Watch Me Burn (3210 words) by NeverlandPoet
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Tommy Kinard
Additional Tags: Smut, Fluff and Smut, POV Tommy Kinard, Anal Sex, Episode s07e09: Ashes Ashes (9-1-1 TV), 9-1-1 (TV) Season 7, Character Study, Gay Sex, Blow Jobs, and a hint of angst
"What kept you?" Tommy asks, opening the door for Evan.
Evan spreads his arms, a thin smile of guilt on his face, "I'm sorry," he offers, "traffic."
It wasn't the traffic; Evan doesn't seem to realize that his body language, the unconscious lowering of his eyes, reveals he's not quite telling the truth. Tommy wouldn't necessarily call it lying. So far, Evan has been nothing but honest with him, remarkably honest, actually, for somebody he’s known so shortly. There's something Evan can't talk about yet, obviously. He will when he's ready, Tommy is convinced, deciding not to worry.
"Well, come on in," he says, and Evan slips into his apartment as he has in his whole life: swift and exciting, and with a kiss.
He drops a bag, wraps his arms around Tommy and conquers his lips like a drowning man gasping for breath.
Evan is no huge mystery, not a man to pretend. His emotions are a rollercoaster, and when he kisses, you can taste them all. This exuberance is still exciting, if no longer surprising, and yet Tommy can't stop himself from breathing a soft moan into Evan's mouth. He feels the corners of Evan's mouth lift, it makes him trace the smile with his tongue.
They stand like that in Tommy's tiny hallway for a while, legs and arms and lips tangled up but never losing balance, never losing grip.
"You hungry?" Tommy asks huskily when their lips finally part, "I promised you dinner, but..."
"But I'm late," Evan completes, "and I’m s…"
"Don’t," Tommy interrupts him with a finger on Evan's lips. "There's nothing to apologize for. You're here now, sweetheart."
Evan's incomparable blue eyes light up as if he’s heard great praise. He has a whole range of nicknames among his friends, but mostly he's just Buck. Yet every time Tommy calls him Evan, he looks like he's won another medal. One day, completely unconsciously, Evan, babe slipped out of his mouth, and Evan melted, he crumbled completely right before Tommy’s eyes, and Tommy was eager to pick up all the pieces. It was like watching a dry sponge fill up with water and become bigger and stronger in the process.
"In that case," Evan mutters, very close to Tommy's ear, "I'm actually hungry, but I think we'll skip dinner."
Once, Evan needed a dance partner for his sister’s wedding, and he wanted it to be Tommy. Things went differently, as life goes. But Evan is a dancer, definitely. His hands firmly on Tommy's hips, he pushes him forward, or backward rather, moving with somnambulistic confidence. This is a dance Evan is practiced in, skilled even. They end up with Tommy’s back to his kitchen counter, Evan’s lips on his, and yes, he’s definitely hungry. There's a little voice in the back of Tommy's head saying Evan needs to stop numbing his worries with sex. And they will talk about it, yes, later, because Tommy is hungry too, and not for the neglected meat in his fridge.
A piece of him wants to be selfish, right now, and just savor the moment. He’s been patient, he’s been waiting for this side of Evan to show, ever since that day at the hospital. Back then, he was above all impulsive, but that kiss showed a whiff of what Evan also is. Tommy wants more of this, wants to drink him like a fine wine, devour him like a five-star meal.
Evan tugs at Tommy's shirt, his fingers slipping underneath, leaving invisible burn marks on his skin. He’s pushed one leg between Tommy's thighs, he nibbles on his ear as if he wants to pierce a second hole in it, marking him with an earring of desire. Tommy takes a sharp breath.
"You smell good," he softly remarks, almost surprised. Evan’s just had a shift, and of course, he’s showered, but he doesn’t smell like shower gel. He smells of that aftershave he uses, a hint of oak, a touch of spice. Evan gives a soft chuckle close to Tommy's carotid artery. Hell, Tommy is hungry.
The minute he got home, he jerked off in the shower like a teenager. He rarely and only reluctantly remembers his father, but Tommy can't forget the man telling his fourteen-year-old son to wank before a date to get rid of the tension. He never did, thinking it was an idiotic idea, and because it came from a man who was as useful as a fork for soup. Tonight, however, he’d been so charged, so pent-up just thinking about Evan dropping by. Their first night together. Not their first time, but the first time he would wake up next to Evan in the morning. Tommy was eager to see this hair ruffled, to see those ridiculously long lashes open slowly.
Of course, it hadn't helped, he couldn't just shake off the tension, this desire. He didn’t even want to, he wanted Evan to know the effect he had.
"Couldn't think of anything but you today," Evan breathes as his fingertips run along Tommy's vertebrae.
"Mmmh, while you were rescuing cats from trees?" Tommy teases, his lips brushing Evan’s ever so slightly. But the voice inside him goes, you can save me at any time, please save me, as you have already done. Evan's quiet laughter shakes both their chests.
"Can't be a hero every day. Or as cool as my very hot pilot."
"Your pilot, huh? That's what you’re after?"
Tommy's grip on Evan's hips intensifies, and the tables are turned. He pushes off from the counter, spinning them both around. His whole body pushes against Evan’s, and the man turns to wax; all it takes is a small flame and he will burn away. Evan is, in no way, a small man, he’s anything but fragile, yet three decades of needing to be the epitome of a strong man fall apart when he’s with Tommy. They are equal in strength, but Evan is almost desperate to let himself fall into Tommy’s arms.
Evan gives a surprised little gasp, such a delicate sound. He leans into Tommy, searching his lips once more. Now that’s a sloppy kiss, because it’s not a kiss he wants, already pressing his boner against Tommys hips.
"Brought my bag," he hums into Tommy's neck, "you said I can stay…"
He sounds insecure and… young. Something, someone might have rejected Evan in the slightest.
"Evan," Tommy returns, regretfully moving the man at arm's length to catch his gaze. There must be a word for the blue of Evan's eyes, one day he’ll know it. "Babe. I want you to stay. Okay?"
He says this because it's what Evan wants to hear now, needs to hear now. It’s not the most reasonable thing to say to somebody who’s obviously trying to hide a few thoughts behind the pleasant clouds of pleasure. But Evan... he's a hurricane, and Tommy wants to be in its center. There’s calmness in the eye of the storm, and Tommy wants to meet Evan there. But to find that secret place, you have to tame the storm.
His eyes light up again, the slightest endearment makes his pretty face glow. Tommy doesn’t want him to search for validation, he wants him to know he’ll always find it in him. Evan, however, wants something else, too, his whole posture saying show me you really want me here. Something falls off the kitchen counter with a clatter as Tommy grabs Evan by the hips and lifts him up as if it were nothing. As if he weren’t almost 6'3" tall and packed with muscles. He sits Evan down on the countertop, pushing his legs apart to press himself in-between; Evan raises his brows, oh, he likes that, it’s easy to tell.
"Hold your horses, cowboy," Evan rasps, wriggling out of Tommy's firm grip, and in a second, he's dropped his pants and hops on the counter again, cheeky grin and all.
It’s Tommy’s part to raise brows now.
