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To Geralt, the world was an attack on his senses. Taste, texture, smell, color- all of these were amplified, often to an unbearable degree. The tantalizing smells of a delicious three-course table spread were often overwhelming. Geralt disliked strong perfumes, and certain fabrics, and anything with too much cilantro or garlic in it. The smoothness of his leather armor, of the leather wrap on the hilt of his sword, the texture of Roach’s scratchy mane, the satisfying bite of a bitter ale- these Geralt could tolerate; these were sensory experiences he enjoyed. He preferred to stick to a well-worn track of smells, tastes, and textures; anything other than what he was used to was too much, causing splitting headaches and leaving him in a foul mood.
In contrast, the bard was a creature who adored ostentatious luxury. He treasured variety. Jaskier wore bright, jewel-toned silks, drenched himself in flowery perfumes, and ate and drank generously of heavily seasoned foods and sweet wine. He wove freshly plucked flowers in between the strings of his lute. He crooned intricate melodies as he walked beside Geralt on their travels. He absentmindedly strummed his lute when he sat idle, plucking complicated, repeating patterns on the strings almost without thought.
For the first few months after Jaskier began following Geralt around, Geralt awoke each morning expecting a nagging headache to form behind his eyes. Each morning, he rolled over and was hit with a noseful of sickeningly sweet floral scent. He was forced to squint his eyes against the bard’s ridiculously bright yellow silk nightshirt. Jaskier’s nearly constant lute playing was like the buzzing of an annoying fly, and Geralt restrained himself from snapping at the bard more than once. He made a point to keep a significant distance between himself and Jaskier at all times, so as not to let Jaskier’s silken clothing touch his skin. Silk was not a texture he had experienced, despite his already long life, and he was suspicious of the way the grains of the fabric seemed to cling to the bard’s arms.
Slowly, however, he began to adjust to the presence of his new companion. The bard’s lute playing became less of an annoyance and more of a pleasant background noise. After a few accidental brushes of Jaskier’s silk sleeves against Geralt’s skin, he began avoiding physical contact with the bard less and less. Jaskier took notice of the way Geralt would wince when standing downwind of him, and one day Geralt’s nose was greeted not with the sickening floral scents that the bard usually wore, but with the subtle aroma of vanilla and cinnamon. The agonizingly bright silks were slowly replaced with pastels and deeper jewel tones. As the months drew on, Geralt ceased dreading the sights, smells and sounds of his companion. In fact, when the bard was absent, Geralt found himself missing the sensory qualities that came with the bard’s presence.
During a particularly long winter, Geralt found himself traveling alone. Jaskier had returned to Oxenfurt to teach a brief poetry class. Geralt had bid goodbye to him in a fashion significantly more gruff than usual, and when he had made camp that night he found that his tent felt colder than usual. When he awoke in the morning, he felt the beginnings of the kind of headache he hadn’t felt in years. He wasn’t sure what was causing it until he came across one of Jaskier’s handkerchiefs buried deep in his satchel. It was a soft, cream-colored silk, embroidered with buttery yellow flowers along the border. The familiar aroma of vanilla and cinnamon wafted up from it, and almost without thinking Geralt pressed it to his nose, inhaling the scent like a drowning man. When Jaskier finally returned after the winter had passed, Geralt neglected to return the handkerchief to him. He kept it tucked in his pocket, and would run it through his fingers absentmindedly whenever Jaskier was off on some errand or other. The smell brought him comfort.
Although he didn’t know what to make of it, Geralt had realized that for some reason, the bard was the source of a lot of Geralt’s pleasant sensory experiences. Beyond just the scents he chose or the colorful silks he wore, Geralt enjoyed the sound of his voice, the way he absentmindedly strummed his lute in quiet moments, the mischievous gleam that seemed to always dance in his eyes. He caught himself staring at his companion on more than one occasion. Watching the bard bite into a strawberry, Geralt found himself fixated on the way that the strawberry juice stained his lips red. As Jaskier strummed his lute by the campfire, Geralt couldn’t help but notice the way the firelight made his skin glow a luminous gold. The handkerchief that Geralt had kept was not the only thing of the bard’s that Geralt tucked away; there was a dried flower that the bard had picked, a small bottle of sweet-smelling oil, and even a whole linen shirt that smelled deliciously of Jaskier. On one particularly agonizing night spent in an inn, Jaskier had stumbled into their shared room with his hair rumpled and his doublet undone, grinning lazily and smelling strongly of wine. He had looked up at Geralt through half-lidded eyes, crooning some melody of his in a sleepy voice, and nearly fell through the window before Geralt caught him, holding him upright. The bard had leaned into Geralt, his lips brushing his collarbone, and the combination of the bard’s wine-laden scent filling his nose and the soft velvet of his doublet under Geralt’s hand had almost sent Geralt over the edge. He had needed to take a few minutes outside in the cool night air before re-entering their shared room to spend a sleepless night with Jaskier curled into his side, one hand resting thoughtlessly on Geralt’s chest.
Even after he royally fucked up any chance of continuing a friendship with Jaskier, the memory of the bard’s presence haunted Geralt. The few things of Jaskier’s that Geralt had kept gave him a small amount of comfort. Geralt spent many nights with his face pressed into Jaskier’s linen shirt, breathing in the remnants of his perfume and imagining the bard was with him. The memory of the way the bard had once filled Geralt’s senses was both a comfort and a curse, but Geralt would take the heartache a million times over before willingly forgetting Jaskier. He knew that the scent of Jaskier’s perfume and the delicate lilt of his voice would follow Geralt to the grave.