love, because even though it is temporary, it's something to be celebrated. It's incredible that it has managed to come into being even for a short while. Just that could be so difficult and that alone was enough to make anything special.
And he truly believed it, too. He'd spent so many years writing songs trying to get people to see the world as he did- trying to get people to see Geralt as he did.
On Geralt's part, he found it hard to look directly at Jaskier sometimes. He felt it was rude to do so without acknowledging how fucking breath-taking he is, in body and soul, and that had proved countless times to be an exhausting task.
A decade had passed since they met when things shifted for the Witcher. They were in a field of wildflowers near Crow's Perch, Jaskier with a poetry book in one hand, and his other scratching at Geralt's scalp comfortingly. The wolf had his eyes closed, toeing the line between awake and asleep with his head resting on Jaskier's thigh. Not even the memory of what had transpired nearby in years past with Anna Strenger could ruin right now for him.
Jaskier's voice was ringing out from above him.
"If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you.
Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you.
Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I."
This was something they'd been doing more and more frequently. It had started out with Jaskier speaking prose to himself, entertaining himself and filling the air with noise as he preferred, and as Geralt was learning he also preferred. He'd paused when he realized Geralt was watching him, who'd quickly grit his teeth and turned away.
"Don't give me that false indifference, dear Witcher," he'd laughed, "I know you better than that by now." He'd figured out in no time that his words were a source of comfort for the stone-faced wolf, and had taken to reciting his favorites.
Geralt, lost in his dreams of memories, was delayed in noticing that Jaskier wasn't speaking anymore. He regretfully forced his eyes open to the sight above him.
The wolf's next breath caught in his throat, nearly suffocating him.
His bard was watching his face carefully, letting his eyes run over each detail of his appearance as if trying to capture them to keep. As if he hopes for this Geralt to become familiar enough he'll be able to conjure it in his mind in an instant, even when they're parted, in memories deeply worn.
And his eyes .
Melitele above, Geralt felt the urge to close his own again just to be able to escape from the intensity of his gaze, absolutely brimming with pure emotion, like just the sight of his Witcher comfortable and happy may bring him to tears. He knew, instinctively, that Jaskier was mentally finding time to write yet another sonnet for him.
"I'm terribly sorry, dear heart," Jaskier mumbled. What could he be sorry for, Geralt wondered? He couldn't think of a thing. His lover's hand, calloused from years of playing strings, was on his cheek. He didn't know when Jask had put the book down.
His flower's loving lips turned upwards at the corners, and Geralt's eyes darted to them for a second, suddenly desperately wanting to know what he was thinking of.
He couldn't ask. He didn't even try, knew the words wouldn't form the way they were needed. Instead, he lifted his arm, clasping his fingers around Jaskier's wrist and facing his stare dead on, feeling brave for managing it. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Geralt was rewarded with a soft, quiet chuckle which made his heart leap into his throat. "I know of your peace, brought about by my voice. I meant to keep reading, truly. I just.."
The bard lowered his face enough so that the Witcher could see the speck of emerald near his pupil, hear his heart beating in his chest. The closeness was about two seconds from ending Geralt's own beating.
A gentle thumb brushed under his eye. "My darling, you're so beautiful. So unbelievably stunning. Did you know that?" No. Tell me more.
"Even I, with all my words and lines and poems, don't think I could find the right ones for your eyes." He hated his eyes, and he didn't see how Jaskier could disagree. His suspicion must've shown on his face, for Jaskier's tightened just slightly in displeasure and the Witcher immediately scolded himself.
Speak. He should speak, shouldn't he? Geralt wet his lips, parting them just enough to mumble, "Think you're the only person who likes them, Jask. Hard not to hate them, is all."
It was certainly true. There was probably a list of dozens and dozens of Witcher quirks that people- humans and nonhumans alike- couldn't fucking stand to be near. Their putrid yellow eyes were near the top. A constant reminder that they were so painfully different, no matter what they may have been or done in the past.
His poor attempt at comforting his love hadn't gone very well. He sighed still, lifting his head to stare out at the grass surrounding them. Geralt mourned his undivided attention.
"I know, dear. I do. I know how.." He seemed to struggle for a moment. "..isolated, you've been made before. How alone you sometimes are with only yourself and others' hurtful words." Jaskier's gaze darkened for just a moment, and Geralt could swear he heard a faintly muttered, "Cunts, all of them".
Comfort. Geralt squeezed his wrist gently, bringing the bard's attention back down to him. Panic took him briefly, then he forced a tiny smile, entirely unnoticeable if not for their close proximity. He got a bigger smile in return. (That attempt went much better, and he mentally patted his own back).
