#bad matchmaking

“But it’s Beauclair tradition. You can’t possibly refuse,” Jaskier whines. “Besides, my dear, darling friend, I know you must want someone in your life.”

“Do you now?”

“Mm-hmm, or have you forgotten how I can read you like an open book?”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and leads him to one of the makeshift stalls where fresh parchments and quills are provided for late-comers. He drags Geralt to sit beside him despite all the eye rolls, and dips the quill in an inkpot, the tip hovering above the blank paper.

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t Jaskier me. I know you want to deny it and repeat all that stale nonsense about witchers not needing anyone, but I’m me, so it’ll be useless anyway.” Jaskier pokes at Geralt’s shoulder. “You went round and round for all these years protecting your family, and now they are okay. Yen and Ciri are traveling the continent, safe but away, leaving you here alone. I know that, deep down, you must want someone by your side again.”

“I do?” Geralt’s deadpans, still not amused. “If you know me as well as you claim, what kind of person would I be wanting at the moment?”

Jaskier straightens his back. Now here’s something he’s very good at—helping Geralt with his words.

“That’s getting ahead of ourselves,” Jaskier begins to write. “Let’s start with your name—Geralt, of course. We don’t need monikers for a matchmaking notice, no matter how dashing and genius it is. White Wolf would sound quite silly to a potential suitor, don’t you agree? And now, age?”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

Jaskier clears his throat. “Okay, not that. It’s hard to explain on one piece of paper anyway. I suppose it should be saved for the first date.”

He continues with the hobbies section, but after gwent, horse riding, brushing down horses, and taking care of horses, Jaskier begins to scratch his head. Geralt lives such a simple life that Jaskier isn’t sure how to expand on. He knows intimately how Geralt enjoys a good bath, but somehow he feels protective of that information. When they are on the path, it’s one of the ways Jaskier could help him unwind, and he’s reluctant to reveal it to the world.

“Thought you knew me well,” Geralt says cockily.

“I do! I just…” Jaskier chews his lips. “I haven’t seen you much in retirement.”

A pang of regret hits Jaskier when Geralt’s eyes dim.

It’s not like Jaskier doesn’t want to visit, but there is no reason for Geralt to want him here too often, being a retired witcher and all. There are no more monsters, and of course, no need for songs either. Jaskier will just be a nuisance by his side, and he’d rather not overstay his welcome.

A short visit is all he needs to make sure Geralt is happy. If by any luck, he does find a suitable partner for Geralt, Jaskier will just be an awkward third wheel.

And he’s fine with that, really. It doesn’t make him sad at all to think about leaving.

Jaskier looks away from Geralt’s face, forgetting what he was writing.

“Poetry.” Geralt draws his attention.

“Hmm?” Jaskier blinks.

“I like poetry,” Geralt repeats, his voice soft, “in retirement. There’s too much time with the days dragging on, and I’ve been…reading. They have a large selection of poetries in the city, all from the north.”

Jaskier nods, recording as Geralt speaks. “Any favorites?”

Geralt hums. “One, perhaps. A collection published in the form of travel journals, but it’s really about friendship and love.” He pauses. “And how they are the same thing.”

The quill falters, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You read my new book?”

Fondness fills Geralt’s eyes, his smile stretching subtly in a way that makes Jaskier’s heart flutter. “Why, yes, of course. Do I know another poet so popular I can’t even escape in the south?”

Jaskier’s chest is full of warmth he can’t help the grin when he writes down the title of his work on the paper. He looks at it, and then up at Geralt, before putting down the quill and pulling his sweet witcher into a hug.

“Thank you, my friend.” He kisses Geralt’s cheek in appreciation.

“Hmm. It fills the days. I don’t know how you still manage to be rambling with so few words in poetry.”

Jaskier smacks Geralt playfully on the shoulder and threatens to write an ode dedicated to him just for annoyance’s sake. Geralt laughs with crinkling eyes, and suddenly, it’s just like the old days.

“I have missed you,” Jaskier says in all honesty. “Us, like this.”

Geralt quiets, his body shifting away from Jaskier, leaving a respectful distance between them. “Then why don’t you visit?”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. “I do.”

“But you don’t. Not really.”

