bestdressed | blood & wine (geralt)

blood & wine (geralt)

A summer night in Antiva City is nearly as warm and fragrant as a spring evening in Minrathous. Standing in the midst of the villa's outdoor garden terrace surrounded by night blooming flowers and the press of silk-clad bodies and the scent of free-flowing wine, with the sea breeze off the Rialto Bay, Dorian is reminded enough of home so as to feel a pang of longing without the trappings of actually being in Tevinter. Antivan soirees have the potential to turn out as dangerous as Tevinter ones, but rarely do. The constant warring of the twelve merchant princes has nothing on the daily infighting and petty one-upsmanship of the Magisterium. But Antiva does have the better assassins, Dorian will give them that.

Tonight, however, he's being used as little more than a convenient decorator and a topic of conversation. The magical lights twinkling in the trees around the gardens are his doing, and the guests simply can't stop asking his benefactor how his court was assigned an altus mage of Tevinter. The truth is, of course, that his position here has very little to do with being officially appointed by any organization of mages or sorcerers, and more with being hired for his skills in return for a comfortable life away from the Imperium and the space and funds with which to do his magical research. It stings a little, of course, having to answer to Adrian Mercurio, a merchant prince and therefore an upjumped businessman, but at least no one here is trying to drag him back to his father, and absolutely no one cares who he sleeps with beyond idle gossip. The Antivans are a passionate people, and restrict little when it comes to sex or romance.

A peacock among a crowd of other exotic birds, Dorian still stands out. He is unapologetically Tevinter in the way he dresses and styles himself, from the kohl lining his eyes and gold dust on his lids to the scent he wears (cloves and orange blossom oil dabbed on his pulse points) to his robes, ivory linen with designs of feathers and serpents in spun gold, a high collar and an entirely bare left arm from the shoulder down. On his feet are soft sandals rather than heavy boots in deference to the weather, and his long fingers are decorated with jeweled rings. The picture of Tevinter decadence, and entirely out of place among the brightly dyed silken doublets and puffed sleeves and plumed hats and heavy necklaces preferred by the Antivans.

He does only the requisite socializing, and regrettably keeps his drinking to a single glass of wine. The purpose of this soiree is not, after all, merely to celebrate the success of recent business ventures, or to network, or even to display Mercurio's wealth. It's to reveal (and to slay) a monster in their midst, and it is apparently Dorian's purpose to facilitate this with the witcher they've hired, for whom he keeps a careful eye. It is, of course, nearly impossible not to be mildly distracted by thoughts of the last witcher he'd encountered, over a year ago now. That had been a pleasant meeting. Dorian isn't certain whether he's relieved or disappointed that Mercurio had specifically elected not to hire Geralt of Rivia; he wanted a monster slayer, he said, not a butcher. But surely there are so many other witchers on both the northern and southern continents that the chances that Geralt would answer this particular ad were slim anyway.

Which is why he freezes when he looks across the gathering and meets a pair of familiar yellow eyes by the trellis archway leading from the gardens to the main house

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Having Dorian step in and touch-- to only not touch, not really-- feels far more cruel than it should. Geralt can only stare at the mage as the man fiddles with leather and has to crush down various wants, the foremost being to push the man back in the climbing racket of blooms to their side and test the strength of the trellis by laying hands and mouth on him in ways that would make even Antivans blush. Instead he clears his throat and tries to remember what Dorian has just said.

"No doubt Crows charge too much," he finally offers under his breath in a dry voice, reaching up slowly and wrapping his fingers around Dorian's wrists to push them back just inches; he can't take the pressure against his chest through the leather and he'd rather not meet his employer with an erection. It does not mean, however, that Geralt lets go right away. I'm glad that it's you after all. His thumbs stroke against thin-skinned pulse points. He knows it's too familiar-- he's not such a social pariah that he can't follow the cues of conversation, but it seems a downright well-considered alternative next to seeing how quickly he can figure out how to take Dorian's robes off in the middle of a merchant-prince's party.

"A toad," he answers unhelpfully, before backtracking a little as his cock decides to give his brain a moment to process. "Wait, you're Mercurio's mage?" A little room is made between them and he lets go of Dorian's arms. The question is not exactly an accusation but certainly not pleasant conversation, either-- his expression is too flat to be happy at figuring out the connection. For the first time since leaving the zealous hands of the servant and Lady Mercurio's lady does he feel the lack of his normally close beard and its ability to obscure his face... and for the first time since his eyes met Dorian's tonight does Geralt consider that spending an afternoon in a bathhouse in Novigrad may not equate to knowing the man he spent it with.

For a moment Dorian is certain that Geralt is going to push him away. But rather, the opposite is true. He not only holds his wrists, but strokes the soft, sensitive skin on the inside. Dorian draws in a sharp breath, but allows it. He could do nothing else. He holds Geralt's gaze, but feels that his own must give something away with its heat or intensity. Whatever was between them a year ago is very much still present now. He can feel it, a certain tension between them, but drawing them together rather than forcing them apart.

Maker take him, why is he so weak to this man? The compulsion to pull the witcher close and kiss him senseless won't leave the back of his head. One arm around his waist, the other circling his shoulders, a hand buried into is clean white hair to guide his mouth to Dorian's. The worst part of it is that he could do it, and no one here would care. Titter a little among themselves, perhaps, but it wouldn't be a scandal.