"No undies," he remarks. "Someone really wanted to get laid."
"You bet. There’s condoms in my back pocket, get ’em. No, wait, kiss me first."
"Got condoms myself, hothead."
He's smothering Evan's laughter with his lips until he's breathless, but the man is not that easy to stop from having the last word.
"I’m always prepared," he says, head cocked, eyes glossy beneath those long lashes.
"Oh, I can see that. Always prepared, definitely ready."
Tommy reaches for him, provocatively slowly, and even this light touch, the bare grasping of his shaft, makes Evan rear up against him. He strokes the glans with his thumb, it’s wet and sensitive, and the sounds from Evan's throat are mouth-watering, delicious. Tommy leans forward, his breath causing goose bumps on Evan's neck, and in a whisper, he utters, "Wanna taste you, can I?"
"Damn, Tommy," Evan groans, and he takes that as approval.
It's not exactly easy to crouch for a man who's equally 6’3", but he manages. He puts his hands on Evan's thighs, damp with sweat. Tommy’s fingers brush fleetingly through the little fluff of pubic hair; his habit of keeping it trimmed and tidy is a little vain and silly and so Evan. But here, he doesn't give off the fragrances he wears to please Tommy, here he smells of what Tommy actually likes: Evan, raw and uncontrived.
He sucks the drop of pre-cum off the tip, and the man above him sucks in his breath.
"Now, you hold your horses," Tommy chuckles. "I know you can. This is gonna be a long night."
"Promise?"
He looks up briefly, Evan’s cheeky grin is back; time to wipe it off his face.
Oh, Evan can certainly hold back, but not in expressing his pleasure. He’s a moaner on the slightest movement of Tommy’s tongue, the faintest whiff of his breath on his cock, and he most certainly doesn't hold back when Tommy takes him in full. He starts to babble, there's a lot of "fuck" and "yes" and "Tommy" in the sweetest tone ever. Tommy looks up briefly. Evan is supporting himself on the countertop with both hands, head bent back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. That's how Tommy loves to see him best, totally lost in the moment. He could go on like this forever, Evan's taste on his tongue, but there are still so many delights waiting.
He releases his mouth gently. Evan is looking at him from hazy eyes, smoke blue, Tommy thinks fleetingly.
"Where did you say your condoms were?" he asks most innocently, his own incomparable smile on his moist lips; at least that's what Evan likes to call it, that’s a reward in its own.
"Pocket. Pants."
The man’s already puffing, they’ve hardly started. He gets them, a ten-pack of Trojans, you show-off, he thinks briefly, but it's really just Evan's way of reassuring himself. He’s not prepared because the opportunity might arise, but because it means safety to him. Tommy already knows all this and much more about Evan, and there will always be something new, the man is a bag of curiosities. Right now, he’s sitting on Tommy’s kitchen counter, legs spread wide, a challenging look in his eyes. Oh, Evan knows how to play the game, no questions asked.
Tommy, still fully dressed, of which his far too tight jeans unpleasantly remind him, presses himself very close to Evan once again, briefly stroking a reddened cheek.
"You sure?" he asks, because he will always ask. Maybe Evan doesn’t always have sex for the right reasons, but Tommy will ensure he’s always in the right mind for it.
"Please," he returns, it sounds like a sigh.
Tommy strips off his shirt, then slips his fingers under Evan's top, enjoying the feeling of his warm body, just for a moment. Just for a moment, he follows the trail of Evan’s waist, feels his tense muscles, strokes a scar; then the shirt is gone, as well as his own pants. Evan is an open book, he likes what he sees, and although it's not the first time he's seen it, he involuntarily licks his lips. Tommy can't help it, he has to reclaim this mouth. He does it so fiercely he causes Evan to bump his head on the kitchen wall behind him.
Their laughter takes only a little of the tension that has overcome them both; it is in the air like a faint scent of sex, although nothing has happened yet.
"Bedroom, maybe?" Tommy breathes.
"No."
That’s a firm no, just a second before Evan wraps his hands around Tommy's neck for another kiss. The heat between Tommy's thighs only increases. Their cocks touch, friction in time with their tongues.
"Touch me," Evan whispers, "n-need you now, please."
Damn, that man.
"I will," Tommy promises, placing his fingers on Evan's lips.
He immediately sucks them in greedily, not taking his cloudy gaze off his boyfriend for a second. Then he shifts, making room for Tommy's fingers. Probing, Tommy touches Evan, and he's so damn sensitive, he shivers. But he also pushes into the touch, eager, impatient. A little too eager, perhaps.
"We need..."
"I know," Evan groans into Tommy's shoulder.
They talked about it, quite early on, and Evan completely trusted the older man's experience, still does. At some point, spit might be enough, but not now, not with Evan being so new to all of this. Tommy wouldn't bear to see the slightest hint of pain on his face. He gestures fleetingly, just a wave of his finger, wait, and disappears into the bathroom in a flash. He returns with the lube, and Evan has put on this provocative smile again, one hand on his member.
"Oh, you couldn't wait a second, dirty," Tommy mutters appreciatively.
"I've been waiting all day for this. For you to touch me. Here," Evan takes Tommy’s hand and puts it on the sensitive spot on the back of his neck. "And here."
He continues conducting Tommy, showing him all the spots to touch that make his eyes glow and his lips part in a silent groan. When he finally penetrates him with a finger, there is no resistance at all. There's a blend of triumph and confidence in Evan's eyes. He leans into the touch, and his eyes, his hands, everything about him longs for more without him having to say it. Two fingers, and Tommy already feels like he's going to explode.
Every time he's touching Evan, time seems to stand still, and he savors the moment, and it's still only the beginning. He takes his time, goes slowly, and Evan is already a mess. He’s panting and whispering, urging him to go on, "Don’t stop, don’t stop," he’s already pleading. Tommy doesn't want to stop, he wants to explode, wants to fall to pieces with this man.
He is mesmerized by Evan, by the sounds he makes as Tommy brushes his jugular with his tongue. He is addicted to those plush lips, and he kisses them, kisses them, kisses them; even when he slips the condom on, he only detaches very briefly. Touching himself requires self-control now, his own cock is leaking with anticipation, and watching Evan sliding into a better position on the counter isn’t helping.
He's never fucked anybody on the top of his kitchen counter, or any kitchen counter, and maybe he's missed out. Well, life isn't like a porn video, and it takes a few tries, a few touches and a few laughs. Eventually, their bodies meet, and it feels like the first time, every time. Tommy thinks that he will never get enough of this feeling, of being immersed in Evan's warmth.
"This good?" he asks softly. Evan has sucked in his lower lip, one might think his expression is one of concentration, but in truth he's completely absorbed in the feeling, just like Tommy. He just nods, one hand clutching Tommy's shoulder, and each breath draws Tommy in deeper. Maybe it's Evan's first time on the receiving end, but it feels like he's definitely fucked on a kitchen counter before.
"Don't be gentle."
There's something in Evan's voice, it’s almost the last straw. Tommy inhales sharply.
"Damn, Evan," he breathes, "if you want me to spill already, just say so."
Evan gives a choppy, somewhat raspy laugh.