There’s something Jaskier can’t discern in Geralt’s expression, so he averts his eyes.

“Well, I am now, and I intend to make good use of my time here.” He taps the half-finished paper. “Now, chop-chop. We still need to describe your perfect match, and I meant that you’re an open book to me. Or do you want to bet?”

The inexplicable sorrow disappears from Geralt’s face, and he relaxes gradually. “Do it then. Let’s see if you can describe my perfect match.”

Geralt puts mockery in the last two words, and Jaskier scoffs. “I will!”

“Good.”

“Alright!” Jaskier counters, feeling the childish need to prove himself. “Looking for,” he recites while writing, “a brave warrior, who lives to protect.”

“No,” Geralt says curtly.

“What do you mean no? You must prefer someone noble and brave, be it a man or a woman. They must be good with swords and fight for a living.” Jaskier spreads his hands. “Look at you!”

“Exactly.” Great cocks an eyebrow. “Why would I want another me?”

“Huh.” Jaskier realizes he may have a habit of projecting his own standards onto others, but oh well. “What occupation are we thinking, then?”

Geralt hums contemplatively before saying.

“Not a fighter. Someone who creates, who sees beauty in ugly things despite appearances. Someone who finds a way to love everything and everyone. An artist,” he adds. “Yes, an artist, perhaps.”

Golden eyes fix on Jaskier, deep in thoughts, the genuine appreciation in his tone a surprise. Who would have thought Geralt is attracted to the opposite of himself?

“Okay.” Jaskier crosses out the last line. “Artist, not warriors. Is that a hard no or…?”

“Hard no.” Geralt throws a challenging look. “Want to guess again?”

Jaskier takes more time this time. He reflects on decades of their companionship and recounts every little habit of his that Geralt has commented on, and makes another guess.

“You prefer being quiet, so someone who doesn’t talk too much. Someone who can just sit with you in silence and not grate on your nerves.”

“Wrong again,” Geralt barely lets Jaskier finish before saying. “I don’t like the quiet. Not anymore, at least.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow in confusion. “But you used to tell me to shut up all the time, saying all my talking gives you headaches or something.”

Geralt simply shrugs. “And when did that last happen?”

Jaskier opens his mouth and realizes he cannot recall the last incident of Geralt having problems with his talking. He closes his mouth after a moment.

“Thought so.”

“But…”

“Hmm,” Geralt eyes at the paper. “I’d prefer a partner who loves to speak their mind. I may have wanted it years ago, but the house is…too quiet these days. I’d want them loud and verbose, someone who can fill the silence. It can be nice, just to listen.”

Once upon a time, they’d just sit beside a bonfire with Jaskier going on and on about his day, his music, and Geralt listened quietly with a contented look on his face.

It makes sense, Jaskier figures, so he writes it down too. He’s got two wrong guesses now, and there’s still work to be done. Jaskier aims for an easy one next.

“You want someone who knows a lot about monsters, I reckon. Herbology, too. Your partner must understand your job and provide help when needed.” Jaskier’s nose wrinkles, remembering women with beautiful necklines who were too self-important to stay with Geralt for long. “Like all your old sorceress friends. They were all exceedingly good with herbs and spells, which helped your witchering tremendously over the years—see? I can say nice things about them.”

Before Jaskier can let a smug look fully settle on his face, a laugh rumbles out of Geralt’s chest.

“I would never doubt you, but also no.” Geralt shrugs at Jaskier’s scribbles. “I don’t care how much they understand monsters. We are not hiring for help.”

“But that could keep you safe!” Jaskier argues.

Geralt takes Jaskier’s free hand and squeezes. “You know I don’t look for usefulness in a companion. I can make potions and slay monsters fine on my own. Besides, those are rare in Toussaint. I just want someone to…”

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand in return, understanding the ever-present loneliness in his friend’s life. “To be with you.”

Geralt tilts his head, musing. “I want someone who, for some reason, wants to be with me. So it has to be someone kind.”

“It won’t be a kindness to want you, Geralt.” It’s a force of habit to correct these subtle self-deprecating comments from Geralt, and Jaskier does it as gently as possible. “If your partner thinks being with you is an act of grace, I won’t even allow such a person near you. You deserve someone who chooses you, someone who is just as kind as you.”