When they do separate--too soon, Dorian thinks fleetingly--he frowns and folds his arms across his chest. Geralt's touch lingers against the inside of his wrists. It's distracting. "I'm not Mercurio's anything." Defensively. His brow furrows. "I was hired just as you were. Are you Mercurio's witcher?" Why does it matter so much that Geralt seems disappointed? Perhaps it stings because he isn't proud of his current position either. But he is living freely on his own terms, and not in a constant drunken stupor surviving off the charity of others. It's more than he could say for himself for much of his life.

The question is like the lick of a well-aimed lash; Geralt blinks at the precision of it. He is not Mercurio's witcher, no. And for sure he knows that just as there are sorcerers like those in the Chapter who position themselves in order to create or be drawn into the eddies of power, there are others who-- much like witchers-- do what they do for coin instead of ambition. "You're right." There is no apology, perhaps, but there is no niggling over semantics, either. The acceptance may be flatly given but it is absolute. "I'm-- used to the Northern Chapter." Had that notion been the only reason he'd dropped Dorian's hands? It seems a suddenly alarming oversight but one too late to rectify with anything other than the already-spoken words, what with how the mage's arms are crossed over his chest.

The sour look doesn't suit Dorian's face, draws it too starkly into a point ending in his chin; but it causes Geralt to wonder about other emotions and how they would fair on those high, well-groomed planes. Just because he has been trained out of emotion himself doesn't mean that he lacks the ability to read it in others, a fact which he can can, and often does, use to his advantage. Geralt wonders if Dorian wouldn't look a mighty devil when angry. He swallows.

But the moment has broken. Lungs are refilled (with that scent-- he's completely forgotten about his stomach) and the witcher gathers control from the frayed straws that remain to him. He manages to tear his attention away from Dorian long enough to take in the party, almost surprised to find the field different than it had been before he'd seen the mage, as if time should have pulled slower for how all-encompassing the desire sitting on his chest. "I suppose then you'll be able to explain what I'm doing in the middle of a party. These people..." he eyes a man nearby laughing, his open-mouth dangerously full of oysters, "do not seems in need of rescue."

The admission is near enough to an apology that Dorian feels vindicated. He does like to be told he's right. "Of course," he says, like it's obvious. His features smooth as the displeasure fades from them, and he uncrosses his arms slowly. It wouldn't do to reach for Geralt again, of course, but his body language is cautiously receptive, shoulders set back and arms by his sides.

But there is more to this meeting than their personal history, as much as Dorian might wish otherwise. This evening could be vastly improved by spending it drinking and talking with Geralt and then leading him back to his rooms. Assuming they could make it through the talking and drinking part first. They both have jobs to do, as Dorian had pointed out just now.

"Perhaps not immediately," he agrees, watching Geralt look back over the party. "But someone is." Purely in the interest of keeping their conversation entirely private, and without any ulterior motives whatsoever, Dorian steps close. He leans into Geralt's space as he explains, voice lowered.

"Mercurio's younger brother Valentin has a new wife, Anetta. Mercurio suspects she is a vampire." He speaks plainly because that is what he expects Geralt will find most useful. "He also thinks that she has influenced Valentin's mind in some way. I don't know him well so I can't say for certain, but apparently his behavior has changed drastically. The two of them are due here tonight. In fact, that is the reason for the party. Valentin never visits outside of social events any longer, and certainly never alone." Dorian lets out an exhale of breath that is almost a laugh. "I understand that it probably sounds ridiculous, but I've met Anetta. I've never seen her drinking blood, of course, and I'm no witcher. But there is something very off about her. I'd have talked him out of hiring a witcher if I didn't think it necessary."

How a foot of space makes all the difference in the world Geralt doesn't know, but as Dorian steps closer and tilts his head up just enough to direct his voice and keep their conversation private Geralt goes directly from some semblance of control right back to a blathering idiot who can only focus on the lips in front of him. It takes him four full sentences to realize that he hasn't drawn a breath and exhales, too loud and very awkwardly, before he clears his throat and turns his attention back to the party as Dorian continues.

Not only does it surely make him look more innocent, but it helps him focus. So he listens and watches the ebb and flow of the velvets and jewelry, the laughing and sporadic dancing as some pompous man sees something he likes, the floating trays of food and the smell of cloves pushed toward him in front of the salt of the nearby coastline. "It sounds like a Bruxa," he offers, when Dorian is done. It takes a moment to turn his attention back, it takes will, and perhaps he keeps half an eye to his surroundings like a lifeline that he can pass off as the job.

If a Bruxa truly will be here tonight then they'll both need their wits about them. Geralt scratches his chin, already fine sandpaper, and draws himself up a little. "If it's not just another young man falling in love. It wouldn't be the first time that a fine chest and a soft voice has led someone off the path that others have drawn for him." Geralt's expression is frank. Dorian's feelings might well be correct but it won't do to go around impaling young woman simply because a few people have a gut feeling about her. Such things still happen in frightened back water villages when people need a scapegoat-- Geralt has seen the burnt remains of such superstition himself. "I'll have to see her for myself."

There is a twitch of Dorian's lips when Geralt looks away from him as he wonders what else he could possibly have found so interesting. He glances at the crowd as well, but can't figure out what's caught Geralt's eye. Reluctantly, he supposes Geralt should be keeping tabs on their surroundings. Selfish and impractical of him to want to keep those yellow-gold eyes on him alone.

At least their thoughts trend in a similar direction. "That was what I initially supposed as well. Love can change even someone you've known a long time. Marriage too, depending upon the circumstances." That's certainly something he's seen plenty of in Tevinter. "But this seems far more sinister. You'll have to judge for yourself when she arrives."

