Retroactively

Jaskier wasn’t a romantic per se, but he was curious and persistent. Ever since he got his soul mark at a tender age of 16, like everyone else did, he wanted to face the fucker who graced him with “move away, boy” at the sole of his foot. At least the placement was somewhat decent and well-hidden, so he didn’t have to explain to everyone he laid with in the coming years why his soul mark was so stupid. Jaskier’s relationship with damn words was changing over time. He was quite happy when he first got it - he was young, hopeful, he didn’t mind occasional joking around - and his future soulmate would definitely be making some kind of silly pun, and then they’d laugh and ponder at life’s brilliant plan of getting them together. Several years had passed. And with every random girl or guy (never let Jaskier be of a close-minded kind) who didn’t utter those words, Jaskier became more bitter. More angry at whoever was still taking their time and not even trying to find Jaskier. Well, secretly Jaskier hoped that his special someone was actually either dedicating their life to the search for Jaskier or was rotting in a prison. Either option was equally acceptable, Jaskier wasn’t the one to judge. By the time Jaskier got old and mature (he turned 21), he was completely disillusioned. His soulmate was definitely alive and kicking (otherwise the mark would fade), yet obviously didn’t put the same effort as Jaskier did at locating his elusive partner. Some days Jaskier would get spiteful and would try to provoke random folks. He'd get into more fights than was wise (meaning at any fights at all). Some days he felt defeated and refused to see people, but it didn’t last long because he had to eat and earn his coin. Some days he felt like he was this close to finding his lovely someone, so he’d meet and greet more people that he could remember at the end of the day, when he laid in bed alone, his feet tired and sore and his soul mark in place, mocking him. Jaskier spent some time analyzing if he could’ve met his soulmate before. It was possible for two people to meet and say their first words to each other without getting the mark, if one or both of them were young. When the youngest of them turned 16, the marks appeared for both them. The words could've been said weeks or years ago, and in a such case they'd be appearing retroactively. It was super-rare, because destiny wasn't that cruel and those couples always, always met afterwards, one way or another. It was the law of the universe, the unbreakable rule of destiny. As Jaskier travelled and sang and kissed and touched lovely, adorable, nice people who were definitely not his soulmates, Jaskier felt like he got the short end of the stick. It was no coincidence that he decided to become a bard. This way he’d meet more people than ordinary folks, he’d search and search, and he’d find. Except he didn’t. A sunlit tavern in Posada was like a hundred taverns before, but this one had a moody gorgeous white-haired man sitting in the corner and Jaskier’s heart soared when he noticed him. He serenaded to the best of his abilities, but his heart wasn’t really into it. He was good, that was a given, despite some clueless folks ending his stunning performance a bit earlier. It’s just he was distracted, and he wanted to both meet the man right away and to prolong the time before their first conversation in equal parts. In the end Jaskier went with smooth “I love the way you just sit in the corner”. No reaction. Jasker let the other man appreciate his quick wit and humour and prepare himself to recognize what would be the soul mark gracing his no doubt very beautiful, muscular foot, “...and brood.” No, nothing. Not a hit of recognition. Yet not all hope was lost. Maybe he was a very stoic (and firm, and powerful, and commanding, and hot) man and his next words would somehow be the ones Jaskier was longing to hear. “I’m here to drink alone.” Well, fuck you too, then. Of course, Jaskier couldn’t really voice his true feelings, so he went with “Good, yeah, good”, while his heart was breaking, and it was bad, it was really, really bad. But mother didn’t raise a quitter, so Jaskier switched to the topic that was easy as breathing to him - music and Jaskier’s brilliance as a bard. They chatted and exchanged pleasantries, the other man, oh, the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, no less, even suggested a useful lyrics’ change towards more true-to-history, factual lines, not that Jaskier was going to use this advice, he needed his listeners to be entertained, not bored or scared shitless. Anyway, they talked and then somehow happened to travel together for a while, then Geralt proved his point with a fist, though that was truly unnecessary. Other than that Jaskier deemed it a successful meeting of two talented, interesting and sexy people who would enjoy each other’s company till they meet their other halves. The more they traveled together, the less Jaskier wanted to meet his soul-stupid-mate. It wasn’t that big of a deal anymore. The more the Witcher grunted instead of using human words like yes and no and the more Jaskier knew the subtle differences between those sounds, the less Jaskier thought of that blurry other person, who, with each passing day, felt more like a ghost and less like someone Jaskier would actually want to meet. On rare occasions when Jaskier needed saving (he was self-sufficient and quite useful, thank you very much) and Geralt