"Wouldn’t want that. Need you to move, Tommy, please."
Even if he wanted to, Tommy couldn’t resist this plea, he’s that weak for Evan. Nevertheless, he starts slowly, a sweetly agonizing to and fro, a game of teasing retreat and gentle thrust. Evan clutches him like a drowner clutches a lifesaver, he pulls him in for a kiss, but in truth he’s only pulling him deeper. As if he wanted to merge into him and be merged at the same time, Evan wraps his legs around Tommy's hips, and Tommy sees stars for a moment, they are smoke blue.
"Evan," Tommy groans, "Yes," he answers, and that’s when Tommy thrusts in earnest; deep, hard pushes smacking their bodies to unity.
Evan's panting resembles a chant, and it becomes a canon. Tommy’s heartbeat roars in his ears, but there's also Evan's gasps, his choppy sounds, his "mmh yes", his "like this." It’s not mere encouragement, it’s a kind of total dissolution.
It's over sooner than expected. Evan comes without warning, without even touching himself. There’s a short rumbling sound, almost as if thunder heralded a storm, and he spills, twitching. Tommy comes too, with one last deep push and a single sigh, his head buried deep in Evan's shoulders.
It's not the last time that evening, and it ends in Tommy's bed after all. He holds Evan tightly as he falls asleep, and when he wakes up, there’s this blissful sensation inside him of being able to wake up next to this man. However, it’s still dark, and Tommy stares confusedly into the blackness until his eyes adjust. Evan next to him is just a faint outline, his chest rises and falls peacefully with every breath. That didn’t wake Tommy, so what did?
He’s ready to shrug it off and go back to sleep when a faint rumble from the bedside table makes him realize what it was. That's his phone, a text message. He reaches for it almost automatically, briefly notices the hour, and a small, hard knot forms in his abdomen. The message is from Howie.
Trying to reach Buck. He with you? It's about Bobby.
Tommy slips out of bed, he sneaks into his kitchen. Evan’s phone is in the back pocket of his slacks, carelessly lying on the floor. He picks it up: several missed calls, at least two messages. The knot in his stomach grows larger. Tommy stares at the text Howie has sent him, then he presses the call button.
Evan is hard to wake up, and it's the last thing Tommy wants to do right now. He blinks and mumbles, "Time to get up?"
"Yes," Tommy says, and there's something in his voice that makes Evan sit up. "Yes, get up, Evan. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry."
He takes a deep breath. He hasn't turned on a light, but Evan's eyes are big and bright in the darkness.
PEDRO PASCAL | Premiere of The Great Wall 2017
Interviewer: I heard Matt's daughter was actually watching Game of Thrones while you guys were in China. Did she give you the seal of approval?
Pedro: "She gave me the stamp of approval. She was watching it gradually. She was like 'It takes a little getting used to, your accent is a little thick.' And I was like ok ok...and I was like what do you think about the robe? and she's like 'Looks good, looks good.' And then she got to the end and she was like...😉"
My entry for the @witcherficwriters event “Witcher Writers Winter Gift Exchange 2022″, for @timelesstragedy. Geralt/Regis, 8,491 words, rated T
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Pining, Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, contains a bit of blood and mentioning of a broken bone, Friends to Lovers, Wasted years, Hurt/Comfort, unrequited love (is it though?)
Summary: When Regis unexpectedly shows up at his door, it's like a glimpse into a past Geralt had tried to forget. But some memories are not so easy to bury – and sometimes, they mean a new beginning... Or: Geralt gets hurt, and Regis does not only provide comfort, but also a realization – the only question is, is it too late?
Read below the cut or on AO3
Regis' visit came like a shower after a cloudless summer day: unexpected, but not unwelcome. For Geralt, the sudden appearance of his old friend nevertheless gave him a brief fright; the distant whiff of a mystery that conjured up the past. At first, however, the joy of reunion prevailed. The brief stumble of his heart after opening the door was followed by a strong embrace, and Geralt could not help but notice that Regis still wore a scent of herbs in his clothing.
"Some things never change," the latter replied nonchalantly, "and yet others change tremendously. A manor house, Geralt?"
"I wouldn't call it a manor."
And yet, after letting Regis in, he watched the latter's reaction eagerly, almost as if he were looking at the small house, or rather at all of its possessions, as if for the first time. Under Regis' bushy brows flashed the same alert, curious eyes as ever. Perhaps the laugh lines beside his eyes had deepened a little, but his face was as narrow as ever, with almost aristocratic features, interrupted only by the old-fashioned-looking sideburns. No, outwardly he had hardly changed, and even if Geralt pretended not to notice the furtive sidelong glances, he knew that his guest was wondering the same thing: was he also still the same?
Regis, eloquent as he had always been, found words of praise for the furnishings and style, pulled a bottle of wine from a long pouch over his shoulder, placed it in the middle of the table in the hall, and said mischievously, "And now tell."
The wine, of which there was plenty elsewhere in the house – „A winery, Regis, who would have thought?" – loosened Geralt's tongue, and he told his story, which was essentially one of chance, luck, a lot of skill, and a very generous lady of the manor.
"So you helped her with this, shall we say, spicy business," Regis opined, drumming his long, slender fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop, "and she gave you lifetime residency rights to an old vineyard? Eccentric."
"She is indeed unusual. People here call her Duchess, but I think that's a mixture of mockery and respect. Well," Geralt replied, washing down his words with a sip of wine, "there's plenty of work and none of my own wine at all, it doesn't grow yet. But it is a home. I never cared where I worked, as you know."
Regis grinned broadly and pointed his index finger at Geralt.
"I've read about you in the papers, my dear. They call you an environmental activist. Not bad, not bad."
Geralt was silent on the matter, preferring to stare deeply into his glass, unwilling to be judged by yet another useless label in his life. He had believed he could live a quiet, unassuming life here, far out in this sunny spot. But inconspicuousness was not given to him. Not outwardly, where he was so different from the weather-beaten, rotund peasants with his fair skin, tall and slender figure, shock-white hair thanks to a congenital pigment disorder, and a conspicuous facial scar. And certainly not in temperament. Geralt had always had an unshakable sense of justice, something that seemed astonishing given his orphan origins and meager childhood – or perhaps not. He had always been drawn to animals, especially those disregarded or prejudiced by others. Nature in all its diversity seemed to him worthy of protection, and he became an expert on almost everything that threatened the natural balance.
"I used to live nearby, you know?" Regis interrupted his friend's musings, whether intentionally or actually out of nostalgia.
"Near here?"
"Hmm. Had a little herb store – don't laugh – on the way to Beauclair. Nice town. I'm thinking of setting it up again, a little more centrally this time."
"An herb store?"
Had Geralt been able to see his own face at that moment, lying in the shadow of the candlestick (which somehow suited the bread, cheese, wine, and the whole atmosphere of the little house better than the overhead lighting), he might have noticed a wistful smile. He switched his glass between his hands and remarked, "What happened to the pharmacy?"
"Oh, nothing."
Regis made a dismissive gesture.
"Basically, it's the same thing. These days, people like to revisit natural remedies."
"You have a lot of talents, you're just a little unsteady..."