With at least some of Geralt's attention on him again, he offers a wan smile. "And I'm afraid Mercurio will want to meet you as well, to confirm your presence and arrange payment." He says it almost apologetically. "That won't be pleasant, but I'll speak on your behalf."

Geralt grunts a quiet agreement. He's better than good at haggling a cost but somewhere at the back-- no, and the devil take it all-- the front of his mind is that coin is not what he cares about tonight. Certainly he'd never demand a Tevinter mage as payment, but there is acknowledgement that if he walks away with only time spent with Dorian that he would call it a success.

"Valenin and Anetta are not here yet, then?" It was rhetorical. Better this way. He should have a moment to reorient himself, to focus on the job at hand instead of the man standing within arm's reach-- hard, but certainly not impossible. Once Dorian was out of his sight...

"Wait. If this woman is a bruxa-- are you planning on lending your services?" Geralt refused to consider the double-meaning of the last half of the phrase. "Have you fought anything like this before?" And suddenly he is reminded of the personal, close smell of Dorian, the mage beneath the preferred perfumes, of rich, nearly spoilt, loamy earth. Geralt holds where he is, hard-put not to put his nose to the column of the man's throat to see if his memory is correct.

The dawning of Geralt's realization brings a self-satisfied smirk to Dorian's lips. He isn't merely a decoration or a clever mediator. There is something about the idea of showing Geralt what he is really good at that he finds utterly thrilling. As the witcher had already learned a year ago, he's an unrepentant show-off.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to just stand about drinking wine, as much as I'd prefer to." His bare shoulder nudges Geralt's, gentle and playful. The leather he's been stuffed into really is fine. It's soft and thin and such a delicate shade of grey, and warm from the witcher's body heat. Whichever toad dressed him, it had a good eye. "I'm here to lend my own skill and expertise as well."

It would be entirely false to say that he isn't deliberately flirting. Stoic as Geralt is, it's strangely addictive to see him react, especially when the response is typically positive. "Admittedly, I've never encountered a bruxa before, so there are things for which you may need to prepare me," he admits. "I'll also need to collect my staff and a down a lyrium potion, but as you've noticed, our guest of honor has yet to arrive. We have a little time." A dark brow arches. "Do you have everything you'll need, Geralt?"

If typically positive includes twitching like a fly-stung horse, well, then Dorian will be pleased with the reaction that the nudge of his shoulder earns him. Geralt narrows his eyes but there is no heat behind the look and in fact, if the mage has taken anything from their time together, it is that jerking like his nerves have been submitted to an electric spell generally-- in Dorian's presence-- is a compliment.

It is not helpful, however, when Geralt is trying to focus. He puts a hand on that bare shoulder (a mistake; Dorian's skin is warm and smooth) and again ends up stroking a thumb across what he can before relenting and dropping his arm to his side. It does not have the desired effect to move Dorian away but as fair as everything else goes, perhaps Geralt is counting the number of times he gets to touch the mage. "You--"

It's a small onslaught, to which he defers. The mention of lyrium makes his throat tight and a strange, bitter taste seep up from under his tongue and he wet his lips, swallowing convulsively. Lyrium is not something that witchers make use of but as part of the Trials even the mention of the substance is linked to half-forgotten memories of pain. "My." He swallows again. "My elixirs are in my room with my bags." He doesn't relish using them in front of a crowd-- but the idea is less stomach-clenching than the thought of having to fight a bruxa amongst the party tonight. This is far from ideal and it shows in his frown. This is not the place. The damage a bruxa could do...

"Dorian. If this truly is bruxa we can't fight her here. She could take out half the people here with one well-placed blast." Not to mention the havoc that would come if she decided to start singing. "I don't want people in the line of fire." Prepare him? Better to lock him somewhere safe. Bruxas were nasty creatures, for all their means of getting entrenched in the lives of unfortunate mortals. They did not take lightly to being attacked.

There was a single, stupid thought: they could leave. He and Dorian. He'd didn't care a whit for the Antivian families. They didn't have to do this.

No, they didn't. But he did. It was part of his code and Geralt knew it, exhaling the smell of clove and orange. A fine, romantic thought-- but not one open to him. "I'll go to my rooms first-- and then to see Mercurio." He wouldn't be caught off-guard.

Dorian is pleased by a number of Geralt's reactions, and this is one of them. How could he not be when Geralt's puts a hand on his shoulder, however briefly, and only lets go with such apparent reluctance? He knows that he's being too forward, too provocative. But each time he is Geralt responds, and it makes him feel wanted. Like perhaps he isn't the only one feeling this inexplicable but inexorable draw. He needs to know that it isn't just him. This must be mutual, or he's lost his mind. Dorian doesn't pine, and certainly not for anyone who isn't pining for him.

There are several things he registers at once as Geralt speaks, apart from the way his voice still manages to send shivers down his spine like a physical touch, especially when he says his name. The first is that Geralt has apparently been given a room of his own, where his things are stored. The next few are all about the dangers of engaging with the bruxa in the midst of a crowd.

While he hadn't imagined they'd be doing battle by the desert table, there's no use trying to explain that. Geralt is giving his advice, and Dorian is smart enough to take it. He knows how and when to defer to experts when his own experience is lacking. "You're right," he agrees, just as Geralt had so recently. His voice is firm and even. "It can't be done here. So we should find a suitable place and concoct a plan to get her there."

