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he is eighteen when he approaches the man in the corner of the tavern; eighteen and restless, eighteen and wanting, eighteen and willing to take every chance that the universe presents to him no matter how absurd or dangerous, so he approaches the stranger and quips about the bread in his pants, sees the white hair and the swords and the cat-eye pupils and feels his heart stutter in anticipation because here is one they call ‘monster,’ one they call ‘butcher,’ one they call ‘other,’ and he is not afraid.
(there’s a voice in the back of his mind saying that he should be, but he’s never once listened to it, never once listened to any of the signals his body sends in vain, from his speeding pulse the the hair on his arms rising.)
he is eighteen when he meets a monster and sees not a monster but a man, a lonely man who talks to his horse and who is merciful to those who also look monstrous, kind-hearted to those who would look at him in fear and disdain and –
jaskier knows monsters. he is eighteen and he has seen the monster lurking behind his father’s eyes; he is twenty-two and sees the monster lurking behind the shopkeeper’s counter; he is thirty and sees the monsters hiding within royal court after royal court, pacing through towns and villages and cities, strutting through the street with its head held high as –
the point is that jaskier knows monsters, has known them since he was little, and he knows that geralt isn’t one – geralt who hmms and adds more wood to the fire on shivering nights; geralt who throws him a pair of boots and says can’t have you slowing me down, bard after jaskier’s boots had begun to fall apart; geralt who lets him sing even after he says be quiet or i’ll strangle you, his lips quirking up in the slightest of grins; geralt who saves him again and again from his wayward adventures with a snarl on his lips and deft movements of his arms and says stay closer next time and–
so while other people feel a shiver of fear when they look at geralt, jaskier only ever feels warmth and anticipation, his body nearly buzzing with it, because geralt means adventure and wonder and companionship and safety and so many other things that jaskier could write a thousand songs for his witcher and never say everything he wants to say and -
geralt is not a monster. not to jaskier.
until he is.
why is it that every time i find myself in a pile of shit, it’s you shoveling it and if life could give me one thing it would be to rid me of you and –
there is a monster in those golden eyes, slight but present where there never was before, and jaskier does the only thing he knows how to do when his heart has been so thoroughly ripped asunder: he takes the blow, shoulders it, lets it crawl through his stomach and scratch against his ribs until it settles in his throat, and leaves.
and maybe it’s true what they say about those who hunt monsters – that there’s no stopping the change, steady as the roving sun, that slowly erodes every good thing and leaves a gaping husk in its wake. maybe jaskier was foolish to believe his witcher was immune to such things, that jaskier could protect him, somehow, as if a few years of song and dance and companionship could ever be enough to guard geralt’s heart from the tragedies he’s witnessed and witnessing. naïve, foolish, ignorant jaskier, spending twenty years with a man who was always going to be the monster everyone else said he would be.
but jaskier is nothing if not filled with hope, tiny slivers of it coating the very foundation of his being. months go by - months without word, months of staying as far away as possible while still being close enough to hear news of his witcher, because he may be brokenhearted and lovesick and bitter but he'll never not care about geralt, never not love him, never not rush to him if he's in danger. months spent singing and walking and dodging black-clad soldiers, months spent trekking across singed battlefields and villages and souls, months spent hoping and praying and begging to the gods that things will get better, that geralt won't allow the monster to consume him, and -
it is after cintra falling, after countless nights spent looking for white hair in a sea of desperate people, after bandits and marauders and too many close calls for comfort and -
their paths intersect on a star-full night when jaskier is alone on the road like he’s gotten used to being, taking mostly untraversed trails like geralt taught him to, when he looks up one day and sees geralt and –
for once geralt speaks before jaskier can say anything, says i’m sorry says you didn’t deserve what i said on the mountain says it was wrong to lash out at you like that says you pushed me to be better than i thought i could be says i’m sorry, jaskier, i’m sorry says –
shut up jaskier says, voice shaking, but geralt does, closing his mouth with a snap, golden eyes wide and jaskier says you hurt me says i didn’t deserve that says i’m still angry at you says twenty years and you still won’t even call me your friend –
because you’re more than that geralt says and i was too afraid to admit it but when i lashed out on the mountain you he closes his mouth, swallowing hard, eyes darting, says you never once looked at me like a monster until then.
and jaskier sighs and says you never gave me cause to.
and geralt flinches like he’s been gutted and jaskier jerks forward, hands reaching out but not touching, not yet, because there’s so much to say, so much to – you can’t do that again because i will leave and you’ll never find me, do you understand me geralt? if you become a monster you won’t ever see me again.
and geralt is nodding, is reaching for him, his hands cupping jaskier’s face like he’s something holy and says never. never again.
and jaskier leans in and kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, because jaskier has seen many monsters of many shapes and sizes but geralt of rivia, his geralt, his witcher, is not one of them.