Geralt immediately regretted his words when he felt his friend's curious gaze on him. Had he sounded gruff, or mocking? Regis shrugged his shoulders.
"You may call this unsteady, but well, let's name the elephant in the room, Geralt: as a doctor, I will no longer work. As a naturopath, I can make a living and put my, as you call it, talents to good use."
"I didn't mean..."
"It's okay."
They were silent for a while, and although Geralt actually regretted broaching the subject, which led far into the past and into unpleasant memories, their silence was soon that of good old friends again.
"So that's why you've come to see me?" asked Geralt at one point, when the shadows on the table had grown longer and the cheese platter noticeably smaller.
"You mean because we could become neighbors, so to speak? I think that's reason enough, my dear," Regis replied lightly. "And moreover, we haven't seen each other for a long time. It would be nice to have a friend in a new beginning."
"That's true," Geralt said, referring to himself as well.
Regis went about his undertaking with determination, as he had always dealt with all challenges. Soon he found a pretty little store in town, from which enticing smells emanated after a short time. He, with his extensive knowledge of herbs and remedies of all kinds, collected and bought raw materials mostly from local farmers and processed them into all sorts of useful things. Soon his store was attracting more than the tourists who wanted to bring home their vacation into the kitchen with exotic spice and tea blends. Regis also earned the trust of locals, as his ointments, tinctures, and even herbal liquor were helpful for many an ailment.
In this rather rural area, such things were not to be underestimated. Although Beauclair was not an entirely small town and at least boasted a picturesque harbor and an ancient palace, it was still a sleepy and partly neglected little place where it was difficult to get used to modernity. It was the perfect place for a man who, when he moved in, carried around a suitcase full of books and otherwise resembled an old scholar in manner and appearance.
Oddly enough, this complicated everything – at least for Geralt. He was quite happy to have his old friend nearby. Even if the past they had in common was filled with melancholy, Regis was one of his oldest companions. Someone with whom he had once shared things that could only be shared with a few. Perhaps that was what was so difficult: that he was now reminded of those things more often by Regis' presence. But in truth, it was also clear to Geralt, it was about something else. About the things they had not shared. About what had never been said, about hints, assumptions, wishes and unfulfilled hopes. At least that was true for himself. There was a kind of fear inside him that he couldn't quite explain and that didn't quite want to suit him.
Regis was nothing but amiable, a welcome guest at the manor, an eloquent conversationalist who didn't mind his host's brooding and pondering. Geralt himself had never been particularly talkative, but he liked to listen. He enjoyed the company of the other and was amazed by his stories, which he liked to call adventures. Regis, always restless and curious, had traveled widely: he had explored stiff traditions in the deep south as well as rougher customs on the northernmost cliffs.
"Did it never occur to you," Geralt asked one evening, "to seek a home somewhere there?"
"A completely fresh start, you mean?"
Regis smiled slightly.
"I never felt at home enough anywhere to do that."
"And Beauclair gives you that feeling?"
"It's never a place that's home, don't you think?" replied Regis in response.
Geralt couldn't make sense of it, and ignored the gentle tug in his heart, as he had before done for many years.
Life is determined by coincidences, not by fate. Geralt had always believed that, even when events in his life could have taught him otherwise. So it was an amazing but increasingly fortunate coincidence for him that after all this time Regis had come back into his life. The man was a constant, reliable and dependable, and they saw each other regularly; as if their friendship had merely been interrupted, like an invisible rift in time that could never be patched, but no longer hurt either.
He belatedly realized that they had always maintained common ground and were doing so all the more now. The area around the old vineyard was a favorite habitat of wild animals, but also attracted predators. Geralt was almost ecstatic about rumors of the alleged appearance of rare wolves, which mankind had almost completely wiped out. He was relatively alone in this, as the peasants feared for their livestock. In Regis, however, he found an advocate, which surprised him more than it should have.
"You know very well," said the latter, "that wolves extremely rarely attack people."
"Of course, but for that you know the effects of their attacks. Not only on animals."
"I don't think a small pack you haven't even sighted is going to be dangerous to anyone," he replied. "More likely you'll throw yourself in between them before that happens."
Possibly that was true. Geralt now made regular trips to the area where wolves (or even a single one) were rumored to be located; ostensibly because he was the closest out of anyone around to fulfilling the function of a gamekeeper, but also to prevent superstition and wild hunches from causing hunters to venture into the wilderness. The residents seemed nervous. Sooner or later there would be a hearing in the local council, someone would come out with guns; it was inevitable. And Geralt would probably be on the wrong side.
The prospect made him strangely uneasy, without him at first suspecting why that was. Like Regis, he had always been restless and wandered from place to place, always to where he could make a living with his skills – and if need be with other things, after all he was not a bad craftsman and was generally not afraid of any physical work. The fact that he had come across the "Duchess" in this patch of earth and had acted as a kind of exterminator for her – as he modestly called it, in truth he had saved a fortune in wine through courageous intervention – had additionally earned him the interest of the locals. And, of course, a home such as he had never known. Geralt liked the old, dry vineyard, creaking from every corner, seemingly held together only by spit and good will. Basically, he realized, it was the simple life he liked. A life of hard work, but without hardship, and above all, without recognition.
He also knew that he was always close to losing all that. Geralt had always been an outsider, even if only just on the outside. A touch too tall, a touch too bright, the odd hair and scar; and always on the side of the losers. Now it all seemed different, and it would be hard for him to lose all that. Even more so now that Regis was in the area.
As if the latter suspected how ambivalent he felt, one day he offered to accompany him to an inspection of the tracks that Geralt had been informed about again. So far Geralt had not been able to prove reliably whether it was really a pack, a single wolf or perhaps only a wild dog. Basically, he had nothing in hand, and that satisfied no one. The people here were decidedly superstitious. The land was old and rough, caught between the modernity of vast corporate empires in the south and the savage lifestyle of northerners trying to conquer barrenness and scarcity. In this tension, a world of myths and fairy tales had developed, which almost compulsively tried both to absorb the best of everything and to forget reality as much as possible. One lived in the here and now, yet hung garlic against possible vampires to be on the safe side.
"We'll go hiking," Regis suggested. "For a weekend, almost like the old days. We'll inspect the area, you'll look for tracks, and I'll find out if this herb I found in a book of local legends is the sweet herb we use today."
"What if we really do come across wolves?" asked Geralt, and his friend laughed unconcernedly.
It was like old times, and then again it wasn't, because in truth they had never been just the two of them – another topic that was never brought up. This story remained in the closet, like in thousands of families who wanted to forget that a war had divided the continent into pieces which today were still laboriously trying to become a whole again.
So they went hiking, minimally equipped for an overnight stay in the open and otherwise mainly armed with knowledge about flora and fauna. The area was too harmless to be actually dangerous, at least both of them were firmly convinced of that (a fallacy, as it should turn out), and should there be wolves there, they still trusted that they would stay away. Basically, they were living out an ideal idea of a man's night out, without actually suspecting it. Neither was naive, and what they had experienced together probably steeled them for the vast majority of dangers that could have threatened them in real wilderness. As a long-lost friend had put it, "The only danger is man, the cruelest of animals."
