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The kisses start on the cheek—Dandelion leans in, just before he's about to climb out of their decadent nest of blankets and benches in front of the villa, and barely brushes his lips against Geralt's cheekbone. A daily thank-you for yet another peaceful, soul-healing night watching the sun set, and the stars rise, and listening to birdsong turn into the melodic chirps of insects.

He does this day after day, adding yet another element to the rhythm of their life, until Geralt interrupts the beat by turning into it, catching Dandelion's lips with his own. A soft noise sounds in the back of his throat, both needy and satisfied, and Dandelion's heart pounds so hard against his ribcage that he worries it might escape.

He leaves like he always does, bidding Geralt a mumbled good night and heading to the safety of the guest bedroom.

For two nights, he doesn't kiss Geralt's cheek before bed.

On the third night, Geralt puts two fingers on his jaw and turns his face, catching his lips again and bidding him good night. He should be smirking, but he's not.

Dandelion hesitates, and then leaves, and wonders if perhaps he should have stayed.

The rhythm changes, and Dandelion kisses Geralt's lips every night before he goes to bed, and ignores the overwound metronome in his chest as he curls up alone.


The winter is cold, and Geralt is cold. His bones ache with it, old injuries making him stiff and grumpy.

He misses nights outside watching the stars, and he misses the warmth of Dandelion's body draped beside his own, and why shouldn't he have it, anyway?

“It’s cold in your room,” he says. “We should share mine.”

Dandelion agrees, and Geralt hesitates for a week before holding him on day eight, soaking in the warmth of his body. They both sigh—satisfaction and relief—and sleep quickly and peacefully.

Geralt doesn't hesitate again.


Ciri comes by, and doesn't seem to think this is strange at all. She looks at them both with affection in her eyes, and takes a teetering pile of blankets up to the guest bedroom.

Dandelion knows it's really not all that cold, so he doesn't worry too much about her.


The birds come back, and the smell of lavender fills the air outside, and Geralt strips first one, then two of the blankets off the bed. But he never tells Dandelion to go back to his own room, and so Dandelion doesn't.

They rebuild the nest they'd had to pull apart for blankets over the winter, and curl up beside one another, and if it's a little easier to rest his head against Geralt's shoulder now, Dandelion doesn't mind. And Geralt doesn't say anything.

They touch their lips together before bed like they haven't all winter, and Dandelion gets up, and isn't sure where to go once he's inside the house.

Geralt makes the decision for him, dropping a broad hand on his shoulder, brushing his now too-long hair out of the way, and kissing the back of his neck.


For two men who—between them—have slept with half the Continent and sometimes doubled up for good measure, the sex is innocent and gentle. Cautious, fleeting touches, testing for sensitive places, hands roaming and groping without any kind of direction.

Dandelion worries that it's not enough, that Geralt will expect finesse and teasing and expertise from him. That in this, he'll have to match up to his reputation, though Geralt's only ever cared about that insomuch as it gets him into trouble.

But then Geralt gasps into his ear and it's the sweetest sound Dandelion's ever heard. This, too, could be part of their song.

They sleep tangled up together, inseparable, and it feels like nothing's changed at all.