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Half of who he is. Geralt is half of who he is. That’s what Jaskier thinks whenever his current lover finds him in the bed of another lover, pointedly not Geralt. Never Geralt. Achingly, torturously, never Geralt.
Commitment is a daunting idea for him, one he often fails to understand. How is he supposed to commit to the person in front of him when half of who he is is his relationship with someone he can never have? He can’t just stop traveling with Geralt; it brought both of them their careers and stability. Neither of them could stand without the other by now. Geralt, the monstrous Witcher, would get chased out of towns with torches and pitchforks without the bard singing his graces. And Jaskier, the songbird, would have no success without the muse who gave him his best works and—
How can Jaskier commit to the wonderful person in front of him when all he can think about is Geralt’s lips? It’s a grace, really, to show his current lover, whoever they are, that he belongs to another by winding up in the bed of a stranger. It’s a mercy killing.
But Jaskier is given no such mercy.