It was nothing but a field trip. And it went completely wrong.
When they started walking, morning dew wetted their soles, and around noon they rested by a stream with a picturesque view over the hills, reaching to the distant coast on whose horizon lay the now so advanced country of a former aggressor. It was almost dawn when they reached the area where one or two or no wolves had been decisively sighted, and Geralt confessed that the peasants' tensions were clearly more real than this supposition.
The mere announcement was enough for most of the locals. It was almost as if they fell back into an ancient pattern where rationality had no place. Although nothing was really confirmed yet, the tone became harsher. Geralt was used to open hostility; those who stood out from the crowd in many ways lived with it.
"They were talking about getting weapons, which is ridiculous because every one of them has a shotgun," he said, seemingly calmly inspecting a few tracks on the ground. By now they had crested a small hill that faded into a larger wooded area – not a bad habitat, and in fact numerous wild animals lived here. "Just wild boars," he muttered.
"Wild boars," Regis replied with a slightly wrinkled nose, "I wouldn't necessarily want to encounter those. Do you think that was a threat?"
"The guns? As I said, the farmers aren't too squeamish. They basically abide by forest regulations, but..."
"They're simple people."
"They live close to town, Regis. They should really understand that their way of life is partly to blame for wiping out some animals."
"Humans don't like to be reminded of what a wild animal they actually are," Regis countered wisely.
"If you say so."
Geralt sounded absent-minded, not without reason: a not-quite-inconspicuous combination of bark rub, print, and track depth caught his attention. He followed it into dense undergrowth, half-kneeling, arms ahead, carefully exposing the trail. Regis kept in the background, knowing the concentrated expression on his friend's face. His own search for plants and herbs was forgotten.
Until Geralt's surprised "Oh," followed by a ghastly crack, which was followed by a loudly bleating bird, bursting out of the undergrowth with a violent flapping of wings.
For a very long heartbeat, Regis believed it was actually about this bird. His gaze searched the sky as if it somehow mattered what species, what color it was. A bird that Geralt had startled while rummaging around in the bushes. Then, in a split second, he realized that it wasn't about the animal. That Geralt had discovered something else there. Something not at all as peaceful and colorful as a small bird; but not entirely colorless: a small red trail now stretched towards Geralt's boots.
He sat bent over, quite still, right arm outstretched, the left instinctively pressed against the other's upper arm. Then Regis’ mind resumed as quickly as his heartbeat, and he dropped to his knees beside Geralt.
"What's there?" he asked quietly, looking at his friend inquiringly as his fingers approached the undergrowth to push it aside very carefully.
"Spring trap," Geralt pressed out between his teeth.
"Barbaric," was Regis' verdict, and now he could see the trap as well. His following words sounded almost analytical, although his mind and heart were racing. "Looks like the locals have already begun to take matters into their own hands."
And amazingly subtly – or, as Regis would put it much, much later, not without inconsiderable criminal energy. Someone had cleverly placed and camouflaged one of those ancient metal contraptions that had changed little for centuries (and were illegal in most areas) on the forest floor. From the angle at which Geralt had examined the trail, it had not been visible. An unfortunate coincidence, a single moment of carelessness had been enough, and he had reached right into it.
Many people believe that a leghold trap is only triggered when an animal steps into the iron plate in the middle, whereupon the brackets reinforced with teeth close. However, depending on the design, lighter touches are enough, which is why such traps are popular with poachers and for that reason are also forbidden. For Geralt, who detested any kind of trap, no great comfort: his forearm and part of his hand were caught. Pressed between the metal spikes, skin and muscles were torn open; blood stained the stirrups a rusty red and wetted the ground.
"Anything broken?" asked Geralt with more composure than seemed appropriate, which was perhaps due to a momentary shock. From such a one Regis now seemed to awaken also, and instantly he bent over the mishap, pushing aside branches and foliage and contemplating the calamity.
"Hard to say," he then commented, already purposefully looking for a way to open the trap. "First we have to stop the bleeding. Too bad you decided to go for the lumberjack look today of all days, Geralt."
The remark was absurd, as was the whole situation. In fact, Geralt had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as they had hiked, and even the cooling air of the approaching evening had done nothing to change that. Thus, however, the trap had been able to penetrate his skin perfectly without encountering any significant resistance – except perhaps bone, which neither man liked to think about at that moment.
Regis, meanwhile, had achieved the kind of bustling concentration that professional action demanded. Carrying a small first-aid kit in his backpack, he removed a packet of gauze bandages, wound it up, and looped it around Geralt's upper arm to tie off the artery.
"Do you have any idea how to open the trap?" he asked as he was working.
"Sure. You can’t."
"What do you mean you can't?"
"Look," Geralt replied in a slightly irritated voice, which didn't quite suit him (but there was quite the burning, pulling pain in his arm), "even two people have trouble opening a spring trap, even more so when the thing is anchored in the ground. Whoever did this wanted to catch a wolf at any cost, no matter if the trap also endangers other animals. Maximum damage, that was the point. You need experience to open the trap, strength and a lever. You won't be able to do it alone."
"All right, let's call for help," Regis returned.
He scanned his pockets for his smartphone, stared at it, shook it redundantly, held it aloft and snorted.
"No signal."
"There are mountains behind these woods, and there's not a cell tower around here for miles."
"All right, what do you suggest we do?" asked Regis, irritated, as he used the flashlight function on his phone to get a closer look at Geralt's wound in the growing dusk. "I can't bandage you up while you're in that thing, and you're starting to look a little pale to me, my good man."
"It's my natural skin color," Geralt said absently, which didn't necessarily improve the overall impression.
"There must be a way to open the trap. With a lever, you said."
"For one person alone..."
"With a lever," Regis affirmed, and Geralt sighed.
"If you can find a strong branch, or a long animal bone..."
"The branch seems more likely," Regis muttered, rising and beginning to rummage around in the undergrowth.
"Careful," Geralt warned, "I'm sure whoever did this didn't lay just one trap."
"Disturbing," his friend remarked. "Ah, look, a strong branch."
Geralt, who was having a hard time seeing anything from his kneeling position, looked skeptically at the thick branch Regis had pulled from a bush.
"That won’t work," he said stubbornly.
"It better," was Regis' firm reply. "Focus. What do I have to do? Tell me. Look at me, not your arm."
He hadn't missed his friend's increasingly unsteady gaze, nor the beads of sweat that by now stood on his brow. He knew Geralt, the guy was tough, but Regis hardly liked to imagine how painful this instrument of torture must be that had pierced the arm halfway. It might be easy for him to realistically assess the consequences – Geralt's circulation would soon have to compensate for the shock and blood loss if something wasn't done quickly. But watching it happen to his friend, of all people, still wasn't easy, never had been.
Regis snapped out of these thoughts and looked at Geralt promptly, even snapping his fingers briefly right in front of his face. This came as such a surprise that Geralt finally actually turned his gaze to him.
"You can't... just pull the trap apart," he said wearily. "You can try pushing it open with the lever. A crowbar would be better..."
"Well, we don't have that, do we?"