The fierce protectiveness in Jaskier’s chest must translate well, because Geralt is quiet for a long time. He gets quiet when he’s feeling things, and it must be good things right now.

“Well then,” in the end, Geralt says softly. “If you say so.”

They resume the game, but Jaskier has no more luck as he goes on. If he guesses Geralt’s ideal match to be mature and serious, Geralt will describe them as humorous and flighty. If Jaskier believes them to be a well-respected figure in society, Geralt will scoff and declare he doesn’t mind some silliness in life.

The only thing Jaskier gets right is loyalty. Geralt puts such high values on loyalty, but it’s not a surprise—he shouldn’t expect anything less from a partner. Also horses, of course. Whoever has Geralt’s heart must be good with Roach. It should be at the top of the list in hindsight.

Frustrated grows despite Jaskier’s effort in keeping the game light-hearted. The parchment is full of crossed-out scribbles, and he’s given up on writing altogether.

There’s a nagging voice at the back of his mind, whispering how he no longer understands Geralt anymore.

Jaskier scowls, grasping at low-reaching fruits. “What about fashion? You must love someone who dresses in muted colors so as to not draw attention to the two of you! Only the gods know how much you hate that.”

He watches Geralt pleadingly, a second of pause stretching into forever. Just one win, Jaskier thinks. Just give him this one so he can still prove himself to know Geralt’s mind.

“Nice try,” Geralt answers. “I don’t mind colors. They are even fashionable here. You should visit the tailors tomorrow. I’ve kept notes on shops that make decent doublets, maybe even to your taste. They’ve got matching hats too.”

Even talk of good doublets and hats cannot stop Jaskier from planting his face onto the desk. He lets out a distressed groan and lets his confidence crumble.

“I’m a terrible friend, Geralt. Say it, I won’t blame you.”

A chuckle escapes Geralt’s lips, and he nudges Jaskier with an elbow. “Just terrible at judging my taste, is all. You’re fine.”

Jaskier peels himself from the desk and balls up the sheet of paper. They’d need to start from the top at this point.

“Alright, at least we’ve gathered some ideas now. I’ll know how to look for your beloved,” Jaskier says with a sigh. “How do you imagine life is like with them? Paint the picture for me.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Please?” Jaskier can’t help but feel inadequate, and he’s determined to get it right.

“Alright. For you, but only for you,” Geralt says in all seriousness, studying Jaskier’s face, concentrating on his next words. “I imagine life with them would be…easy.”

“Easy?” Jaskier echoes, entranced by the way Geralt’s eyes crinkle. He looks deep in thought as if reminiscing about good memories.

“Yes, easy. They’d be kind and gentle, as we’ve established. Good with Roach, so we can go on journeys to our hearts’ pleasure. The destination won’t matter, as long as they’re with me. They’d make me laugh with the worst jokes when the day gets too long, and in return, I’d take care of them.”

“You would?” Jaskier encourages. “Go on.”

Geralt leans towards Jaskier, so he can keep his voice low like they are exchanging secrets.

“I’d make sure they are warm on the road when the seasons change, and fed when food is scarce. I’d make sure everything I have here is their home, a safe place to return to. We’d run the vineyard together, read together, go to bed together at night, and they’d make fun of my reading glasses and aching joints in the process. When Ciri visits, we’d cook up a big meal for her, even though you—um, their only skill in the kitchen might be to burn it down. It’s okay though. It would be a nice day spent together.”

The way Geralt finishes the last part is gentle and full of wonder. Jaskier forgets to breathe.

“But mostly,” Geralt continues. “They see me. Against all odds, they see me for who I am, understand me like no one else. Even if I am just a witcher with nothing to offer, they will gladly cross the continent for me, again and again.”

The crowd bustles loudly but it’s only in the distance. All noise is drowned out by the intimate bubble created by Geralt’s soft musing.

“They sound wonderful,” Jaskier says, meeting the sparkling joy in Geralt’s eyes.

“They are,” he answers with equal parts pride and longing.

And then, it hits Jaskier.

All the odd descriptions Geralt has given him, all these little details, they are not casual thoughts on a hypothetical partner he might find here today. The life Geralt is telling Jaskier of, this amazing person who he speaks of with immense fondness—they are not fictional.

