Chapter Text
“Tell me about it again,” eight-year-old Julian Alfred Pankratz says, shuffling closer in his chair. His eyes are wide with interest despite the fact that they feel heavy with the promise of sleep. He should have been in bed hours ago, but great aunt Poppy always lets him stay up late when she visits and his parents won’t be home to scold him until morning.
Aunt Poppy breathes a laugh. “Come now, little Dandelion. I tell you the story every time I visit. Are you sure you don’t want to hear something else?” Something twinkles in her eyes as she tries to suppress her smile. She may pretend to be indifferent, but she would admit years later that she loved telling Julian the story as much as he loved to hear it.
“No,” Julian insists. “I want to hear that one. It’s my favourite.”
“Very well,” Aunt Poppy says, letting her smile slip. “One more time. Then you have to go to bed. Promise?”
Julian nods, making himself comfortable in the plush chair. “I promise.”
“Alright then. Let's see…I was nineteen at the time and still living in a small farming village outside of Lettenhove. My father was the baker, and it was my job to help mill the flour in the morning for the shop, so I was out that morning, hauling the sacks of flour where they needed to go, when all of a sudden, I blinked and woke up somewhere else.
“Suddenly the mill was gone, the flour was gone, and I found myself sitting at a table in the most beautiful dining room I'd ever seen; towering mosaic ceilings, carved pillars and polished marble floors.”
Julian nods along. “That’s Uncle Richard’s dining room,” he says knowingly.
“It was,” Aunt Poppy says. “But I didn’t know that at the time.
“The meal in front of me was more food than I’d ever seen in one place, and all of it was so luxurious; suckling pig, stuffed cornish hens, tropical fruits and fine cheeses, roasted vegetables, platters of fish, and even some things I didn’t recognize. It all looked so good, that for a moment, I didn't even realize that I was surrounded by strangers.
“I must have been making quite a face,” Aunt Poppy says, “because suddenly the man sitting to my right turned to me and said, ‘Poppy, are you alright?’ and I said, ‘where am I? Who are you? And how did I come to be surrounded by such riches?’
“And that’s when your Uncle Richard-- whom I didn’t know yet at the time-- figured out what had happened. He said, ‘you’re the other Poppy, aren’t you?’ and that’s when I realized I’d had my Swap.”
Julian grins, feeling anticipation rising. He’s always liked this part.
“Uncle Richard had all the guests leave the dining room except for the two of us,” Aunt Poppy continues. “And once everyone had gone, he turned to me and introduced himself and said he was my soulmate.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes, Julian. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and dressed so fancy I thought he could be a prince. I told him my name was Poppy and he said he already knew, that we’d been married for nine years. Then he took me over to a mirror and showed me my reflection.
“The girl I saw was still me, but older. And she looked strong and confident and beautiful-- all things I never felt like I was, but I couldn’t deny with them staring me right in the face. Richard asked me how old I was then and I told him I was seventeen, and he said we hadn’t met yet, but we would in two years.”
“At the Belleteyn festival!” Julian exclaims excitedly.
“That’s right,” Aunt Poppy replies, “but that’s a story for tomorrow.
“I was so overcome by emotion that suddenly I had to sit down. Richard brought me back to the table and had me eat something, and next thing I knew, I was sharing the most delicious meal with the kindest man I’d ever met.”
She sighs wistfully, as if imagining it herself. “It was perfect. But just like all perfect things, it didn’t last, and soon I felt myself fading away, back to my time and place. Before I left, Richard took my hands in his and said, ‘Poppy, you’re the best soulmate a man could ever ask for. I’m so glad that I could meet you, and I can't wait to do it again so that we can spend our whole lives together.’ And just like that I blinked and he was gone. And I was back at the mill with four more sacks of flour to haul.”
“Wow,” Julian whispers in awe. “That’s so romantic, Aunt Poppy.”
The old woman smiles, nodding. “It was. And it is.”
“I hope that my soulmate is like that.”
“Oh Julian,” she says, shuffling closer and kissing his forehead. “I’m sure that when you meet them, your soulmate will be just as incredible as you are.”
-------------------------------
By the time Julian is fifteen, he’s had plenty of time to imagine what his soulmate will be like.
He knows they’ll be beautiful. And romantic. And they’ll probably love music and poetry as much as he does. Maybe they’ll be a bard same as him, or royalty, or a brave and daring knight. Whoever they are, Julian knows that they’re perfect, and he’s in love with them already.