By now it had grown precariously darker; gray shimmered through the dense canopy of leaves high above them. Regis looked for a spot to set the branch, but it wasn't so easy. The principle of the trap was to snap shut in a split second, causing as much damage as possible to prevent the game from escaping. Geralt's forearm and most of his hand covered the plate of the trap. Distractedly, Regis remarked, "Tell me about these traps. Surely you know all about them."
"Hmm," Regis made as he tried to somehow squeeze his makeshift lever between the trap's teeth. "I wonder if people really caught many bears with that."
All the talk had the sole purpose of distracting Geralt, for with a jerk Regis suddenly began to squeeze. The involuntary movement caused Geralt to stiffen, and he let out a few juicy curses as the branch dragged against his trapped arm. A crunch sounded - the branch broke off. Stunned, Regis stared at it.
Regis tossed the broken piece into the darkness of the underbrush as he muttered, "A knife. Maybe a knife will do it? The most I have is a pair of scissors, but…"
"Regis," Geralt interrupted him with clearly more composure than either of them liked, "we have to do something. You have to do something. Dig out the trap, it shouldn't be very deep. Most of the time they use simple stakes, sometimes just tent pegs, check it out."
As if that was in some way a glimmer of hope, a jolt seemed to go through the other, and he began scanning the forest floor, using his phone as a light source. Suddenly, he paused.
"I've got it, I think. It’s... some kind of metal pin. But we can't get the trap open with it, Geralt."
"No."
Regis, who had been pulling as carefully as he could on the short but still very firm anchor, finally held the end of the trap almost helplessly in his hand and frowned.
"What do we do then?"
Geralt took a deep breath as he very slowly slid into a sitting position.
"The way I see it, we have three options. One, you go back as far as you can until you get reception again, the next road should be about ten miles to the west. Two, you tend to the wound as well as you can, and we go together."
"Geralt," Regis interrupted him, "you don't think I'm going to leave you here alone. I probably wouldn't reach the road until well after midnight, and even if my phone is working again before then, it takes forever for an ambulance to arrive out here... and you and I going that way is out of the question. Irresponsible."
"We've dealt with other things," Geralt reminded him gently, but also a little relentlessly.
In the darkness, barely interrupted by stars mostly obscured by fast-moving clouds, Regis' face was barely visible. His voice was calm and determined as he replied, "We're not that desperate yet. What's the third option?"
"You set up camp. There was a clearing a little ways behind us, remember? We'll make another run, I've got a hunting knife with me..."
"Why the hell did you..."
"We'll try opening that thing again, but it probably won't work. You tend to the wound as best you can, and we'll wait until morning. It's safer anyway. Then we'll see."
Geralt's now even paler face was barely visible, but Regis stared searchingly into the darkness, as if he wasn't sure if he'd missed anything.
"There were never three options, were there?" he asked. "You knew I wouldn't leave you alone."
"One and a half options," Geralt returned dryly. "I wasn't sure I could make the trip with a bear trap on my arm, and frankly, it hurts like hell. But a long time has already passed, it's dark, and it's too dangerous."
"Considering there may be wolves here, you might want to rethink your definition of dangerous."
"Honestly," Geralt sighed, "I'm afraid those are coyote tracks."
Setting up the tent in the darkness proved to be the easiest exercise – "A pop up-tent, who'd think of that?" remarked Regis, but was ultimately relieved that some protection was soon in place.
"Build a fire," Geralt suggested as he settled down in front of the tent. "It's not getting that cold yet, but..."
"...I'll scare off the coyotes with it, you mean?" sneered Regis gently.
"I was actually thinking more along the lines of needing some light. And visibility, unless you have a signal flare with you. It may be necessary to draw attention to ourselves tomorrow."
"What happens then, we'll figure out tomorrow," Regis muttered. "Building a fire. Good heavens, that must have been decades ago..."
That was true, but still, the procedures once learned were ingrained in Regis; automatisms that came from a time when such knowledge was stored away as a necessity, even for a future without need. Geralt had a lighter with him, the forest was dry, and so embers and flame were soon reached.
The clouds had dispersed. Stars shone down on the dark forest, which even at this hour was never perfectly quiet: the crackling of the fire was joined by occasional cracking and squeaking in the undergrowth. The rustic atmosphere could have been a nice ending to their outing; two older friends swapping stories around the campfire and reminiscing.
Had it not been for the fact that Geralt was sitting there a bit cramped with a bloody leghold iron on his arm. The heavy trap was now resting on the ground, which meant a less than comfortable position.
"The knife is in my backpack," he said, indicating it with a nod. "Try to hook the handle between the stirrups and push with your foot. Then you have to try to push the stirrups apart with your hands or feet."
"Sounds adventurous," Regis replied skeptically, finding the short hunting knife and weighing it thoughtfully in his hands.
"Doesn't always work with this kind of trap," were Geralt's less than uplifting words.
"I don't know. People always seemed decent to me here. This..."
"... is the response of decent people who feel threatened. You know that very well."
Regis gave him a quick look.
"Wolves don't mean a return to darker times."
"Tell that to the peasants," Geralt muttered.
Regis shook his head, applied the knife handle, and said, "If this works, you're going to have to pull your arm out of there very quickly."
The knife found a slightly better grip between the teeth of the trap than the branch had, and the solid metal handle probably wouldn't break right away. Regis tried the resistance of the stirrups with his free hand, but found it rather demotivating and stifled comments to that effect as he struggled to half-stand up and use his heel as additional leverage.
"Oh, that... I think this might work," he couldn't help but remark after all.
Geralt didn't reply, and Regis avoided looking at him so as not to break either of their concentration. A few curses later, after nearly losing his grip on the knife handle twice, he had pushed one of the stirrups open a tiny crack with his boot.
"Watch out," he snorted. "I'm playing acrobat now, pushing with the second foot like you said. As soon as the gap is big enough, you pull your arm out. Because if I slip..."
"You won't slip," Geralt interrupted him, not wanting to imagine the consequences – he had seen foxes get caught in such a trap and lose a leg due to the force of the impact.
Regis did not answer. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead, although the advancing night had brought them a light, cool breeze by now. The leaves of the trees around him rustled gently, a stark contrast to his own wildly beating heart.
Then everything happened very quickly. A story, as Regis would later point out almost gleefully, quite suitable for a campfire: the story of how he himself, in silly contortions, forcibly opened a leghold trap with a knife and a pair of sturdy boots (which had to be resoled afterward).
He didn't slip, and by a decent effort he actually managed to return the trap to its original state. The shackles opened completely and locked into place.
There was definitely some resistance: the teeth of the trap, which had partially bored into Geralt's skin, retracted with a sickening, smacking sound, and Geralt himself also made a noise that none of them would ever mention again. He grabbed his arm with his other hand before it could possibly fall back onto the plate, and was free.
"Damn it, fuck," he bellowed, startling the peaceful night.
"Well, if there were coyotes here, you drove them off," Regis replied dryly. "Now let's see."