They have some time, but not much. There should be an order of events, and some urgency. "Let's go to your room, first, yes. And then to mine, and then to see Mercurio." He deliberately rephrases Geralt, insistently shifting I to we. He is going to be part of this. The sooner Geralt comes to terms with that the better.

After deciding not to do it earlier, it's bold of him to reconsider his stance on reaching for Geralt's hands. But he does. He slips a hand between them until he finds one of Geralt's, blunt and warm and rough, and slips his own into it. His grip is strong, and on the soft skin of his palms are surprising callouses from a lifetime of staff work, made smooth by cosmetic products and constant care. He looks at Geralt with an equivalent sort of determination. "I'll go with you."

Even as Geralt is opening his mouth to deal with the foremost thing sticking in his head-- Dorian so easily shifting the pronouns the witcher had used from singular to plural-- a hand is sliding into his. The solid warmth of fingers and palm and the smooth, raised toughness of callouses stop his words in his throat. There is lust and then there is intimacy and Geralt isn't sure where this gesture fits; he can't remember the last time anyone held his hand, a strange but prevalent thought. Had anyone, ever? Surely his mother but he doesn't allow his mind to slip down those well-trod paths.

He sticks there for a moment, looking at their grip, knowing that Dorian must be waiting for him. A reaction, an agreement. But instead he turns their hands over and looks at the mage's dark fingers against his own pale skin. The well-shaped and fine fingernails in comparison to his own, kept short and while now cleaned, clearly the product of a life spent with a sword in hand. He slides his hand away from Dorian's and finally drags his attention upward, bringing his freed hand with it-- and brushes fingertips down the line of the man's jaw. He knows that he needs to focus, it isn't the first time he's thought it even in the last three minutes, but distraction is far easier. Geralt closes his eyes and straightens. He tries to smell the salt of the ocean instead of the man standing next to him.

"He invites a bruxa to a party and expects me to lure it somewhere else?" He tries and fails to conceive of any way he could make that happen, though to be fair his head is mostly still battling his body's reflexes. A workable plan is something that he will have to come up with if the woman is, actually, not a woman-- so he will. Still, the idea that Mercurio thought a party the ideal way for a witcher to meet a monster does not stand the man highly in Geralt's estimation. ... Perhaps not a surprise. "Let's go, then," he says.

As he leads the way back to the small suite he's been given, Geralt details for Dorian what a bruxa is and what it is capable of; it is at least a well-trod and easy conversation to have, facts he knows well enough that is forces his brain down familiar paths. He describes the sonic blasts, the claws and fangs, the shapeshifting. The song of a bruxa is something that lives in his own bones; once heard the discordance of the tune is a hard thing to forget, wrong in a subtle way that is a terrible thing. Geralt knows that he could bring it up if he tries-- so he does not. Part of his training. "If she has control of his mind it's because Valenin has succumbed to the song night after night... it's more of an influence done over time. She does not put words in his mouth, but her survival, her happiness will be an innocent but actionable goal."

He pushes his door open. Nothing has been tidied. The bath is cool in the corner of the room, split silk doublets thrown over a low couch in a heap. Geralt assumes that either the servant had someone better to help or... that the servant had someone better to help. He ignores all of it and heads to the corner to pull a small hard-case from his bags. Talking about the bruxa has helped clear his mind and there's a focus to him now. Better. "Magic won't be terribly effective except to maybe hobble her, only silver can actually kill a bruxa. Defensive spells are good." Oh.

Geralt pauses in his sorting of vials and looks up at Dorian, attention truly on the mage for the first time since falling into the small monster lesson. "You have a specialization?" Most mages did.

Taking Geralt's hand was a risk. While Dorian longs for this sort of intimacy, he doesn't participate in it often. Even a gesture as simple as this is one he'd never have dared to initiate in Tevinter, where the line between sex and romance is so clearly drawn. Men like him can fuck--briefly, secretly--but they certainly can't fall in love. That isn't entirely true, of course, because Dorian has certainly fallen in love before. It simply can't end well.

Not that this is like that, of course. But his breath is still short as he waits for Geralt's response, even as he schools his features to neutrality. He doesn't expect Geralt to look at their intertwined hands like that, like he's never seen anything like it. He had half expected him to pull away, so that is less of a surprise, even if it makes his heart drop into his stomach momentarily. He's just about to berate himself inwardly for doing something so embarrassing when Geralt's fingers touch his jaw. He inhales sharply, and for a dizzying moment thinks he'll be kissed. Maker, when has he ever experienced such a twisting path of emotion in so short a time?

Before he has the chance to really process any of it, Geralt moves on, and so does the conversation. Dorian manages a thin smile. "I never claimed he was reasonable," he says, and follows Geralt down the hall. He's read about vampires, and even a little about bruxae specifically, but much of Geralt's account is new and first-hand information. He absorbs it without becoming too distracted by the figure Geralt cuts in front of him, the broad line of his shoulders and the taper of his waist. Dorian's come to know the villa well in the few months he's lived here, so he recognizes the room Geralt has been assigned as one typically reserved for the servants or attaches of Mercurio's guests. It doesn't surprise him necessarily, but it does bother him. If Geralt is here to save his brother's life, surely he can and should be afforded more respect.

The room is dark and disorderly when they enter it, as though Geralt had been bathed and dressed and ushered out, and no one had stayed to clean up. There is the party to tend to, of course, but they really had just left everything. The ripped doublets catch his attention at once, and he picks one up as Geralt rifles through his bag, rubbing the velvet between his fingers.

