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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With the full measure of Geralt's attention on him again, Dorian feels a deepening sense of relief. "Of course," he says aloud, reminding himself to speak rather than think. He gives Anetta her due with a bow before he crosses to Geralt, feeling lighter and breathing easier with each step closer. The power of the spell he holds in reserve fades away like so much smoke on a gentle breeze. But his bare hand, when it touches Geralt's arm, is still warm with the residual heat of it.

It seems Geralt's warning is well received. The vampire tilts her head thoughtfully, though she doesn't seem perturbed. "The last isn't news to me. But I thank you."

Dorian gets the distinct impression that if Mercurio can't accept her presence, someone is going to end up dead--and it won't be her. As soon as they're free of the room, Dorian lets out a breath, slowly exhaling the tension that had been building in him since he first approached Anetta. "I need a drink," he sighs. "He isn't going to be pleased." There is some impetus to see what happens, if only to know how angry with him Mercurio is likely to be. But Geralt had summarized Dorian's feelings as well when he'd said he didn't want to be caught in the middle of this.

But there is a reward for them yet. Here they are together, and now without anyone else's problems to worry about. Looking at Geralt, a wry smile curls on Dorian's lips and he finally releases the spell that links their minds. He hadn't realized how much he'd actually been smelling until everything quickly dulls.

As Dorian's warm fingers come to rest against his arm Geralt momentarily feels the jump of his pulse in his throat and he wonders, briefly, if the reaction is something that Anetta can sense. His face is smooth and controlled but such a visceral undoing would be something Geralt has no basis for; his body has always reacted exactly how it is supposed to react. He knows it and can account for it, always.

Except for the brief pressure of Dorian's fingertips.

Geralt nods to Anetta and turns, leaving at the mage's side without any rush. Out of direct line of sight and in tandem with Dorian's sigh, the witcher glances at his companion. "Better to get it done with, then." Not knowing Dorian's exact position within the man's house, he can only consider his own personal ramifications-- which aren't many. Geralt couldn't care less if Mercurio is angry with him; as far as he is concerned the contract is null and perhaps Geralt wasn't the witcher that the man wanted but he was the witcher that he got. This will be an end of it and there is little threat that could be laid against Geralt personally; he is not physically afraid of anything Mercurio could level at him in his disappointment, and the Antivian has no reach into the witcher brotherhood.

The slipping of the spell breaks the train of thought before it reaches perhaps its less than obvious conclusion-- that, impossibly-- there is more that could be done to bother him because his world is just a little bit wider than it was before tonight. Geralt doesn't think that Dorian might have things to lose here, and certainly hasn't thought as far as witcher and mage as a them in a forward trajectory that would carry one or both past the doors of this great villa.

It is perhaps a little selfish to admit that he's really not thinking past a bedroom stained with magic and unbuckling the harness that cuts the long lines of the body of the mage at his side. No, Mercurio is truly given hardly more than a passing thought now that the largest threat is no longer looming; he simply cannot compare.

Selfishly, Dorian isn't thinking much further ahead than that either. He isn't worried about tonight's outcome, and though he dreads having to deal with him, he certainly isn't frightened of Mercurio. Dorian might currently find himself in less than ideal circumstances, but he is still an Altus of the Tevinter Imperium with all of the experience and status of his upbringing, and he'd never be cowed by an upjumped Antivan merchant whose only true power is his money. Dorian could play court mage with another wealthy benefactor just as easily, and Mercurio knows this.

"Of course," he says tightly, and even now is drawn in by that unnamed and irresistible force that seems to orbit the witcher. His hand rests against the soft leather of the fine jacket Geralt barely fits into, and Dorian hardly notices the ache in his arm where Anetta's handprint has darkened and the prick of her sharp nails has swollen the skin. "You're right."

As much as he'd like to simply disappear to his room with Geralt, he should at least make sure that the master of the house isn't likely to burst in, furious, in the middle of things.

"Will you wait? Or will you come with me?" And though he'd like to think he knows the answer to his next question, he steels himself anyway. Geralt has refused him this once before after all, but it says much about the connection between them that Dorian is willing to possibly be made a fool of again by asking. Rarely does his pride allow him to give second chances. There is something guarded in the steel of his eyes, wariness in the lower pitch of his voice. "And will you stay after?"