He spends countless hours of his adolescent years daydreaming about his Swap. He keeps a journal where he writes down all the things he wants to say to his soulmate when he finally meets them, and (though looking back on it a couple years later he’d be extremely embarrassed about it) even composes a love sonnet for his partner that he’s convinced will sweep them of their feet.
Huddled in Essi’s dorm during their first year at Oxenfurt, Julian, Essi, Priscilla, and Valdo contemplate what it will finally be like when they have their Swap.
“I’d ask them so many questions,” Essi says. “I want to know everything about them and how we met.”
“I’d want them to show me our lives together,” Priscilla says. “I bet we’d have a beautiful house and kids. I want to spend the whole day just getting to know them and spending time together.”
Essi turns to Julian. “How about you, Jules?”
Julian taps a finger to his chin and thinks for a moment. He’s already thought about his Swap for what feels like a lifetime, but there’s so many scenarios to choose from! Eventually he settles on his favourite.
“I’d just want to spend time together,” Julian says. “I’d want to wake up in their arms and have a lazy morning in bed, just talking. We’d spend the time together, just doing everyday things. I’d hold their hand, and recite the love sonnet I wrote for them, and then in the evening we’d sit on a blanket and look at the stars. They’d kiss me in the moonlight and I’d know that all is right in the world because I was there, and we had eachother.”
“Awww,” Essi exclaims.
Priss smiles and claps her hands together.
Valdo snickers.
All of a sudden Julian feels himself sink as heat rises in his cheeks. He turns his head away so Valdo can’t see.
“Really, Julian?” Valdo sneers. “Don’t you think that’s rather childish? You make it sound like you’re in some fairytale.”
“Oh yeah,” Julian shoots back, “well what did you have planned, Valdo?”
Valdo Marx wears his signature oily smirk as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “We fuck, obviously.”
Essi smacks his arm lightly. “Pig.”
“What? It’s perfectly reasonable. My soulmate and I are going to be having tons of sex anyway.
Priss snorts. “Provided they can stomach the sight of you.”
“I’ll have you know that--”
Jaskier lets the conversation fade out of focus as Priss and Essi start arguing with Valdo. He knows that Valdo probably doesn’t mean to hurt him-- the two have been poking at each other with cutting remarks since day one-- but the words still sting. He’s had all these amazing thoughts about finally having his Swap and meeting his soulmate that he never thought to consider: what if they don’t want the same things as him? What if they’re like Valdo and think he’s childish-- or worse-- laugh at him.
“Don’t listen to Valdo,” Priscilla tells him later as they’re walking back to their rooms. “I thought your wish was lovely, Jules. He’s just being a jerk.”
Julian sighs. “I know.” He does. But it doesn’t make it hurt less.
--------------------------
Two years pass and Julian is seventeen, about to participate in his first major performance with original music as part of his end of semester grade. Priscilla is with him backstage, holding his lute in her hands as he crouches in the corner and tries very hard not to throw up.
“I’m telling you, Jules,” she says, patting his back. “It’s not that bad.”
“Actually it is that bad, Priss,” he hisses, whirling his head around. “I was so absorbed in my composing that I got to the year end show of my Junior year-- where I’m supposed to make my official debut by the way-- and forgot to pick my fucking stage name.”
He clutches his stomach. Oh gods, he’s gonna be sick. And even worse, he’s gonna throw up all of his formal boots.
“Okay, okay,” Priss says, trying to calm him. “Just think of one now. Did you have any ideas you were considering?”
“I don’t know! When I mean forgot, I really mean forgot! I didn’t even brainstorm!”
“What about Dandelion?” Priss suggests. “That was your nickname as a kid, right? It could be an ode to your childhood.”
Jaskier’s shoulders slump. “No, if I pick that Valdo will just make fun of me again.”
“Okay, then what about Jules? That’s my nickname for you.”
“Yes, but that’s basically my name,” Jaskier says with a sigh. “I need a real stage name. I can’t just be Julian.”
“Well why not? Valdo’s using his own name. All he did was tack ‘the Troubadour of Cidaris’ onto the end. ”
“Because, Priss. This is my stage name. It has to be important. It has to be-- ugh! I don’t know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, running a hand down his face as he stands and turns towards her.