"Necromancy," he answers casually, as though that's typical. It isn't, and he well knows it. "And I've plenty of defensive spells at my disposal, which I can cast on either or both of us." He holds up the rent garment in his hand, and it's clear from the twitch of his mouth that he's holding back a laugh. "How did this happen?"

There's a sharp clatter of glass as the vial in between fingertips drops an inch back into the case; Geralt blinks at Dorian and then looks down, glad that the thing hadn't broken. Necromancy? The most notoriously difficult of magical proclivities and the most easily infamous-- even as a veteran of things dark and dangerous, Geralt grimaces at the information before he can stop himself. It's not the knowledge of the magic itself, though that can be a terrible, gruesome endeavor, but at the toll it takes on the magician. "Loam," he says, mostly to himself. The smell. Decay. He should have known, only Necromancers are so rare.

The vials are considered differently when he looks back to them, when he takes into consideration the possible new slant of Dorian's talents. Geralt slides a black leather belt, strung with small pouches, free and lays it across a knee. He glances back at Dorian for a moment and the doublet that he's holding. It's almost in two, the split fabric up the center of the back frayed almost to the collar. "I lowered my arms," he says, his tone absolutely flat. There's a practical reason that he wears so much linen and leather, after all. Silks and velvets run with a single-direction weave, easy to tear. He had tried to tell the Lady that but what do witchers know? Geralt is slow and frankly ponderous at mending his own clothing to be sure, but he's made and used his fair share of bandages and he absolutely knows his body. She hadn't listened and several of the poor borrowed doublets had paid the price.

Into the pockets of his belt go a few small phials, the liquids inside different colors and viscosities. The two of a similar nature are marked with different sealing wax even though Geralt could tell the difference simply by holding them. A small camphor of white honey follows and with that the case is closed and set back. He stands, the leather belted around his waist mars the long line that the jacket gives him but the accessory is clearly of a set with the belt of the sword already on his back-- which he pulls tighter and rebuckles so that the sword sits higher over his shoulder. "Your turn."

It would be easy to miss for anyone not paying close attention, but Dorian notices Geralt's reaction to his mention of necromancy. Most people tend to have one; it isn't a popular art, but it is difficult, and it is useful. He mentions nothing about his observation, however, even when Geralt mutters to himself. Quickly he becomes too distracted by Geralt's apparent ability to split doublets just by wearing them. He looks from the shirt in his hand to Geralt--specifically, to Geralt's shoulders--and swallows, feeling his mouth go dry.

"I see." The soft fabric slides through his hands like water as he drops it back to the floor. That's certainly something to imagine. Dorian allows himself a moment for that--just a moment--as Geralt finishes his preparations and stands to buckle the belt around his waist. "Follow me," he says, a little too brightly, and leads Geralt out of the dark bedroom--too tempting a place to linger while he's thinking of Geralt's muscles.

The halls become wider and more ornate as Dorian leads them to the part of the house normally occupied by guests. He's been put up in one of these rooms for a longer-term stay, which means that when there is no one else staying with Mercurio, he has this wing more or less to himself. He talks about his magic as they walk, specifying things he believes could be helpful. "I can clear a room quickly, if needed," he says at one point, "though it won't be pleasant." By their nature, horror spells are the very opposite. But if needed he can make the party guests drop what they're doing and send them running away screaming for their lives. It's the clean up afterward that would be truly horrible to deal with.

Dorian's quarters are clearly lived in. He lights the candles around the room with a casual flick of his fingers, illuminating a room that seems part sleeping quarters and part study. The bed is large and piled high with luxuriously soft blankets and pillows, and a pitcher on the table beside it is still half full of watered wine. There is a tub visible behind a privacy screen in the corner, with at least two discarded sets of robes thrown over the top. Rejects for tonight's party. Beside it is a shelf crowded with cosmetics, a mirror balanced on top. Also featured are a large desk covered with books and loose papers, and several more stacks of books beside the desk--which isn't taking into account the shelves lining the wall on that side of the room. There are several other apparatuses of a magical nature positioned seemingly at random among the chaos, as well as a deep trunk, which is what Dorian goes to first. He kneels beside it, holds a hand over the lock and mutters a few soft words. The lock clicks as it opens, and Dorian raises the heavy lid of the trunk with both hands.

The inside is marginally more organized than the rest of the room, likely because its contents could be potentially dangerous if mixed. One such thing is a flask the size of Dorian's palm. The liquid inside is light blue and faintly glowing. A lyrium potion, just as Dorian had mentioned. He tucks this with care into the purse at his belt, and then pulls out a set of leather straps which he begins to arrange in a harness around his torso, around his waist and stretching diagonally over his clothed shoulder, with a sling over his back to strap his staff into for carrying. "You know," he says, glancing at Geralt as he works, "if she sees you with that sword on your back, she's going to know what we're about."

Geralt would rather not do that to a crowd if necessary, but the horror spell is filed away as a possible consideration. A little puking and shitting in fear would be better than death... though perhaps with this crowd, they have different priorities.

The magic used to light the candles would have shivered the snarling wolf's head medallion against his chest except that the silver pendant had pulled at his neck steps before they'd entered the room. Geralt realizes he is holding his breath as they step across the threshold.

The room is drenched in magic.