"I'll come with." There is no hesitation; that is the easy part. He must deal with Mercurio, tell him that the contract is null. It is the question that comes after and the way that Dorian's eyelids lower just so slightly that steers the next course of action.

They're not quite rejoined the party. Geralt turns and hedges the mage back into a corner, out of the direct line of sight from the patio. The roar of the guests seems leagues away and they are very close. He does not touch because if he's begun that he thinks that he'll have to finish. "I might be thrown out," he says, his rough voice a broken sort of murmur. "This is Mercurio's house and I'm going to tell him something he doesn't want to hear." All Geralt has is an amulet tucked away that will call him a portal home. No horse, no bedroll, nowhere else to go. His voice drops lower. "But I would take you on the forest floor under the stars if that were the only way that it could be managed." There is a husk in the words that inspires bloodflow, as if in his mind Geralt is already peeling away the layers Dorian is wearing.

And he is close to it.

Geralt inhales loam and his eyes shutter slightly. He forces himself to step back, and then again. His heartbeat is faster than it should be. "Lead the way."

Like so many instances this evening, when Geralt crowds him back Dorian goes, enthralled and eager. But he again stays deliberately, frustratingly separate. He itches to draw him closer, to encircle and ensnare him, to pull him flush against his body and find his mouth, warm and welcoming, with his own. He wants to see Geralt's gold eyes flutter closed with desire, wants to make him feel as achingly susceptible as Dorian does now, hearing that promise in a voice that continues to rub him raw. It's base and barbarous and utterly beneath him, and it is more romantic than any other proposition he's ever received. It excites him. He can practically feel his pulse pounding beneath his jaw.

"If you're thrown out, I'll be going with you," Dorian says, not far above a murmur. What he means is that one is as likely as the other, but the way it sounds is tantamount to the sort of stupidly lovesick devotion that he's always tried to avoid. Naturally he has to temper it with some acid, like any sturdy armor. "But you presume quite a bit, Geralt. Namely that I would ever agree to fuck on the forest floor--and even so, that I wouldn't be the one taking you."

One thing Geralt will learn eventually: the quicker Dorian is to refute something, the more likely it is that he's interested.

Though not as bright as Geralt's, his eyes reflect the light filtering from the party. His lips curl into a smile with a sharper edge and his chin tilts up at an arrogant angle as he puts a hand against Geralt's chest and applies enough pressure to urge him back without outright pushing. That would be uncouth. "After you."

The hand against his chest feels like one of the most monumental things that Geralt has ever had to deal with. He had not touched Dorian for a reason but then all his intentions are shattered with a deliberate hand and his nostrils flare slightly as his fingers curl into fists. The expression that races across his face is desperate and struck and that it appears at all says a very great deal about how much Geralt is fighting against every instinct in him that wants to make a scene here in this crowded corner, just outside a party. Let Mercurio find them-- let Anetta drink-- so long as they do not disturb him getting what he wants.

He steps back. It is a wonder that the ground does not swallow him whole.

And even so, that I wouldn't be the one taking you?

Dorian might be amazed, the things that aren't often said to Witchers. Men such as Geralt are so often bared even eye contact or casual touches and here is a mage happy to threaten him with so intimate a thing? It is as if someone has hung a gong at the very center of his ribcage and beaten it violently. Geralt thinks he is walking a straight line as he stalks through the party and toward the last place he had seen his host-- guests scatter out of his way-- but he can't be sure.

Mercurio and his own lady (not a vampire of any sort and looking in general quite like a horse) are entertaining two others on a more secluded part of the patio. The merchant prince takes one look at the incoming Witcher and his own mage following in the wake that he bends in and murmurs something to his guests, who incline their heads and stand to go. Two lightly-armed guards step to block Geralt's way and are almost thrown aside with a twitch of Aard; the sign is pulled at the last minute and snap of cross-wind breeze buffets his own hair and Dorian's robes. Geralt takes a forced breath and waits and perhaps it is good, a moment to calm his nerves. He lets the swell of the party in, the smells and sounds and small magics strung here and there all looming louder and larger until everything becomes an overwhelming sort blanket, smothering individual inward thoughts. By the time the guards step aside the tension had bled from his shoulders and his face is less sour. Mercurio beams as they come closer.