Except when he opens his eyes Priss isn’t there. And neither is the backstage area at Oxenfurt.
Julian is outside, and in front of him is a rather handsome man with short-cropped dark hair, golden eyes, and a scar on the side of his face.
And that’s all he has time to register before the handsome man punches him in the face and he flies back, landing on the ground with an “oof.”
Pain erupts across Julian’s face as his eyes flood with tears.
“Shit, Buttercup, are you alright? I thought you were going to block that.”
Julian blinks blearily at the handsome man now crouching over him as his brain slips into a fuzzy, muted haze. He tries to speak, but the wind has been knocked from his lungs, and instead he lies there gasping like a fish out of water as he chokes on the word, “...soulmate?”
Then he passes out.
------------------------------
Nice job, Lambert. You broke the bard.
It wasn’t my fault! I thought he was going to block it.
If he has permanent damage from this, Geralt is going to kill you.
There’s…voices. Voices that Julian doesn’t recognize, yet they feel familiar somehow.
It wasn’t even that hard a hit. How was I supposed to know it would knock him out?
He’s a human, dumbass-- er, mostly human. You can’t hit him as hard as you hit us.
You think I don’t know that?
Whatever. Just go get Geralt.
The voices go quiet for a while after that, and the only thing Jaskier notices is the pain. The terrible, throbbing, probably swelling his face pain.
Then one of the voices returns, louder this time.
“Hey, look. He’s waking up.”
He groans, trying to open his eyes, but everything is so bright and his ears are ringing. It feels like he’s lying down somewhere on a remarkably soft bed. Did he pass out at the performance? Oh no, did he miss his cue?
“Jaskier--” a new voice; deep and husky-- “are you alright?”
Julian shakes his head, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the light. “Who’s Jaskier?”
“Shit.”
“Gods, Lambert. You actually broke him.”
What? Julian blinks a couple times as his eyes start to adjust. He’s in what looks to be a bedroom; it’s cozy, with stone walls and a crackling fireplace. “What happened? Where…where am I?”
“My gods, he doesn’t remember anything!”
“Jaskier.” That deep voice says again, and then there’s a strong hand on Julian’s shoulder and he turns his head to see its owner--
Holy shit, it’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Mr. Deep and Husky is fucking stacked, built like a brick wall, with arms that could crush Julian like a grape. He has long, straight, milk-white hair that trails past his shoulders and piercing eyes the color of liquid gold. His face is handsome, with a strong jaw and straight nose, sharp cheekbones that accentuate the curve of his cheek, and around his neck, he wears a thick metal chain with a wolf’s head medallion hanging from it.
Julian blinks a few times, trying to right himself from the dumbfoundedness of seeing such a gorgeous being in the flesh. He wants to ask what happened, but what comes out of his mouth is, “you’re beautiful.”
He immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. Did I really just say that?
But Mr. Gorgeous doesn’t seem upset in the slightest. In fact, from the sharp look in his eye and quirk of his lips, he looks rather amused.
“...Jaskier?” he tries again, and Julian blinks. Is he supposed to be Jaskier?
When Julian doesn’t respond, a brief flash of surprise passes over the man’s face. Then something seems to click.
“...Julian?” he asks cautiously.
“...y-yes?”
“Oh fuck,” he hears someone say from across the room.
And then it hits him.
A strange place with a gorgeous man that’s everything Julian could ever want?
“Oh fuck,” Julian whispers, covering his mouth in shock. “Oh fuck! It’s you!”
Mr Gorgeous smiles. “Julian. My name is Geralt of Rivia. I’ve waited a very long time to meet you.”
--------------------------------
Geralt sends everyone out of the room-- our room, Geralt calls it, and the very thought makes Julian giddy beyond belief. Looking around, he can see it now, the signs of their life together. This place he’s in, it’s clearly somewhere more suited to Geralt than him; the simple and rustic decor being the major sign, but also fur pelts and trophies from various creatures, weapons hung on the walls-- it screams I’m a rugged mountain man, a hunter perhaps, or maybe a knight. But Julian can also see the telltale signs of his own presence as well; an embroidered silk pillow on the bed that sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the simplicity, a lute propped up against the wall, bottles of his favourite soaps and perfumes on the dresser.
“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” Geralt says, pulling Julian out of his focus, “but my version of you seems quite content with it.”