The chain sitting on his neck seems to shrink a little, tighten like the inward sigh of a noose, and Geralt glances around as he adjusts his eyes to the shift in lighting. He hadn't needed the warning of his wolf's head-- meeting Dorian in person is different then standing in the place he lives. The corona of his magic is thick here; that loamy smell that Geralt had mentioned just minutes ago permeates everything with such an intensity that Geralt can almost imagine that he's back in the Laboratorium, curled over bestiary tomes. The room does not disappoint in that singular regard-- there are books stacked everywhere, lining shelves that look just a tad out of plumb from the weight.

He likes it.

Wandering slowly as Dorian settles in front of his trunk, Geralt skims fingertips across the edge of the vanity and then looks at the gold blush that stains his skin. There is still a part of him-- muted now, but not dormant-- that suggests licking the that shimmering powder from each curve of the mage's muscles. He exhales and then catches the crystalline glint of harsh blue in the low light; the sight of lyrium stiffens his posture for a moment before it passes and then Geralt watches the ritual of Dorian settling into the harness.

There's a blink for the words, but Geralt considers the statement. He's used to coming at things head-on but Dorian has a point. He doesn't feel confident leaving the blade behind, however, not when silver is the only thing that can reliably kill a bruxa. He curls fingers around the strap that slices across his chest. "I don't know if there's another alternative."

Having collected what he needs, Dorian joins Geralt where he stands by his vanity. He doesn't mind him looking around. He doesn't keep anything in plain sight that he wouldn't want a stranger to see. The predicament is clear: Geralt must be near enough to the bruxa to determine that she is a bruxa without drawing her notice. But as Geralt points out, he can't go without his sword.

Dorian eyes the medallion around Geralt's neck. He's seen it react before, though not as strongly as it is now. Intrigued, he reaches for it, though doesn't quite touch it, unsure of the spell that causes it to react to magic. But his hand hovers near it, feeling the strangely magnetic aura that surrounds it.

"Perhaps..." The idea forms, and Dorian looks up from the medallion to meet Geralt's eyes. And all at once he isn't so certain of himself, even as he lets his hand rest on the witcher's chest, palm flat to the leather. It's a distinctly intimate touch, especially in this setting. "If it's apparent that I've invited you, we might avoid suspicion." There's something regretful in the half smile he gives as he explains. "I have a bit of a reputation." He shakes his head, looking down for a moment as he laughs under his breath. "That's underplaying it. I'm a walking scandal. No one would think it out of character for you to be my guest."

The medallions that the Wolf School witchers wear were forged in Kaer Morhen long before the battle that brought the battlements and the school low and severed the links in the chain of magicians who kept the secrets of the place. No more new medals. No more new witchers. They are a dying breed-- literally.

These are not thoughts he bothers lingering on with Dorian's hand back against his chest. Death is the very last thing on Geralt's mind. The mage so close to him is life incarnate, a decadent clash of extremes; the gold shimmer and smoked kohl that might have only made him look feminine instead serve to highlight the sharpness of his eyes and the lean cut of his muscles-- paired with the harness, something that shouldn't have a place against the fine cream linen and and delicate gold stitching of the robes-- make Dorian look like an avenging deity, beautiful and terrible. A set of contradictions that instead of causing chaos, serves to elevate the whole. He blinks as Dorian speaks up and focuses briefly on the man's mouth before lifting cat eyes to grey.

The breathy, sad quality of Dorian's laugh midway through his suggestion, as he peels his gaze away, claws at the steel Geralt has spent years building. The walls hold but he feels the tremors. I'm a walking scandal.

The only thing that the witcher can think, ridiculously, is how quickly they could clear the right room together.

A cracked, shudder of something that might be a laugh wallows at the base of Geralt's throat. "I doubt that innocence is proven by hanging it on scandal, in this case," he says, and while he believes the words are true-- a sword is still a sword, a witcher still a witcher by any other name-- they are just words because Geralt's hands are sliding against the high angles of Dorian's jaw to tilt his face up just enough so that he can kiss the man.

There's more to it than that, of course. He could explain, but there are more pressing matters. Geralt's hands cradling his face, then the press of his lips. Dorian knows himself well enough to admit that he's been waiting for this. Or hoping for it, more like. It's never benefited him to assume that a one-time fling might turn into more. But he is quickly coming to realize that Geralt is unique. Whether that is for better or worse in the long run remains to be seen, but as it stands, he's enraptured.

The sound Dorian makes is ripped from his throat, plaintive and wounded and far too desperate for anything resembling a casual tryst. Saying that he is infatuated seems ridiculous and overwrought, but how else to explain the way his heart feels heavy in his chest and his breath comes short, the almost delirious relief when he slides his hands into Geralt's hair, fingers weaving into the freshly washed white strands, and kisses him in return.

It isn't brief, as Dorian seeks to deepen the kiss after only a heartbeat, drawing close enough to Geralt to feel how solid he is, steady and unmovable. And yet somehow he has caused this tremor in a man who seems otherwise hewn from stone. That's part of the appeal, undoubtedly. Geralt is as driven mad by this as he is. "You," he mutters breathlessly, breath still hot against Geralt's lips, "are terribly distracting."

The sound Dorian makes against his mouth is another shudder against those inner walls and the push of the man's hands into his hair make something down in the still darkness he's created over the years stir, turn over and stretch, testing the boundaries of its prison.

