for @leaena2go the purest fluff because i love you and also i just can't walk away from such challenge <3
There's a glow on Jaskier at the end of every performance.
After every performance, he will climb the stairs to their room with a jump in every step, light like a feather that has just finished its journey across the wind and looks for a place to settle. He will open the door and Geralt, who has been there for just a couple of minutes already, will turn to look at him, sitting in bed. And he will look and look. There will be a wide grin on his lips, triumphant and proud and slightly heady from the wine he has been given, and his eyes will glow like stars reflected in the night sea, a little wet with andrenaline and emotion and pleasant tiredness.
Around his eyes, the kohl lines he has delicately drawn earlier will be smudged with sweat and dried tears that have fallen arbitrarily from his eyes, as though craving to gaze upon the cheering crowd themselves. And then he will wash his face, and change into his nightshirt, and Geralt will still be staring.
And still he will be beautiful.
After every performance, there's a glow on Jaskier that resembles that of a shimmering lake under the bright sunlight, or that of the candle that has almost burnt out, a last little flame stubbornly keeping upright and declaring its presence.
Just like now.
The door creaks behind him and Geralt turns around.
Jaskier is smiling at him. Oh, he wants to capture that smile inside a bottle, carry it with him forever. He realizes he doesn't have to. Jaskier hasn't left his side in years.
There's a light weariness in the lines of his face, Geralt notices. But Jaskier still beams. "How was I?"
Unwillingly, or at least that's what he tells himself, Geralt lets out a huff. "Wasn't the cheering loud enough to answer your question?"
Jaskier closes the door behind him and chuckles, tilting his head like a child asking for a favour. "Yes," he drags his voice in a way that makes Geralt roll his eyes fondly, "but how was I for you?"
The scent of wine floats around the room. Of course. He's more drunk than usual or maybe... Geralt squints, glances at the bard's shoulders slightly slumped. "Is everything alright?"
But he doesn't get an answer. That is because Jaskier yawns the moment he parts his lips and, entirely forgetting about the kohl, he rubs his eyes. "Perfectly fine, dear," he says, voice soft as velvet and smile ever-present, and looks at Geralt as though he's met with the most beautiful painting. "I just..." he giggles silently, takes a deep breath that makes his chest rise as though taking in the whole world, "I may have gone too hard today."
Saying that, he walks up to Geralt and stands tall before him for a moment, before he sways and Geralt catches him by the arms with a laugh. "You're sleeping on your feet if that's any evidence," and Jaskier leans to rest his head on his shoulder and hums lightly.
"You didn't answer my question though."
He's slurring. Geralt sighs, stares at the wall exasperated, or perhaps just in love. "You're always perfect for me."
Jaskier hums again and Geralt can feel his lips curving against his skin. His arms are almost limp as they hang by his sides and he holds back his laughter. Ridiculous, truly. "Come on," he all but whispers in an attempt to keep Jaskier awake, and pokes him on the shoulder. Jaskier whines. "Let's get you to bed."
Slowly, he guides him to sit on the soft mattress and steadies him, struggling to keep his lips into a straight line and failing all the same. He fetches the pitcher on the nightstand and drops some water on a cloth, enough not to spill on the floor. Then, he turns at Jaskier.
And almost without thinking, he stops for a moment. Looks at him. At the way Jaskier stares, eyes smudged and wrinkled happily at the corners and the most tender caresses flowing from his gaze, at the way he's too exhausted to keep his lips upturned and yet Geralt would swear he hasn't seen him more content in ages. He looks so soft in the candlelight.
Beautiful.
Carefully, as though not to wake him from a dream, he cleans the black paint around his eyes, as much as he can. If there are still faint black spots under his lashes, Geralt is too lulled by his slow, peaceful breathing to notice them. Then, putting the cloth down, he gently rids him of his doublet. His boots. His pants and shirt, but it's not long enough for him to get cold before he lowers his sleep shirt over his head. Jaskier is not helping a lot, barely moves his arms and Geralt knows it's on purpose, he knows how he likes being pampered.
And he knows how he can never resist.
Jaskier tilts his head. "I love you," he says and it's the faintest of whispers, but the way it echoes in the room makes Geralt shiver like he's touched by a nymph, and he raises his head. Sometimes he can't believe it. Sometimes Jaskier shakes his head. "Silly witcher."
Sometimes, just like now, he will lay Jaskier down and draw the covers over him and lean to kiss his head, to linger for some seconds. And, just like now, he will round the bed and lie down beside him and shuffle closer until Jaskier nuzzles in his arms, head hidden in the crook of his neck. And sometimes, just like now, he will feel the softest kiss on his jaw, and the faintest whisper.
"You're always perfect for me too."
And he will tighten his hug with a smile.