Julian shakes his head, turning his attention back on the other man. “It’s perfect.” It’s not the finery he’s accustomed to, no, but it’s perfect simply because it’s them.
“Tell me, Julian. How old are you right now?”
“Seventeen,” Julian answers.
“Hm. You’re still at Oxenfurt then.”
“Yes. I was getting ready for my debut performance when I woke up here.” He fights the urge to grimace at the fact that he still hasn’t chosen a name for himself, yet somehow that doesn’t seem so important anymore. “Speaking of which,” he adds, “where is here?”
“You’re in Kaer Morhen. School of the Wolf.”
“School of the…” Julian’s eyes land on the wolf medallion around Geralt’s neck, suddenly seeing the man in a new light as he takes in the golden eyes, the white hair, the scars. “You’re--”
“A witcher,” Geralt finishes.
“A witcher,” Julian repeats, then quieter to himself, “holy shit.” His soulmate is a witcher. He’s heard tales of the witchers, of course, stories of heroics and heartbreak, and also some rather terrible things people whisper about them, but Julian has never actually met one.
“I know it may be a bit…surprising,” Geralt says, looking uncertain.
“A little,” Julian admits, and in a moment of confidence grabs Geralt's hand where it rests on the bed. “But I like surprises. They’re one of life’s joys, don’t you think?”
“They are indeed.” Geralt gives him a warm smile and squeezes his hand, making Julian’s heart skip a beat. “Would you like to see what you look like?”
Julian nods enthusiastically.
It’s a little bit difficult to stand having been knocked unconscious less than an hour prior, but Geralt is extremely patient and caring as he wraps an arm around Julian’s waist (that alone makes him a little weak in the knees), and helps him walk over to the vanity.
His reflection is older, but not by too many years-- from the looks of it he must be nearing thirty or so. His hair is a little shorter than he’s used to, his face more defined now that he’s lost his baby fat, and his awkward too-long limbs have now been balanced out by a broader chest and fair bit of lean muscle. On his cheek, a purple mark is already starting to bloom. Julian brushes over the bruise with his fingers, wincing.
“Sorry about that,” Geralt says. “Lambert didn’t do it on purpose. You just happened to Swap halfway through combat training.”
Julian raises an eyebrow. “Is that why he punched me?”
“In his defense, you’re normally quite good with blocking.”
“Uh…and why exactly am I training for combat?”
“Witchers return to their Schools in winter to train and rest,” Geralt explains. “Vesemir makes it mandatory that everyone participate in training. Even bards.”
“Who’s Vesemir?”
“Another witcher. The oldest remaining from the Wolf School. You’ll meet him later. But first I’d like to spend some time with you.”
Julian smiles. “I’d like that.”
Geralt smiles back, taking Jaskier’s hand in his and squeezing it gently. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to do for your Swap?”
A brief image of the sappy love sonnet flashes in Julian’s mind. At the time he’d been sure it would woo his soulmate so they were head over heels for him, but now, faced with the two hundred pounds of muscle and leather that make up the witcher before him, he’s not so sure it would have the same effect. Geralt appears to care for him a great deal, but he doesn’t seem the romantic type. Right now the thought of confessing his love to this man through poetry is far too embarrassing. Even his picnic under the stars doesn’t seem right anymore.
“Um. I didn’t exactly have anything planned out per say,” Julian mumbles. “I just want to get to know you, I suppose.”
Geralt gives Julian a look as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but thankfully doesn’t push the matter further. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He gestures to the set of comfortable looking chairs near the fireplace and Julian follows him to sit down. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” Julian admits. “I want to know what your favourite food is, whether you sleep on your back or your side or your front, the things that make you happy, your fears, your wants-- I want to know everything about our lives together; what we do, where we go. I want to know you Geralt of Rivia. I want to know what it will be like to finally have you in my life.”
Julian has to take a big breath once he’s finished, since he forgot to breathe while the words were spilling out of him. Geralt eyes him with a fond expression on his face.
“Alright,” the witcher says calmly. “Slow down and I can answer everything.”
Heat rises in Julian’s cheeks. “Sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”
Geralt just smiles. “I know. It’s alright. Just breathe this time, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“Let’s see then,” the witcher begins. “My favorite food is Venison stew. I used to like it because it was the only thing I could cook that didn’t taste like shit, or at least that’s what I thought until I made it for you for the first time.” He breathes a laugh. “You spat it out right back into your bowl, then in what seemed like a blind fury, started dumping entire bags of spices into the pot. I thought you’d gone mad, but once I tasted what you’d made, I realized spices weren’t such a waste of money after all.”