His body slips against Dorian's as if they were meant to fit together, as if they should have been this way since the beginning of the party, Geralt's thigh between the mage's, chests together, hands up to hold. He kisses, nips at Dorian's lower lip even as he talks. Yes, distracting. He's not the only one. The fingers prickle against his scalp, warm. Geralt's hands slide around Dorian's neck, thumbs tracing the lines of his jaw that he'd followed a moment before. He kisses Dorian again, kisses the words from his mouth. It takes a moment to do anything more than give into this, to let himself taste and indulge. A year. For a year he'd made himself think of anything but this and now it feels impossible. How did he manage?

"We need to find a monster," he finally breaths, putting them temple to temple if taking their mouths out of line might stop what has been started. He can still smell Dorian. The close shave of the mage's hair against Geralt's cheek is sandpaper, fine and electric. "I can't-- we need to focus." He's not helping, he knows. But he also knows that he's been hired to do a job and he has to see it through.

Though Dorian doesn't forget their objective, it's easier than it should be to ignore it as long as Geralt is kissing him. The steel core of him melts under the pressure and heat of Geralt's hands and mouth. He is molded by this, perhaps forever, and as of this moment that idea is more exciting than disconcerting. He kisses Geralt in a way that shows he does not mind this distraction. His fingers curl and tug, and his tongue slides between Geralt's parted lips as he opens his own, and he feels the electric pulse of arousal sparking as his cock gives an interested twitch against the pressure of Geralt's thigh pressing thick and hard between his. He takes advantage for as long as he can, drifting in and out of a state of longing and perfect contentment. Fuck duty, fuck this comfortable but empty life, fuck Mercurio and everyone else here. He has what he needs. Or he could, if he just let himself.

That is what he wants to believe, at least. But one cannot subsist on the taste of another's lips, no matter how enticing. Geralt is what he wants, not what he needs, however romantic that sounds. And Dorian is a romantic, no matter how many layers of skepticism and pessimism and personal heartbreak he buries it beneath. But he is also a pragmatist, and he is also reluctantly invested in making sure that innocent people aren't killed, even if they are the sort of people he despises.

So when Geralt manages to break away, Dorian doesn't stop him, and he doesn't seek his lips again, no matter how much he aches to. He catches his breath, and knows that Geralt can probably feel the flush heat in his face where their cheeks brush. It puts Geralt's voice directly in his ear, and the grit of it sinks deep and settles near the base of his spine. Why does everything about this man drive him mad?

"Of course," he agrees, and hears the reluctance in his voice, though he hadn't meant to sound that way. He disentangles his hands from Geralt's hair, and then does his best to smooth it down again without looking. Holding one another like this, temple to temple, they could almost be dancing. Which reminds Dorian of what he had wanted to explain. "I meant to say--" he begins, but no, he can't do it like this. His hands find Geralt's waist, resting there as he leans back far enough to look into his face. It doesn't make him want to kiss him any less, but but it does make talking easier, when it doesn't feel like he's whispering sweet nothings. "I meant--kaffas, just say that you're here with me. No one will assume I've hired you to kill a monster."

He shouldn't, but he likes the reluctance in Dorian's words. It makes something hot flip over in his stomach. "Stop," he finally says in Tevene; he doesn't need to hear any more of the mage's self-flagellation, it will make no difference-- not to him, not to the situation. "If she's a bruxa," Geralt continues, the husk of his voice still quiet even though his lips are no longer so close to Dorian's skin, "I seriously doubt she'll care who's company I keep, even one as disreputable as you make yourself out to be." His hands slowly relax, moving from the mage's neck to somewhere less-- dramatic.

Less soft. Less warm. Less tempting.

He settles for the man's forearms and exhales, long and slows as he considers possibilities other than leaving this entire country to the sea and the monsters who want it. Geralt isn't sure if this-- them, he and Dorian and this ridiculous inability to keep his hands off of the man-- is a problem or not yet but whatever it is he knows it to be less pressing than the creature that could be preying on this family. If the bruxa finds purchase she will dig in like a burr, catching more and more of the large merchant clan until she has a nest. An army. No matter how much he'd rather see where else on his body Dorian might have put that golden powder, he can't let that happen and the devil take it all.

So Geralt takes one step back, and then manages another, until there is space between them and then one more to force Dorian's hands to drop away even as he removes his own. "A sword is a sword, Dorian, and a silver one more damning still. No man's reputation can save me from what I am." It is bluntly offered, but not intended it to be harsh. He pulls a hand over his mouth with another exhale. Not taking his things isn't to be considered, at this point. He would not be in the same room as a bruxa without them. "Is there somewhere we could go to watch and not be noticed?" It might be harder to get an accurate reading on her but the price any other way might be too costly.

Edited 2020-04-17 14:36 (UTC)

There is a strange moment where Dorian isn't sure whether or not he should be offended by Geralt defending him against himself. Confused, touched, and affronted all at once, he takes a half step back, but allows Geralt to take his arms. For the space of several breaths Geralt seems to be considering something, too--how wise it is to become so involved so quickly, perhaps, which is also at the forefront of Dorian's mind--before he moves away, and lets Dorian go. Dorian swallows hard, even as he tells himself it's for the best. The intensity with which he wants Geralt is unnatural. He's never experienced a visceral need for another person like this. And he knows what happens when he wants something too much.

Folding his arms together, each hand clasping the opposite elbow, Dorian wills himself to focus on the matter at hand rather than the man in front of him. The back-and-forth of his feelings--hope and desire followed by rational denial, like the rocking of a boat--is making him feel vaguely seasick. But he isn't so distracted that he can't realize the advantages of watching unseen rather than returning to the party directly. Thank the Maker for that. "There is a terrace that overlooks the garden. We'll be able to see everything that goes on below from there."