"Our Witcher is here, my dear. Just look at him-- no wonder I didn't notice you amongst the guests, dressed so finely. Have you--"

"Your contract is null." Geralt's voice is low, gravel, and cuts directly through Mercurio's inane chatter. He knows very well that the man knew he was here but even had he not, the time for pleasantries is passed.

For a moment there is comedy; the Antivian prince's face hangs open and in shock and his wife sits up as if someone had stuck a post straight up her ass. It takes only a moment for the wind to shift, however, and this time Geralt's had nothing to do with it. Mercurio's face clouds over, his eyebrows drawing into a thick line even as a muscle in his jaw begins to spasm for the way his teeth are being forced together. He stands, slowly. "Tell me then, Witcher." The words are very, very carefully measured. "Why is that?"

Compared to his employer, Geralt now is the perfect picture of ease. "You have no monster. Your brother is under no thrall other than his prick and perhaps the first good business decision he's made in his life. The contract is null." It is not the most delicate of explanations, but it leaves little room for argument.

Mercurio's face pales and then flushes a deep scarlet. He stares at the Witcher for a long moment before his attention rakes toward Dorian. He draws himself up, his chest inflating under his expensive fabrics like a sail catching the wind. "You were supposed to deal with this--" a bejeweled finger is jabbed in Geralt's direction "--thing!" He might be talking about the man or the situation, but the truth is that he is demanding an answer to both problems.

Though it isn't verbal, Geralt's response to his words is utterly striking. His expression makes it clear that he's deeply effected, far more than Dorian ever could have anticipated. Dorian's own expression shifts swiftly as his playful haughtiness fades, enraptured by this moment of open vulnerability. The party, the vampire, his employer--everything but Geralt is an afterthought. He wants to pull him close and keep him there, regardless of where they are and who might see. He needs to feel Geralt's hands on him, just as he needs to feel more of Geralt beneath his own.

Yet again Geralt manages to resist the temptation of further touch in a way that Dorian knows he couldn't have, were their positions reversed. He feels a nauseating pull low in his stomach as if from a sudden drop. Geralt pulls away wordlessly, and Dorian follows. It's easy to walk in Geralt's wake. People part on either side of him like an oar carving through still water. Geralt walks with a purpose, and Dorian feels the nearness of the magic from his Sign as much as he does the breeze that stirs the edge of his mud-stained robes.

The conversation with the merchant prince and his wife begins about as Dorian had expected it to. He comes to stand beside Geralt, shoulder to shoulder in a show of solidarity. The witcher explains the situation plainly, and of course Mercurio gets angry rather than trying to understand why this might be. Dorian might feel some pity for him if he weren't so willfully ignorant--and if he weren't being so blatantly insulting to Geralt. Though Geralt's placidity shows that he's well used to being treated this way, it makes Dorian's lip curl and his fingers tighten on his staff. He's glad to finally be addressed. He has something to say.

"You hired the witcher to determine whether your family was being threatened. He's done just that, and determined that there isn't a monster to be slain." There isn't anything diplomatic about the way Dorian speaks. He may be in Mercurio's employ, but he won't be scolded by him. Nor will he allow him to belittle Geralt. "Valentin chose to marry Lady Anetta. You must accept that or accept that he doesn't wish to have anything more to do with you. I'll not involve myself in your personal affairs any further."

"I--! You--! He--" Mercurio can't seem to find exactly who he wanted to curse, his face moving toward a rather alarming shade of red until his wife lays a hand on her husband's arm. He shakes her off with snap of motion but he does draw a breath and seems to settle, taking a moment to smooth down his doublet unnecessarily before he returns dark eyes to Dorian. His heavy moustache still looks like it's ready to tremble when he speaks, however, his tone low though hardly a match for Geralt's own growl of vocal cords.

"You should not take such a tone with the man who sponsors all you projects," Mercurio says. "You're nothing but a spoon-fed court mage who had a job to do! By the Maker, Pavus, it wasn't even a hard one." His disgust shifts back to Geralt. "I wrote a contract that was ignored by the brotherhood-- you should not have been allowed in the door."