Julian chuckles at the idea. It does seem like something he’d do, albeit a tad harsh. He’s grown up eating food made by his father’s personal cook. The few bland meals Julian has had the misfortune to try are crimes against nature in his humble opinion.
“Geralt, spices are absolutely not a waste of money.”
“Well, yes, I know that now. I’m afraid I can’t say the same for Eskel and Lambert though.”
“What? No! Do all witchers eat unseasoned food?”
Geralt sighs. “Unfortunately.”
“Unacceptable! I simply must change their minds.”
The witcher smiles, shaking his head. “My version of you said the exact same thing. Though you’ve been working on them for nearly a decade and Lambert’s really dragging his heels.”
Julian scoffs, offended at the very idea of someone trying to resist flavour in their food. “Well it’s good to know that my future self at least has his priorities straight.”
“And it’s good to know my younger soulmate has always been this fiery.”
Julian beams at him, delighted at the toothy smile the witcher returns. Geralt has a beautiful smile, somehow made more endearing by the contrast it has against his rugged features. “Tell me more,” he says, leaning closer.
“I usually sleep on my side,” Geralt continues. “When we’re on the road, it’s really the only way that we can both fit into one bedroll. When I have a real bed, I lie on my back sometimes. You like to use my chest as a pillow so you can listen to my heartbeat. It helps you fall asleep.”
Something light and airy flutters in Julian’s stomach at the thought of sleeping with Geralt; the causal intimacy of it, being wrapped in those strong arms or pressed against that broad chest. He’s yet to experience sharing a bed with any of his partners-- most of his dalliances until this point have consisted of hushed encounters in the dorms at Oxenfurt, a quick hand or mouth to stave off the aching desire in his bones. He wanted to save the more meaningful things to experience for the first time with his soulmate. With…Geralt.
“Before you came into my life, the only thing that really made me happy was Roach-- she’s my horse--” Geralt says when Julian opens his mouth to ask. “But you opened my eyes to a lot of other things that make me happy too. I learned to appreciate the little things; they way the earth smells after it rains, a hot bath, honey cakes with apricot preserves. But what makes me the most happy is you.”
“Geralt…” Warmth floods Julian’s chest at the earnest expression the witcher gives him. Those beautiful amber eyes look at him with such adoration, it almost makes him choke up a little.
“The thing I fear the most,” Geralt says quietly, “is losing you. Every time we go on a hunt I’m worried something will happen, no matter how much I prepare, or how careful I am. Sometimes you get hurt, and I’m terrified that one day being my soulmate will be your undoing.”
At that, Julian really does choke up a little, but Geralt offers him a comforting smile and squeezes his hand.
“And as for what I want,” he whispers. “One day I want to retire. I was taught that a witcher’s job is never done, you fight until you grow slow and die, but I don’t want to die a witcher’s death. I want to grow old with you. We’ll move down to Toussaint where I own a plot of land and we’ll start a vineyard. We’ll build a house and make wine and drink until we’re stupid with it. We will look at the stars every night, and I’ll go to sleep with you in my arms, knowing that we have the rest of our lives together.”
He holds Julian’s hand in his, and Julian feels himself tremble as tears prick at his eyes.
“I love you, Julian,” Geralt says. “You are the best thing in my life.”
A sob escapes the younger man’s lips. How could he deserve someone like this? How can Geralt love him so deeply, so unashamedly? This is everything he could have ever wanted, to feel this valued. This loved.
Geralt wipes Julian’s tears away with his thumb, the action so tender it only makes them flow faster. Suddenly a pair of strong arms are wrapping around him and Julian finds himself pulled against the witcher’s chest.
“I love you too,” Julian sobs, sniffling into Geralt’s shirt. “I know I don’t really know you, but this body, Jaskier does, and I can feel how much he adores you.”
Geralt holds him as he cries. Julian feels foolish for doing it. They only have so much time together and he’s wasting it with tears. Like a child, a cruel voice hisses. Geralt doesn’t seem bothered by his outburst in the slightest thought. The witcher holds him close, pets his hair and rubs comforting circles on his back. Geralt’s body is warm, and feels good against him, and the mixture of pine, earth and leather that the larger man smells like is soothing.