provided said saving, the warm feeling inside Jaskier’s chest felt like the most precious flower that only he could see. On constant occasions when Geralt would come back beaten, scratched and smelling of another beast that he slayed, Jaskier felt anger mixed with tenderness. And as he cleaned out Geralt’s bigger wounds (others were meant to be healed by themselves, because self-torture and pointless sacrifice were a bit hit with Geralt), Jaskier didn’t want to be anywhere else. Everything that he felt was showing through his music. His success as a bard was inevitable, of course, but one of the main reasons behind it was a pure, bright, all-engulfing affection for Geralt. Jaskier wouldn’t use any of the big words, like love or destiny, though he peppered all his songs with it. Jaskier didn’t want to scare off whatever was going on between them, so he labeled it in the least dangerous way, as if it would’ve lessened the enormity of it. Sex was also good. It was getting better with every damn, gruesome day. What started as means to an end, one friend helping another to soothe a basic need, became a sought after relief. Then it transformed into a form of conversation. Geralt’s grunts and huffs were intertwined with simple questions and tender words. Jaskier treasured them and kept them close to his foolish, hopeful heart. Sometimes sex looked more like a fight, an act of rebellion, but in the end they always found their truth, their common ground, their safe space, where they could let their guard down and just be. When they fought on the mountain, Jaskier’s world crumbled. He never knew he was capable of feeling so much pain that wouldn’t go away. He never knew his love was that strong. That was when Jaskier knew he no longer cared how to name it. He just felt it and it was true, pure and as big as the sun. Jaskier also knew that he didn’t want to ask for being loved in return. He wanted Geralt to be free. To go his way. And to never see him again. Someday he might actually believe that. When they met the next time, it was a mess. There was no grand reunion, no time for explanations, for getting answers, for telling words that kept piling up inside. They fought to survive. They saved people, they escaped, they got hurt, and they holed up in the dirtiest tavern Jaskier ever saw. It was terrifying. It was perfect. It was like they never parted ways. Jaskier was looking at Geralt’s dirty face and bloodied hair, at his strong hands, holding a mug with a piss-poor-ale. It was ridiculous how relieved Jaskier felt. He wanted to kill Geralt for every second that he was away and not by his side, resting after another big battle. “You’re such a silly goose man!”, Jaskier huffed his long-forgotten insult that he was using left and right as a child. “No, seriously, you go to…” Jaskier paused as he finally noticed the way Geralt was looking at him. “What?” “Silly goose man?” Geralt was frowning and moving his ale away to properly look at Jaskier. “Yes, because you are a silly goose and a man. You went…” Jaskier’s second attempt at scolding was interrupted with such a heartfelt and loud “fuck” that he started worrying. What if Geralt was actually hurt and was stoically bleeding all over the floor right now. Jaskier looked over whatever parts of Geralt’s armor were visible in a dim corner of a tavern and haven’t found anything out of the ordinary, a gash here and there, but more of the “I’ll tough them out” types. “Did I really offend you with that goose nonsense?” Jaskier was worried since Geralt slowly started smiling and it was scary, to see him smile. Geralt’s smile usually appeared right before a deadly apocalyptic battle or when Geralt was happy and the first was a much more often occurrence. Geralt took Jaskier’s hand - seriously, they were doomed, Jaskier was panicking full-force now - and softly asked “Can I see your foot?” It was the tone that threw Jaskier off, so he didn’t register the words at first, and when he did he felt like laughing or dying. Probably, dying while laughing hysterically. “No! No, no, no! Don’t tell me you’re that bastard with that terrible line?” Geralt's smile became more composed, more delicate, more personal. Almost self-deprecating. “What the hell did I mark you with?” Jaskier was feeling like he was back in his childhood’s bedroom, where he kept looking for the words, bending his hands, legs to see, to find, till he did and sat down with the happiest smile ever, holding his leg over his knee and tracing the words with a slightly trembling fingers. “Move away, boy”. “Oh, fuck. Not my best”. “Not your worst, either.” Geralt nodded and then added calmly, “At least you don’t have “you silly goose man” on your body”. Jaskier looked up, as if making sure that Geralt was serious. The other man nodded again, and a tiny, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Jaskier wanted to kiss it. So he did. As he was moving closer to Geralt, he felt the other man grin into the kiss (it was almost impossible to position himself at the right angle over a wobbly table. Jaskier wouldn’t have traded this moment for the world) and then quickly tugged at Jaskier’s lower lip before grunting “upstairs”. Jaskier agreed. After all, he was yet to see his petulant words on a mighty witcher’s foot. Jaskier knew he’d choose Geralt again and again, with or without a silly scribble proving that he’s right, but it was nice to see his mark on Geralt. He wouldn't have wanted it to be on anybody else.