"Yes," Geralt replied, his voice cool and even. Even had he come at the man in a fury this impartial cloak would have been drawn tightly around him quickly enough; this was business, and witchers did all business the same. "But I was, and that makes the terms of the contract refutable. Witchers are given leave to act in the case of duress." Which Mercurio nor his guests are in, obviously, but the letter of law is a fine thing to have on one's side. Mercurio looks as if he's swallowed a toad. "I will not ask for payment. The contract is closed."

Family business, indeed. But who would want to make this their family?

"Mutant trash," Mercurio hisses. His arms sweep outward in a needlessly dramatic gesture. "Get out of my house! And you," to Dorian now, "you as well. As long as we are in the business of ending contracts tonight, consider yours withdrawn." His wife sniffs. A proper lady by all Antivian standards, she's never really cared for Dorian's flamboyance.

Dorain doesn't quite know how he manages to bite his tongue through that tirade--possibly because his anger makes bitterness swell up in his throat to the point that it makes speech impossible. Geralt is by far the calmest among them, likely due to experience dealing with similarly odious men.

By the time Mercurio lands on mutant trash, Dorian's jaw is set hard, and he is glad that his next words are a dismissal. He wouldn't have wanted to stay anyway. His pride takes a hit even so. How dare this man break their contract before he can break it himself? The audacity! With an air of sarcasm so thick that even a silver sword couldn't cut through it, Dorian sweeps into an exaggerated bow.

"How courteous of you to say exactly what was on my mind, Adrian. Certainly, I think your court would be better suited to another sorcerer. Perhaps a cowed southern Circle mage with half my knowledge and even less talent would be a better fit. You'd actually have something in common." By virtue of experience and pure spite, Dorian manages to hone the flame of his anger into the cutting edge of his words. When Dorian is angry, he hisses. To huff and puff as Mercurio does is beneath him. "You can expect myself and all of my projects gone by morning."

He dictates the terms of his own sacking with aloof confidence in the sort of indignant, self-assured way of those born to wealth and power that leaves no room for argument. "I'll begin now, shall I?" He smiles. With a twitch of his staff, the whimsical mage lights in the trees surrounding the patio that have kept the party illuminated flicker out like so many suddenly doused flames. The garden is plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the scattering of candles on the banquet tables. Distressed chatter and cries of shock erupt around them. Feeling sufficiently revenged, Dorian turns to Geralt. Though he can't see him well, he's certain that the witcher has no trouble.

"I believe our business is concluded, Geralt."

No, the witcher has no trouble. And yet for a moment there is hesitation, his yellow eyes on the angles of Dorian's face as if he's looking for another reality below the precise and cutting words that he'd just used to end his tenure on his own terms. Before them Mercurio is yelling with forced cheer to his guests that everything is fine and the guards have rushed away-- no doubt to find more light. But Geralt simply stands and takes his time to find the assurance in his companion that doesn't mean there won't be regret tomorrow but at least that tonight, certainly, is over.

Mercurio stalks toward them from the gloom, leaking hot air like a kettle left on the flames for too long. "I never want to see you near my house again! Not anywhere in Antiva! I own this city, you jumped-up pompous little cu--"

And that is as far as he gets, because all the rest of the charming words spewing from his mouth are cut off with a swift palm to the chest, too fast to be tracked in the dark. His breath flees his lungs in a whoosh and without his guards nearby to help, Mercurio is left gaping like a fish and sitting down heavily on the flagstones, a sack of potatoes dropped on the spot. He's wheezing like a bellows, his knees sticking out at rather ungentlemanly angles. Geralt gives it a moment and then leans down, brushing nothing from Mercurio's shoulder before grabbing the man by the forearm to haul him to his feet under the pretense of help. "Thank you for your understanding in giving the mage a night to collect his things," he growls, the words offering no argument even if Mercurio could catch his breath. "Now perhaps you should see to your party considering it's rather dark suddenly and you're surely not the only one tripping over his own feet. Well enough that there are no monsters about, wouldn't you say?"

And maybe Mercurio doesn't see the flash of the lean, white smile, but that is fine. It is only for Geralt, anyway.

He turns back to Dorian and nods. He'll clear out his rooms first, at least, as some small show of good faith that he doesn't feel but knows better than to push. Besides, he doesn't think that he'll be needing his rooms anyway. Now that he knows the way he can lead the mage if the man would rather keep the lights off. Truly a fitting end to a rather obscene party. The best guests will make it an excuse to carry candles around and continue on, if Mercurio has the sense to spare them, but none of it matters a bit to Geralt. He won't be coming back out to the patio.