“I’m sorry,” Julian mumbles, once the tears have stopped and he lifts his head. There’s a wet spot in the front of Geralt’s shirt, and he’s pretty sure he looks a fright. Julian has always been an ugly crier.
Geralt cups his soulmate’s cheek, running his thumb slowly over the curve of his cheekbone. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s a lot, I know.”
“I just don’t want to waste our time together.”
The witcher smiles. “If it’s time spent with you, it could never be a waste.”
“Keep talking like that and you’ll make me cry again.”
Geralt hums and presses a kiss to Julian’s cheek, then to his knuckles. “Let’s do something else then, shall we?”
“Like what?”
“Hmmm. Do you think you’re up for meeting the others?”
---------------------------
The main hall of Kaer Morhen looks exactly what Julian would expect from a centuries old witcher castle. The ceilings are impossibly high, the stone walls covered in weapons and trophies and banners displaying the Wolf School emblem. A large hearth sits at the wall opposite of the entrance with a bearskin rug lying in front of it. The room houses several long tables with benches to seat the many witchers that once roamed the halls, though now the only one in use is the table towards the kitchen doors where the delicious smell of roasting meat is wafting through the hall.
The two witchers Julian glimpsed earlier, Eskel and Lambert, sit at the far end playing a card game he doesn’t recognize. They raise their heads when he and Geralt approach and his soulmate squeezes his shoulder gently before calling, “Eskel, Lambert. Meet Julian.”
The other Wolves put down their cards as Geralt and Julian approach the table. Normally Julian would be nervous at the prospect of meeting his soulmate’s family, but while the feeling rises within him, he also feels a sense of calm and familiarity. This body knows these men, trusts them. And the knowledge that Jaskier gets along with Geralt’s family sets Julian at ease.
Lambert, the witcher that punched him earlier, offers a hand. “Nice to finally meet your younger self, Buttercup. Sorry ‘bout the shiner, I hope pretty boy didn’t fuss over you too much.”
“Likewise,” Julian says, shaking his hand. “And don’t worry about it, I understand I’m normally very good with blocking.”
Lambert grins. “You should be, considering that yours truly taught you everything you know. I’m the best there is.”
Across the table, Eskel snickers. “More like the best at getting your ass kicked during our match this morning.”
“Oh fuck you, asshole.”
Eskel ignores the shove that Lambert gives him and turns to face Julian. Like his brothers, he’s ruggedly handsome as well, and has a set of scars running down the right side of his face. They’re brutal, but in Julian’s opinion they add to the whole appearance.
“Eskel,” he says, shaking Julian's hand. “Your favourite Wolf.”
“Like hell you are,” Lambert interjects.
“Actually, I’m quite sure I’m his favourite,” Geralt rumbles, pressing a kiss to Julian's cheek.
“It’s true,” Julian admits sheepishly, feeling himself blush. “I’m sure your version of me loves you all dearly, but I’m afraid when it comes to Geralt there’s no contest.”
Eskel and Lambert share a look.
“You really are him,” Lambert says, “aren't you?”
Julian nods. “I really am.”
“I certainly hope so,” a new voice says from the other side of the room, and Julian turns to see an older looking witcher with grey hair and a moustache enter, holding a tray of roasted vegetables. “Otherwise your punch really did knock his brains out, Lambert.” He places the tray on the table before turning his attention to Julian and Geralt. “It’s good to finally meet you, Julian. I’m Vesemir. Geralt has been eagerly waiting for your Swap all winter. He’s been like a pup on Yule’s eve.”
“Oh he has, has he?” A smirk pulls at Julian’s lips as he glances at Geralt.
“It’s true,” the witcher says with a shrug. “We knew it would happen sometime during your twenty-ninth year, but you didn’t know when exactly.”
Julian blinks. “I told you about my Swap?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”
“You hardly shut up about it,” Lambert adds.
“I don’t know. I’ve spent so much of my life fixated on meeting you as this version of me, I never actually thought about what it would be like on the other side.”
“Jaskier told us how much this meant to you,” Geralt explains. “He wanted it to be perfect. Though he failed to tell me it would happen during training-- completely skipped over the black eye part, actually. He said he needed to prepare me so that I could make it romantic enough.”
“Oh? And how exactly did he do that?”
The witcher smiles. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
“But Geralt. ”
“Not until after dinner.”