Despite his brisk words, Regis noted, not without discomfort, that his hands, inspecting Geralt's wound, were trembling almost imperceptibly. It might be true that this activity, too, was one of those things that could not be forgotten or unlearned – but there were indeed memories that would better have been relegated very far into the personal chambers of memory. The calmness that was inherent in his being was now missing, as if all the tension of past events had been accumulated and was now trying to make room for itself, of all things.
Under copious further cursing from Geralt, who was at least distracted by it, Regis worked mechanically, but the occupation did not provide him with any reassurance.
"I'm afraid the hand is broken," he said, "I don't like it at all."
"Do you think I like it?" growled Geralt.
"I don't think you understand," Regis returned, rummaging through the meager contents of his first aid kit, "under these conditions the risk of infection increases, and without an x-ray it's impossible to tell exactly wherethe fracture is located, and if we have to wait this long for care..."
As if he had just talked himself into it now, Regis suddenly began to pray down various statistics, lamenting the lack of equipment and, moreover, the lack of adequate medical care.
"Regis," Geralt finally interrupted him, and if Regis had paid a little more attention to that moment, he would have noticed that his friend's voice contained a hint of discomfort along with all the determination. "Stop that and look at me."
Regis, who was busy disinfecting the numerous wounds left by the trap's teeth, looked up in irritation.
"We're waiting, yes, but we have medical supplies. You're a doctor. You know what to do."
"No," Regis breathed stubbornly.
Was it the glow of the fire or an unpleasant memory that made his eyes seem huge and shiny?
"No," he repeated. "It's behind me."
"It's behind both of us," Geralt countered in a gentle tone. "Everything we've done, everything we've given, everything we've lost. Who we've lost. Don't you think I would have replayed that night in my mind a thousand times? If I had been faster..."
"It wasn't your fault."
"But it wasn't yours either. A comrade died. Because there was a war, Regis. Not the first, not the last. You couldn't save her, but that doesn't mean you..."
"I swore to prevent harm to my patients, not to patch them up haphazardly so they'd run back into useless battles. How can I, how can anyone be a doctor under such circumstances?" cried Regis heatedly.
"Well, I guess it's like riding a bicycle."
"What?"
Seconds before, the air had been almost electric, but the remark seemed to make the palpable tension evaporate. All the same, there was something wild in Regis' gaze as he stared at Geralt. The latter calmly pointed to his arm with a nod of his head.
"Checked, cleaned, bandaged. All while you were upset."
Indeed, Regis had arranged all these things automatically, without thinking about it.
"First," he said pointedly, "I wasn't upset, and second, I need to splint your hand at least temporarily."
"Do that. But someday we should talk about it."
It was clear Geralt wasn't referring to his broken bone.
"This is not how I imagined spending this night," the words escaped Geralt after the two had finally settled in the tent by the light of a flashlight.
Regis had provisionally immobilized Geralt's hand with a shirt and a few layers of bandages, and had fashioned a simple sling from the rest of the gauze bandages to keep the arm steady. He insisted that Geralt take not only a few sips of water, but also some of the "special bottle," as he had winkingly called it – a flask filled with a brandy Regis had made himself. Geralt had the least objection to that, especially since Regis, with all foresight, had actually not brought any painkillers with him on the trip.
"Hmm," Regis went as he himself took a sip of his tart but at the moment extremely welcome alcohol, "what did you have in mind? Well, apart from maybe finding wolf tracks, of course. In that case, I guarantee we wouldn't be sitting here at this hour, but would probably be stumbling through the woods right now."
"That's not the worst way to spend an evening," Geralt muttered, averting his eyes.
"For you, perhaps. For my part, I wasn't exactly expecting to have to rescue my very dear friend from a spring trap, either."
Geralt's eyes shone strangely in the diffused light of the flashlight, which broke up on the tent ceiling and cast strange shadows.
"I'm glad you're here," he replied. "But I'm still wondering why."
"Why I suggested to accompany you? I mean, this business with the wolves has kept you very busy, Geralt, and..."
"No," Geralt interjected with a gesture he immediately regretted, having involuntarily used his arm in a sling, "not that. Although, you had no reason to suggest that, did you? As far as I remember, you're not interested in animals one bit. And you didn't pick up particularly many herbs along the way."
"Well, that's..." protested Regis, but Geralt raised his hand (the other one this time).
"Let me finish. After all these years, you show up like not a bit of time has passed. As if you and I didn't experience important things almost two decades ago. Well, maybe we didn’t, maybe they were only important to me, or painful, rather. Maybe you actually repressed all that well, but, Regis, I don't believe it. I know I said we should talk about it someday, but... it doesn't seem like you've been handling your loss very well."
"I didn’t, but that doesn't mean I want to talk about it now," Regis countered sharply. "I'm sorry if you feel I didn't respond appropriately. And from a professional standpoint, that's certainly true. But you can be sure that I haven't forgotten anything. I'm going to make sure you get through this night just fine."
"That's not what this is about," Geralt said in surprise. "I'm sorry I brought that up."
"It was about something else to you?" asked Regis, confused.
"Just forget it."
For a while, those coolly spoken words stood between them, as if they had cut into the tent wall and let in the cold night air. But there was no escape, and both realized that this was not the atmosphere that would serve their long and now rekindled friendship.
"We're stuck here," Regis finally broke the silence, "so there's no running away this time, from either of us."
He sought Geralt's gaze, but he stared at his sleeping bag as if trying to count its seams.
"So you do remember," he finally said quietly.
"What I remember is that you disappeared. After what happened to Milva..."
Regis faltered for a moment. They'd both avoided her name; even if it hadn't been spoken in years, the subject too painful. Without noticing it himself, he took a deep breath and continued.
"Well, anyway, as you know, the war was decided soon after, the battalion was disbanded, and whoever was left made their way home as fast as they could. But you, Geralt... you disappeared without a word, in the middle of the night. I believed for a long time that you blamed me. Hell, I blamed myself."
"What makes you think I..."
"I wasn't finished," Regis said quietly. "One reason I came here, of course, is because I was curious. When I heard you had found a domicile here, of all places. I wondered if you knew that I used to live here. I wondered if you had sought my proximity."
"I didn't know," Geralt replied.
Astonishment sounded in his voice. What was Regis getting at?
"I realized that then, too."
Regis began tugging at the straps of his own sleeping bag without speaking further. Something had changed; it was almost tangible now. Something was in the air. Behind all the open words, there were more things unspoken. Still, the silence was not uncomfortable. They listened to the sounds of the night for a while, as if they wanted to catch their breath for what absolutely had to be said. More than before, Geralt noticed how cramped the small tent was. The air he breathed condensed in small droplets on the tarp, and he was clearly aware of Regis' scent. A tart, pleasant blend of herbs that had always accompanied him, so much so that people asked him what aftershave he used. But that was simply him, often picking up plants in thought, in passing, and putting them in his pockets, where he often enough forgot about them. Regis had once claimed that he had discovered dried herbs in his pockets, which he must have put there half a year ago, and through which he had come up with the idea for a new tea mixture.
He liked to tell these little anecdotes, which you never knew for sure whether they were just made up to make the other person smile. He liked to talk, and he smelled good, and those two things wouldn't leave Geralt's mind. He exhaled, and the thoughts flowed down the tent with the drops, spinning in circles, making him dizzy.