Oh.

Geralt has been describing someone real, someone who is already in his life.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, pulling back from the reverent expression on Geralt’s face. “I see.”

“You do?” Geralt’s eyes light up expectantly.

“Yes, I do now.” Jaskier looks at the crinkled parchment in his hand and then at the washing lines swaying in the wind. “You’ve found your beloved while I was gone.”

The painful twist in Jaskier’s heart leaves him wrong-footed, unsure how to proceed next. He laughs without humor, trying to put on a brave face, but it feels more like a grimace.

This someone, who is nothing but contradictions to everything Jaskier knows about Geralt, has somehow captured his witcher’s heart. They likely have his heart in a death grip, judging from the enamored way Geralt speaks of them.

While Jaskier wasn’t here, Geralt has fallen in love with this…this paradox of a person.

“Jaskier, let me explain—”

“No, no,” he interrupts. “It’s good news! I’m so glad, my friend. All this time, you’ve been talking about this person already. That explains so much. Of course I was wrong about everything—love doesn’t make sense! I’m the poet, I should know!” Jaskier almost chokes on the unfairness of it all. “We’ve been wasting our time here. Well, I am, coming all the way to Toussaint and playing the matchmaker. Silly me! But I am happy, Geralt. I’m so happy for you.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand with a worried frown, but his touch feels like a burn.

Jaskier stands, his eyes darting everywhere to avoid the dismay he’s caused Geralt with his rambling.

“I’m happy,” he repeats stubbornly, like that’ll make it more believable. “Now my work is done, I’ll go and check the…um, the sun. The sun is good today.”

“Jaskier, wait.”

Without letting Geralt stop him, Jaskier turns to leave, his face crumbling like a dam broken. He doesn’t look at where he goes, only weaving through the crowd. Suddenly everyone is in his way, looking for their romantic happy ending, and it feels like they are all rubbing it in his face.

Jaskier has no need to come back to Geralt again. His best friend will live happily ever after with his beloved, who is noble, selfless, witty, funny, wise, and on top of it all, incredibly good-looking. Geralt never mentioned the last part, but Jaskier can only imagine.

He’s only a bard. He will never live up to Geralt’s wonderful, perfect soulmate.

“Jaskier!” Geralt grabs his wrist from behind, pulling Jaskier to a stop. “Will you listen to me?”

A washing line hangs between them, one particularly large paper flying into Jaskier’s face as he turns around. Geralt lifts the line and crosses under it, stepping into Jaskier’s space.

“What is there to say?” Jaskier says, failing to hide the trembling of his chin. “Are you here to tell me more about your beloved?”

“What if I am?”

Jaskier’s heart shatters into a million pieces, but he fights the blur in his vision. The sun is golden, shining down on Geralt’s smile, making it dreamy and wistful.

“Go on then.” Jaskier’s voice breaks.

“Where do I even start? You already know so much about him.” Geralt keeps his hold on Jaskier’s hand, his thumb running small circles on Jaskier’s wrist. “All I need you to know is that he makes me happy.”

“It’s good that you’re happy. It’s all I ever want for you.”

“I am. Incredibly.” Geralt’s smile is tainted with a hint of sadness. “He isn’t with me often, being too busy and all, but when he does stay, I…I just want every second to last longer.”

Jaskier keeps his smile big and genuine despite the lump in his throat. “You love him so?”

“I do,” Geralt says solemnly.

“And he loves you?”

Geralt looks down at their joint hands before answering, “I’m not sure yet. He’s quite dense for a smart man, so he may not realize he could.”

“Sounds like a fool to me. You’re sure he deserves you?”

“Well, I can only hope to deserve him first, if he’s willing to have me.” Hope flutters in Geralt’s voice. “I’ve been wanting to ask him all day long.”

Jaskier lets out a high-pitched sound, his tears blinked away with surprise. “Is he in Beauclair today?” He looks at the festival around them, horrified. “Then why are you here with me and doing this…nonsense?”

Geralt almost looks offended. “I happen to quite enjoy spending time with you, or do you still doubt that?”

“No, but…” Jaskier bites down on his lips. “You must have been missing him terribly while I was pestering you. Do you want to go and find him instead?”

