Jaskier moves in close to get the picture, which is a necessary thing, but Geralt doesn't usually have anyone quite so close to him. He tenses a little at the hand on his bicep and his brow furrows when Jaskier's cheek bumps against his. He's sporting some pretty good scruff at this point, so it's probably not a pleasant sensation against the musician's smooth cheek, either. Jaskier doesn't give him much time to object to anything, though, taking the pictures quickly and being done with it. A wise move-- Geralt isn't going to tolerate much of... this. The touching and closeness and all that.
He puts some distance between them once the pictures are done, slugs back some of the wine to calm the weird feeling in his stomach. He's just not used to people getting in his personal space like that, that's all.
"Need to have a soul to lose any," he says, looking at his phone when the text message containing the picture comes through. It's... fine, he supposes. He looks like himself, all serious and monochrome, except that the light's caught his eyes in just the right way to bring out all the yellow in them. They're hazel, really, that's what it says on all of his documents, but they've got all these strange yellow undertones. If the light hits them just the wrong way, they get a weird, glowy golden look. Just a trick of the light, but it makes him look strange. That's fine, though, Jaskier will probably just edit it out, like you do with red-eye in flash photography.
"Hm," he says, because he's fairly certain that he usually has no wine, no friends who aren't related to him in some fashion, and cares of all ages. "What poet did you lift that one off of?"
That doesn't sound like his own words. It sounds like one of those stupid platitudes that a middle-aged suburban mom would frame and hang up in her living room next to a Live Laugh Love wall decoration. But since they've completed Jaskier's toast-adjacent ritual, Geralt sees no reason to refrain from digging into the sandwiches.
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He puts some distance between them once the pictures are done, slugs back some of the wine to calm the weird feeling in his stomach. He's just not used to people getting in his personal space like that, that's all.
"Need to have a soul to lose any," he says, looking at his phone when the text message containing the picture comes through. It's... fine, he supposes. He looks like himself, all serious and monochrome, except that the light's caught his eyes in just the right way to bring out all the yellow in them. They're hazel, really, that's what it says on all of his documents, but they've got all these strange yellow undertones. If the light hits them just the wrong way, they get a weird, glowy golden look. Just a trick of the light, but it makes him look strange. That's fine, though, Jaskier will probably just edit it out, like you do with red-eye in flash photography.
"Hm," he says, because he's fairly certain that he usually has no wine, no friends who aren't related to him in some fashion, and cares of all ages. "What poet did you lift that one off of?"
That doesn't sound like his own words. It sounds like one of those stupid platitudes that a middle-aged suburban mom would frame and hang up in her living room next to a Live Laugh Love wall decoration. But since they've completed Jaskier's toast-adjacent ritual, Geralt sees no reason to refrain from digging into the sandwiches.