“Speaking of dinner,” Vesemir cuts in, “since you lot aren’t doing anything, you can set the table.”
A chorus of “yes, Vesemir” answers, and Julian follows Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert to the kitchen where they are given plates and trays of food to carry out. It’s not until he sits down at the table that he takes in the spread-- roast pheasant, fresh baked bread, mashed sweet potatoes, roasted vegetables, and salted herring-- and realizes they’ve made all his favourite foods.
“I figured it’d fit the occasion,” Vesemir says when he sees Julian’s expression. “When Eskel and Lambert told me it happened, I wanted to make something special for you.”
“Thank you,” Julian tells him. “I’m touched, honestly. Everything looks delicious.”
“Well dig in, everyone.”
Everything is delicious, and Julian lets out a quiet sigh as he takes a bite of pheasant, seasoned to perfection. Beside him, Geralt nudges his arm with a smile. “Luckily Vesemir was one of the few witchers to adopt your opinion on spices.”
“And what a good decision it was!” Julian says, amid shoveling his mouth full. “Take notes, Lambert.”
“Nope, just for that, I’m resisting out of spite.”
“So you’d rather just live a sad, flavorless life?”
“Pretty much.”
“He’s just like that,” Geralt says, chuckling, and Eskel nods in agreement.
“Lambert actively resists having nice things,” the scarred witcher tells him. “Geralt did too before you wore him down over the years. He used to be such a stick in the mud.”
“Yeah, at least I’m fun,” Lambert adds.
Eskel smirks, throwing the youngest Wolf a sideways glance. “Oh? Is that what you call it?”
“Screw you, you bastard,” Lambert shoots back, throwing a piece of roasted turnip at Eskel’s head.
Eskel is about to retaliate with a piece of bread when Vesemir slams his mug down on the table. “No throwing food at the table,” he snaps. “I don’t want a repeat of last winter. We have company.”
Julian shoots Geralt a look. “Last winter?”
“Lambert got drunk and threw a bowl of stew when Eskel beat him at cards. It devolved very easily from there. Vesemir put them on kitchen duty for the rest of the season.”
Julian can’t help the smile that curls at his lips picturing two very intimidating witchers having a food fight. In some ways it’s nice to see these men bicker with each other. He’s always wished he had siblings or cousins to bicker with, but back at Lettenhove manor Julian is an only child, and the Viscount’s son must stay on his best behavior lest he disgrace the family. But he has always wondered what it would be like to have a big family together like this. Perhaps with Geralt he’ll one day get that.
The rest of dinner passes with some lovely conversation. Geralt tells Julian more about their day-to-day life together; how he became Jaskier the bard and dedicated his craft to spreading the good deeds of witchers, and the Wolves regale him with stories of their adventures. (It’s only once, after all, that you can brag about your favourite contracts like it’s the first time hearing about them, Geralt says.) By the end of the meal Julian is thoroughly stuffed, a little flushed from drink, and smiling wider than he has in a long time.
A pair of strong arms curl around Julian’s waist while he’s helping clear off the table. “Are you ready for your surprise?” a deep voice purrs in his ear, and he shivers, feeling excitement spike inside him at his soulmate’s close proximity.
Julian grins and turns in Geralt’s embrace so that he can look at him, then, feeling confident and maybe a little tipsy, kisses the witcher's cheek softly. “What do you have in store for me, oh witcher mine?”
“Close your eyes.”
Julian huffs and rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. “Okay. Now what?”
“Now you come with me,” Geralt says, guiding Julian away from the table with a strong arm wrapped around him.
It’s sort of hard to walk without knowing where he’s going, but Geralt is very careful to keep Julian upright when he stumbles or bumps into something. They walk through the long hallways, and Geralt guides him up a painful amount of stairs, until finally Julian hears the sound of a door opening and a rush of cold hits him.
“Alright. You can open them.”
Julian opens his eyes and gasps.
Geralt has led him to the top of a stone tower to an open lookout, lined by battlements, giving a fantastic view of the mountains. On the ground a makeshift fire pit has been set up that is crackling steadily, along with a large bearskin rug and pile of neatly folded blankets.
“I thought we could look at the stars,” Geralt says, holding out a fur lined cloak in Julian’s direction. “My version of you said you had your heart set on a picnic. I know it’s not quite what you imagined, but the blankets and fire should keep us warm enough, and you can’t get a clearer sky than in the Blue Mountains.