Had Geralt not intervened, Mercurio might have found himself on the recieving end of a nasty spell rather than a palm to the chest. Dorian is nearly as surprised as Mercurio himself, though certainly a great deal more satisfied. Standing so close, he can see the outline of the two men, and he can certainly make out the growl of Geralt's voice. His spine tingles with it, and the feeling lingers.

With nothing further to say to his former employer himself, Dorian takes a measured step toward Geralt, finding that he can just barely make out his features. In the dark he doesn't hesitate to reach for his arm and wind his own through it. There isn't anything tentative about it. He takes hold of Geralt with the self-assurance of a man who knows where he is wanted.

"Let's go," he urges. "Kaffas, I really can't see a thing." He laughs, amused by his own joke. Dorian doesn't mind relying on Geralt to guide him. In fact, he welcomes the chance to be led while he thinks. There is much to consider now, though he is far less worried than perhaps he should be. He's been out of a home before. He'll find a place again.

And for tonight he has Geralt. Somehow that feels equally important.

"It's quite all right," he says with cheer, assuring himself as much as the witcher. "I'll figure something out. I would rather be anywhere else. Nearly, anyway."

Geralt gives no reaction to the arm in his, because what should he do? One option is to shirk the easy touch not because he doesn't enjoy the slight weight of Dorian's arm but because he does, which leads the second option-- and he doubts that the party is truly dark enough to hide two men rutting. He is left with controlling himself regardless of the warmth against his side and the deep smell of loam in his nose.

"Nice weather," Geralt mutters, which is to say that he can find little nicer to say about Antiva then something so banal. If Dorian will need to find somewhere else to go... certainly the assurance is the truth and mages have ways, networks, of finding such places, even Necromancers. Perhaps especially Necromancers, is the truth of it.

He pauses at a junction between the wing where he'd been placed and the wing where the mage was housed. Here the scones light the corridors with wavering soft light. Geralt pulls his arm away from the mage with something like a sigh pressing at his chest. It is quiet. They are alone. There is no monster and now no employer-- and if he reaches out and begins something then it will most likely start and end right here on the cold flagstone, he knows that as surely as he knows himself. Just a little more control. So little. Geralt clears his throat. "I need to go get the rest of my things," he says. "I'll meet you at your rooms."

And then a strange thought occurs to him: that despite all the dancing away and together they've done over the course of the night, it has been, all of it, obvious yes, but also unspoken. At the crossroads in the hallway, Geralt turns to Dorian. He remembers the sharp edges of the conversation a year ago: If you intended to stay the night, perhaps we might spend it together. A brittle memory considering how he acted then and what he feels now.

"That is." Geralt inclines his head slightly. "If you'll have me."

It is Dorian's right of refusal, tonight.

The stillness of the house is a stark contrast to the almost frenzied activity in the garden outside. When it is suddenly just himself and Geralt, the places their bodies touch, even through layers of fine fabric, feel warm and weighted. With no other obligations to fulfill the intention is heavy between them. He feels his pulse tick up as they come to a stop where the hallway splits and Geralt releases him, but faces him in the same movement.

Candles flicker in sconces on the wall and Dorian can see perfectly well now--well enough to like the way the light flickers across the strong features of Geralt's face, at least. They warm his skin and soften his brow and his lips, even as the shadows sharpen his jaw and cheekbones. It's so tempting to reach up and trace those lines with his fingers, and to test that softness with his own lips. It seems unfair that they should have to be apart again for even as long as it takes for Geralt to collect his things.

He has more self-control than that, at least. But after their narrative tonight Dorian falls still and attentive when Geralt, however awkwardly, asks his permission to stay with him. It's impossible not to remember the way Geralt had rejected a similar proposition a year ago. Yet the idea of doing the same is never seriously considered. Dorian can be spiteful, but not enough to deny himself something he wants this badly.

"I'll have you." He means to sound more suggestive, warm and playfully flirtatious, but the deeper note of sincerity in his voice ruins the levity. It's a level of honesty that makes him feel vulnerable, guarded only by his thin smile. "Don't make me wait long."