Yet he could see hints of wistfulness in Jaskier's face. He was thinking about something, the Witcher noted. "What's wrong?"
"I'm just angry for you, sweetheart." Now that he said it, Geralt realized he could pick up undertones of fury on the man holding him. "You're so incredibly.. everything to me, really. You're my whole heart. And you're treated so goddamn poorly." The hand that had been in his hair slid up to his face now, so Jaskier was cupping his face with both hands.
His bard tightened his lips, going quiet. He never did that, so Geralt thought he should stay quiet as well.
After several seconds which seemed to stretch out for many more hours, he spoke.
"Your eyes turn this brilliant amber when you face the sunshine. It reminds me pleasantly of warm honey. They shine when you're excited about something, which happens unfortunately rarely.
And they're incredibly expressive, my love. Much more so than your words. I can usually tell how you're feeling by looking into them, which is something I like to do regardless. When they shine, they dilate too. They slit up when you're particularly angry, about to fight something. Or when you yearn for my touch."
Something amused Jaskier, and he bent down, pressing a kiss to Geralt's lips before pulling back. "Just like now."
Oh. So Jaskier could definitely tell how much he liked his hands. That might've been good to know before now.
Still. He didn't know how to handle his bard's opinion of him. He didn't know what he wanted to say. Jaskier waited for him to find a solution, as he always did. Thoughtful man.
Geralt, still wrapped around the hand near his face, brought it to his lips. He kissed the inside of Jaskier's wrist, feeling absolutely drunk on the rush of his scent, something floral with hints of spice. "I love you." Short and vague. Those words had become surprisingly easy for Geralt to speak as of late. Only eight letters, after all.
Jaskier's responding smile blinded him more than the beaming sun peaking out from behind his head, turning his brown hair golden. "I am my most beautiful self when I am with you, dear heart." Jaskier's own way of saying it. Longer and more complex. Harder to understand at times, but he expressed himself in poetry and Geralt was more than willing to accept that.
Geralt barely had time to celebrate a successful interaction with his beloved when he was gifted another kiss, this one longer-lasting and sweet all the same. When they pulled apart for Jaskier's unfortunate lung incapacity, he rested their foreheads together.
This must be hurting his back , Geralt thought. He didn't ask him to move away further.
Still, he sat up after a short while. His eyes tightened just a bit as he did so, and Geralt made a note to see if there was a mutation or potion for Witchers that let them take on another's pain. His love's discomfort had been worsening as he aged and Geralt hated it strongly.
It didn't throw him off for long though, as he reached for his book again within a moment. "I'll keep going, dear."
Geralt hummed in gratitude, his rough voice making it resemble an indifferent grunt but Jaskier knew him better than that. He was grateful for that, too.
As Jaskier's reading picked back up, Geralt let his eyes close again. The sun warmed his face, and he understood. The mystery of Jaskier's optimism had become less mysterious.
If the world is relentlessly cruel, then how could he be here? Why was he allowed to be loved for by such a wonderful man? The only answer was that not every last thing was terrible.
And Geralt was so much happier focusing on the things that weren't.
Even though it was Geralt's job to defeat the monsters that had once been human, he could easily see that they had been. No mindless beast would ever be so stubborn as to refuse to stay dead, so indignant by not getting what they feel they deserve that they start trouble as corpses. It was impressive how humans refused to let go of their humanity, known for being one of the most prideful species.
The many, many deaths were tragic and should have never happened, but they did. The commoners, on the verge of death themselves, could barely help that. Yet they ensured they were remembered, if only for having been alive at some point. They were built memorials, had the word spread as far as possible that these people barely had a chance at life before it was taken from them, never fucking forget that . The living banded together, willing to put themselves in danger in a desperate hope to bring about change, to protect those that were still around.
He can't find it in himself to search for the bright side of those causing all of this, but Jaskier doesn't either, so it must be alright. He knows they will end up with what they deserve, and he knows they'll never feel even a fraction of the pure joy that his bard brings him, nor the undying loyalty he's been given.
Geralt's not sure if he can manage to find it in himself, either. But he's been doing better. He doesn't think himself unloveable anymore. And Jaskier adores him enough for himself and the rest of the Continent.
Maybe someday he'll be able to look at his reflection without being put in a poor mood.
They'll work on it together. For now, he lets himself relax in the lap of the man he's so deeply, tremendously in love with and listen to his voice, soft as warm butter.
"When I am dead, even then,
I will still love you, I will wait in these poems,
When I am dead, even then
I am still listening to you.
I will still be making poems for you
out of silence. "