He manages a small smile, little more than a twist of his lips. "Mercurio doesn't truly need to know you're here until things are taken care of. Better to ask forgiveness than permission." Of course he'll be in trouble for that, but he's prepared. Whatever is between them, the fact remains that he'd rather be doing this with Geralt than anyone else.

This entire matter is, perhaps, simpler for Geralt. His life is one generally lived without much grey area-- there is action and reaction, there is right and wrong, there is want and need. Generally, as it goes, one side of the scale vastly outweighs the other and there are no messy inbetweens. Perhaps (and absolutely) has his world intentionally been built on this principle in order to make things easy. It is why, in the bathhouse in Novigrad a year ago, Geralt had turned down Dorian's offer to spend the night together. The pull that he'd felt toward the mage, some twist in his chest like a lodestone seeking North, was not something that he could have acted on. So instead of giving water and light to a feeling that might have grown to strangle him, the entire encounter had been brutally pruned and that technique had worked, at least at the time. A year ago, of course, there had been no need to believe that he would ever see Dorian Pavus again. And yet here they stand.

And here they stand. And so, fine. So much for prudence, so much for setting things wanted to the side in favor of logic; he has tried reaction and temperance and this is the result? Geralt is not a man who does the same things to the same result over and again and asks why nothing has changed. This time he will not push away.

The decision lets his chest expand fully for the first time since catching grey eyes across the party. It makes Dorian's closeness easier to bear, the cloves and loam that have Geralt half-mad with urges to simply act on baser instincts. By giving himself the option to indulge later, however-- assuming, of course, that Dorian agrees and this is not all some mad orbit in which they'll both die circling each other-- helps him control himself now. The bruxa is the problem at hand and must be dealt with now; undressing the Tevinter sorcerer and pressing him against the nearest available surface will wait until later.

Geralt does not deny the possibility of how much more pleasant the act might be when their fuses are wound short and tight from the simple act of forbearance.

His lips twitch at the corner into something like amusement at the adage from Dorian; he tends to agree, especially in this regard-- Geralt has generally found that people like Mercurio forgive more easily than they give concession, even when the necks of family members are on the line. "Then let's go set up on the terrace. Lead the way."

Watching Geralt's expression carefully, Dorian notes the slight curl at the corner of his lips, the subtle shift in his eyes. There's something comforting about that, about being able to look at each other and smile and recognize, in a way, how absurd all of this is. It's a relief to know that he isn't alone in it. He can't be entirely sure what that means yet, or whether he's being foolish, but being fairly certain that Geralt is as strangely taken as he is alleviates a great deal of uncertainty and stress. That he isn't the only one putting himself at risk makes him more open to the idea of simply...seeing where this goes. It's something of a novel concept for him.

Funny and quite telling, really, that he should think testing the bond between them riskier than hunting a bruxa, despite all of Geralt's warnings about the creature.

"All right," he murmurs, and double-checks his staff's harness before turning toward the door. He isn't going to touch Geralt again until this is over, he resolves. Or at least not like that. "Come on, then." With a gesture, Dorian extinguishes the candles in the room, and all goes dark.

He leads the way out, pausing to lock the door again behind him with a whispered spell, the air charged for a moment before it dissipates. He keeps to the back hallways. It's a more roundabout route, but it keeps them from crossing paths with any party guests. They climb a narrow stair at one point, and then cross a landing to pass through a heavy door. They emerge into the garden again, though not the part of it that's been lit up and decorated. They're a level above, but the voices and music are loud on the still night air. There is a clearly marked path to a patio a little way ahead, surrounded by flowering plants and trees thick with hanging fruit. But Dorian steps deliberately off the path, ducking beneath branches and parting thick, leafy plants to push his way through.

"We'll be able to see everything through the trees up here," he murmurs, keeping his voice down. There's little chance they'll be overheard by the guests above the music and revelry below, but Geralt had told him plenty about a bruxa's enhanced senses. The caution is warranted.

Geralt is learning that being around Dorian is like being inside city-limits; his medallion seems to be constantly shivering against his chest. The man uses magic for everything. And not that Geralt spends enough general time in the company of mages-- he's never wanted to until now, that is sure-- but he feels that it's still a fair assessment considering what Dorian has told him. At least the candles hadn't lit green before orange.

Necromancy.

Shaking his head at the though, Geralt follows the man down the hall, happy to leave the pressure of the magic behind him. He shrugs his shoulders slightly as if discarding a jacket. Through the corridors and stairwells they go-- Dorian has clearly been here long enough to know the layout of the villa, Geralt is glad to find out. He wonders if Mercurio could go through the servant's routes with such surety. The scant handful of people that they see on their way all wear the livery of the house and most are carrying sheets or food stuffs; after a glance, they are ignored. The sounds of the party are a little jarring when they step outside, especially after what had happened in Dorian's room, but Geralt focuses and follows, ducking into the thick foliage as the mage does, finally taking a knee in a spot that gives him a good view of the revelry below: including Mercurio and his wife. Finally, for a moment, he gives his attention back to Dorian.

"Good." His voice is as low as Dorian's, though without a witcher's senses it might just sound like a whisper of thunder. "Point her out when they come in and we will see." There's a strange thought, that maybe she's just a woman. That's not the strangeness; it's the relief that the job would be over, were that the case. No killing, no money-- just Dorian.

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