Dorian is lucky, then, that Geralt is not a man given to showing emotion-- there is no want to tear down that smile, no need to do anything other than accept the offer with a softening at the corners of his eyes that feels like a smile, no matter the still-line of his own lips. Somehow on Geralt the stillness wears like a sigh of relief; surely Dorian would have had enough cause to send him away, even after everything. The Witcher's hand twitches upward, as if it has mind to reach out, and then settles again. He inclines his head and then is turning, walking, going. He's ready to be quit of his dark, cold and uncared for rooms, ready to find out what he's denied himself for a year.

The hallways are empty through the guest corridors, everyone determined to wait out or make use of the dark on the patio to have a good time. That is fine with Geralt-- he wants no distractions. His boots clip a pace just shy of a lope against the flagstone and his mind is somewhere between how Dorian's robes come off and getting to find out where else the mage might have smudged his golden paint... or if Geralt might be allowed to take his own liberties with the stuff. He can only blame himself for the fact that he doesn't hear the guards waiting inside his rooms until he steps inside.

They are courteous and cold. They do not attack him, cuff him-- they simply wait. They are here to show him out and Geralt's throat closes as he stops with the door to his back. What can he do? There is no visitation rights, there is no way to stop himself from ever opening the door and all Geralt can do is gather his things under their cool gaze and then be escorted toward the front, away from Dorian.

Something in his chest contracts, tightly. His steps don't falter but he wants to make them, wants to turn back if it means fighting because the only thing he has to lose is the man waiting for him.

Geralt doesn't.

Outside the yawning front gates he pulls the token from the bag slung over his shoulder. "Got a nice pair of trousers from the deal at least, Witcher," one of the guards laughs. "Better than you deserve." Yes, it probably is. Geralt looks up at the stone of the villa and imagines Dorian waiting for him. The token is bought and will take him back to Kaer Morhen-- another would cost more than he has, now that the contract has come to nothing. A bird sent would reach no one after its travels because Dorian had been fired and he will be gone in twelve hours. There is no point of contact.

"Fuck."

Geralt cracks the token and walks into the portal.

Edited 2020-05-16 18:06 (UTC)

Geralt makes him wait.

Dorian doesn't do much initially. He makes his bed up nicely, checks his reflection, and once satisfied begins organizing the journals on his desk. He passes the time by arranging his research notes into some sort of comprehensible order, and by the time he's finished with that, irritation and concern have begun to gnaw at his stomach. Geralt really should have been here by now.

But he gives the benefit of the doubt; enough that he starts packing up books, which will be an arduous task in the morning. But before long the titles begin to lose meaning. He isn't concentrating on the task, but thinking about Geralt and wondering what could possibly have held him up.

He counts the passage of an hour before he leaves his room and makes his way through the quiet halls to the room Geralt had been appointed. He meets no one but a few quiet servants on the way. He doesn't cross paths with Geralt as he'd hoped to. Apprehension makes him nauseous. What if something has happened to him? What if he never made it there in the first place? Dorain doesn't run, but he does hasten his steps.

The door is unlocked. Dorian needn't have steeled himself before opening it. He finds nothing. Not any of Geralt's belongings and certainly not the witcher himself. Gone, then. Slipped out without a word. There's a sense of numbness at first, like being slapped across the face; the pain doesn't surface immediately. But when it does, it is dizzying.

His return to his quarters and his furious, chaotic packing become mostly a blur. If he'd found it difficult to concentrate earlier, it's impossible now. His emotions shift back and forth in a horrible balancing act, unable to decide which way to lean. In one moment he is furious with Geralt and in the next he recognizes that he himself is to blame for feeling this way, and his anger becomes entirely self-directed. He should never have placed so much importance on a man he's met only twice, whatever strange attraction there seemed to be between them. This is so predictable it's almost funny. He'd been so certain that this time would be different, but it never is. He was so certain that Geralt wanted him, that Geralt felt the same connection he did. Yet he'd run at the very first chance to do so.

What had all of that been about, then? Why had Geralt looked at him that way, kissed him that way? What had he wanted? Dorian can't answer that, and it keeps him awake all night.

In the morning when he departs with everything he owns and turns north, he tries to leave that question behind.

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