“Hmm, It’s true I’ve been thinking about kissing him for the past hour.” Geralt’s eyes glisten with patience. “Can I?”

It’s sweet that Geralt is asking permission to leave Jaskier here to seek out his beloved. It’s not like Jaskier can deny him anything, let alone his happiness. The shattered pieces of his heart bleed anew, but with a deep, shuddering breath, Jaskier removes Geralt’s hand from his.

“You can, of course. I’ll leave you to it. I only wish for the best—oh, Geralt, what are you—mmph!”

The sun is in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt moves in a mist of golden light and takes hold of his waist, dipping him backward and pressing their lips together.

Jaskier’s eyes remain open, his body rigid as a statue. Geralt’s lips are slightly chapped but achingly gentle, teasing him just the right way to erase every last thought in his brain.

It ends quickly. Too quickly for Jaskier to catch up with reality.

Geralt opens his eyes when he breaks the kiss, his pupils dilated with happiness. He has the most shit-eating grin on his face. “Alright?”

Jaskier’s jaw drops.

He places his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, his legs now as weak as jelly, his throat dry and his ears flushing hotly. The grin stays on Geralt’s face as Jaskier searches for something, anything.

Anything to explain the fact that Geralt just kissed him.

“Oh.” Jaskier puts up a finger in front of Geralt’s face and bends down, picking up the crinkled paper he’s dropped at some point during the kiss. He flattens it and reads through the words. “Oh!”

“Took you long enough,” Geralt comments infuriatingly.

“You!” Jaskier throws the paper at Geralt’s chest. “You’ve been talking about me this whole time!”

“And every bit I said was true. For a smart man, you are denser than I thought.

“That’s not—I…I was trying to—ugh, you bastard!” Jaskier splutters. They are attracting curious looks from bystanders, some of them pointing at them and muttering something, but neither of them seems to care. “I was heartbroken. Heartbroken, I say, and you were just waiting to laugh at me. Is that the way to treat the man of your dreams?”

“Were you saddened to find out I was with someone else?” Geralt asks. “You…wouldn’t like that?”

Once Jaskier’s heart slows from the shock and embarrassment, he feels the love surging in his chest, the same love that’s been filling the breath in his lungs for the better part of his life.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he answers. “I wouldn’t like that at all.”

Geralt guides Jaskier’s hands and places them behind his back, pulling him closer until Jaskier’s head is nested in the curve of his neck. A hum rumbles against Jaskier’s chest, and he melts into Geralt’s embrace.

“I only learned how much I—how much I loved you after you’ve gone. The days come to a stop in the absence of your songs, and only restart when you visit, but you never stay for long. I thought I was too late,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s hair. “Am I too late? If I’m reading this wrong, I need you to tell me now, Jaskier, so I may still have a chance to recover.”

Jaskier shakes his head, unable to bear the uncertainty in Geralt’s voice. If it’s anyone else making Geralt so unsure of himself, so doubtful of how lovable he is, he’d want to smack them up the head.

But there’s no one else. Geralt loves him.

“Your absence stops my world too,” Jaskier says, cupping Geralt’s cheeks and drinking in the sight of his witcher who is, by some miracle, in love with him. “I thought you were quite happy without me annoying you all the time. I thought my poems were all I had.”

“I thought they were all I had too.”

They both laugh quietly at the absurdity of it all before Jaskier continues.

“No, you are not too late, not if I have a say in it. Neither of us are. We can figure this out from here even though we’ve wasted so much time.”

Geralt smiles, tapping Jaskier on the forehead. “Not wasted.”

“At least today was.” Jaskier insists. “This whole matchmaking business is a complete bust.”

Geralt’s eyes lower to Jaskier’s unhappy pout, and he kisses them away with a quick peck, his nose nuzzling at Jaskier’s skin, lingering as their breaths mix. The sun paints the back of Jaskier’s eyelids bright, and he hums with contentment.

“I don’t know,” Geralt says. “For a matchmaker, I’d say you’ve been quite successful in bringing my beloved to me.”

Between the rows of washing lines and souls seeking their other halves, Jaskier holds Geralt close and lets himself be kissed thoroughly until his limbs go boneless.

Perhaps he can take the win here. He’s found Geralt a match after all.