“It’s perfect, ” Julian exclaims, hugging the cloak to himself and letting Geralt guide him over to the rug.
They get comfortable and Geralt takes out the blankets; one that he puts over their laps, the other he wraps around their shoulders. Lastly, he curls an arm around Julian’s middle, pulling him into his side, and the bard sighs, melting into the solid heat of the other man and dropping his head to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. It’s a beautiful night; clear skies without a single cloud, cold, but not when Geralt is holding him. Julian has dreamed of this, longed to feel the touch of his soulmate, his one and only for so long. Now that he finally has it, he feels lighter than air.
They sit together for what feels like hours, talking quietly and just appreciating each other’s presence. Geralt points out all the constellations he can name and Julian tells him which is his favourite (though of course, the witcher already knows).
As the evening passes and Julian’s eyes begin to feel heavy, he knows his time with Geralt is almost up. It’s been a perfect day. Not quite what he was expecting, but perfect nonetheless.
Though there is one final thing that would make it even better, something that Julian feels very shy to ask for but desperately wants.
“Geralt?”
“Hm.” The witcher’s eyes are still fixed on the sky, though the gentle caress of his fingers over Julian’s back never waver.
“I know I’m not your version of me yet, I know that it’s Jaskier you love but--” he falls short as he feels himself blush. “Would you…would you kiss me?”
It’s then that the witcher turns to look at him. A gentle smile dances on his lips. “You’re my soulmate,” Geralt says simply, “I love every version of you.” Then he leans in and presses their lips together.
Geralt’s mouth is warm and surprisingly soft, moving with practiced ease against Julian’s own. He cups the smaller man’s jaw, tilting his head for a better angle and Julian melts into the touch. Geralt is so warm, and smells so good. There’s the slight brush of stubble on his cheek-- something that Julian has yet to experience with the clean-shaven youths that he occupies his time with-- though it’s not unpleasant.
He makes a sound of protest when Geralt pulls back for a moment, and the witcher shushes him, caressing the side of his face lightly before leaning back in.
The next kiss is deeper. Geralt teases his tongue across the seam of his lips, nipping gently before coaxing Julian to part for him and slipping his tongue inside. The smaller man sighs in pleasure, pressing into the witcher further, searching for more--
Jules?
He jumps suddenly, accidentally catching Geralt’s lower lip with his teeth in the process.
That was Priscilla's voice.
“Everything okay?” Geralt asks, suddenly concerned.
“Yeah, I’m just…”
Jules, are you alright? C’mon, you’re on in two minutes.
“It’s Priscilla,” Julian says. “I can hear her.” Not only her, actually. Now he’s sure he can hear the crowds of people, the distant sound of the performer on stage. “I think I’m being pulled back.”
No. He doesn’t want to leave yet. He wants to spend the night cuddled up with Geralt and to wake up beside him in the morning. He wants what Jaskier gets to have every day.
His vision is growing blurry and it takes Julian a moment to realize that it’s because he’s crying.
“Hey.” Geralt’s voice is calm, soothing. Though it’s hard to hear amongst all the other sounds. A warm hand wipes away his tears. “It’s okay.”
Julian shakes his head. “But I don’t want to leave yet.”
Geralt presses a kiss to his cheek, then to his forehead, before wrapping his arms around Julian tightly. “We’ll see each other again,” he murmurs into his soulmate’s hair, “I promise.”
“But I don’t know-- how will I find you?”
“Posada. In two years, meet me in Posada.”
And then he’s gone.
------------------------------
Julian returns with a gasp to find himself lying on the floor with Priscilla leaning over him, looking panicked.
“Jules! Oh thank the gods, you’re alright.”
Julian groans, clutching his stomach as the anxiety induced ache hits him full force. “Priss…”
“Can you still go on? You were panicking and then you just collapsed.” She helps him stand on shaky legs and Julian nods.
“I think I just had my Swap.”
Her eyes widen. “Sweet Melitele…you need to tell me everything, but first you have to---”
“Julian Alfred Pankratz?” A man holding a quill and parchment steps out from behind the stage curtain, eyes scanning over the two of them. “You’re on.”
“Right then.” Julian grips his lute and heads towards the stage. He pauses in front of the man with the quill. “It’s Jaskier,” he says. “Call me Jaskier.”