"Geralt?"
Regis' eyes were suddenly close to his face, peering searchingly into his own, so dark and profound that Geralt had to take a deep breath.
"You should lie down."
That was Regis' doctor's voice, determined, no argument possible, and perhaps it was indeed better that way. Geralt let himself sink backwards. For a moment, it was as if he was actually falling into the bottomless pit, and it startled him enough that he found himself completely aware again. Regis shone the flashlight directly into his eyes and clicked his tongue. A typical Regis sound. He had missed it. Was it possible to miss a sound?
"Better now?"
Better. How was he supposed to answer that? Better than what? Better than fifteen years ago? Better than the moment Regis had first stood on his doorstep after all that time? It wasn't true that time healed all wounds. People like him, people like Regis, knew that. But Geralt also knew that Regis meant whatever had just come over him, that brief dizziness, that feeling that something was wrong. Something was literally wrong, but it had little to do with his arm. Or maybe it was all just mixing together – past, present, and a future that was so uncertain.
"I think so," he replied, and apparently that was the right answer, because Regis nodded and smiled.
"Your blood pressure has dropped a bit," he commented as he placed two cool fingers on Geralt's wrist, "it's not entirely unusual, but we should watch it a bit."
He slid Geralt's backpack under the latter’s feet, closed the sleeping bag, and generally fussed around in a way that was already getting to him.
"I'll be fine," Geralt said, a little brusquely perhaps.
"I'll be the judge of that," Regis returned calmly. "You‘ll rest now, and I'll go on with the story. For I was not yet finished. Where was I? Ah, yes. When I found you, when I just dropped by… well, you know you'd be a very bad poker player, Geralt? I knew right away that you didn't hold a grudge against me when you opened the door for me. That you probably never did, which means I was imagining things all these years. Basically, we almost picked up where we left off, didn't we? Only under better circumstances, in peacetime, without all the worries, and you with a home of your own... And yet. Yes, there was something else I'd like to find out."
"Regis," Geralt began, a little uncomfortably. He still had no idea where this conversation was going, only a vague suspicion that it had something to do with what he himself was hiding deep inside. Had Regis guessed the reason for his sudden disappearance at that time? And what it had meant? Geralt had no interest in sympathy. He could handle rejection. At least, that's what he believed. But then again, why had he left back then?
Regis interrupted him again, "What are you afraid of?"
Geralt stared at him, dumbfounded.
"What makes you think that?"
"You haven't exactly made it easy for me to find you all these years, have you? Don't look so surprised. You can't seriously have thought I wouldn't try. You and I were very close, Geralt. I was always discreet, of course, and you... well, you had a few girlfriends wherever we went. Your signals were always very inconsistent, maybe on purpose."
Geralt sat up jerkily, ignoring Regis' admonishing look.
"What the hell do you mean you were discreet? Do you mean there were rumors?"
To his astonishment, Regis gave a dry laugh.
"Geralt. I mean that in the environment we were in, I certainly wouldn't have blurted out that I prefer men."
Geralt's chest constricted, a short aching, though not quite as much as his head, which almost threatened to burst. He was hot and cold at the same time. He felt nauseous. He felt strange, and stupid at the same time.
"I had no idea," he muttered, and that was true.
He had had no idea. He had given away fifteen years. That realization must have read clearly on his face, because he saw a somewhat wistful expression on Regis' face.
"No. And I wasn't sure about you. Then you disappeared, and I wondered if it had to do with me. If something had happened that one night when we talked about leaving soon, too. When we talked about how hard it would be to return home, and when you said you didn't really know what home was. We sat there and looked up at the starry sky..."
"You said..." interjected Geralt, "you said everything was beautiful when lit properly."
Regis gave him a look.
"You remember that? Well, anyway, you made what I might call a highly stupid remark about it, and soon disappeared."
"I had thought you…"
"You thought I had so quickly put behind me what had happened? I would have repressed what losses we came out of it with? I don't want to believe that, Geralt."
Regis’ gaze was sharp, but also urgent; he demanded absolution as much as an explanation, which Geralt needed to provide urgently, badly. And he did.
"I suppose we should be honest," he said reluctantly, and all he could think was, fifteen years too late. "I had fallen in love, Regis. And I was confused. I didn't think it was right."
"Because I'm older than you?" asked Regis, puzzled.
"What, no. Because we were friends, you see? Because we were comrades. Because we were... in an environment where you don't confess these things. Especially not to another man."
"Oh, you'd be surprised," Regis replied with a thin grin.
"Regis! Did you hear what I said?"
Regis' grin widened.
"Of course I did. But did you understand what I told you before?"
They looked at each other, and realization shone in their eyes and hearts; an old yet new kind of fire, fueled by nostalgic regret and a spark of hope at the same time.
"Fifteen years," Geralt breathed, "How silly."
Regis shrugged.
"It's never too late. Not if you really want to. That's the reason I came back, Geralt. To find out if there was still something there. If I had found you, married to a beautiful woman – oh, I certainly thought you were – or maybe happy with another man, well, I would have been happy for you. Maybe I would have hoped that there would still be something left of our old friendship. But you still live like a lone wolf, forgive the comparison. And I ... have just been restless these past few years."
"As if something was missing," Geralt said thoughtfully, and his friend nodded.
"You always look for something in other people. I've never found it."
"I know what I'm looking for," Geralt said, now almost breathless from all the possibilities that suddenly opened up to him. There was no longer the thought of why he hadn't revealed himself fifteen years ago, or why Regis hadn't. "Home. Somehow that was always you. It’s you."
Regis reached for Geralt's healthy hand, held it tightly; warm and reliable as always, but also with a promise of sorts. A future.
"Well, I hope we'll have plenty of time to find out, dear. Your hand is very cold, by the way, and you should lie back down. I want you to sleep. Tomorrow morning..."
"You're seriously going to give me a cold shower like that now, after everything we just talked about?"
Regis’ laughter filled the small tent, a mixture of genuine joy and a hint of relief.
"Well, I expect you'll be fine tonight, though of course we'll have to be a little careful, the blood loss and your circulation..."
"Kiss me already."
Regis' eyes grew wide and dark as Geralt suddenly pulled him closer. It was too late for words, and they had probably long since been superfluous. Their lips met, and fifteen years were forgotten. Regis tasted of trust and desire, of everything Geralt had ever dreamed of, hoped for. Like the very first kiss, even after a thousand touches. But the uncertainty soon disappeared, and as Regis pushed him back to the floor and lay beside him, never letting go of his lips, his tongue, all his thoughts vanished, fled from his mind like the years gone by.
Geralt awoke in the darkest hour, that almost magical time between night and dawn, when all worries are greater and all fears stronger. It was no wonder that for a moment he stared in confusion into the darkness, looking at the body lying next to him as if he were still in the middle of a dream. But this was no dream, this was the familiar face, completely relaxed in sleep, a slight smile on the lips he had felt on his. Not a dream, but still somehow unreal.
As unreal as the movement on the right, outside the tent, which he only noticed out of the corner of his eye, it was gone as quickly as it came. A soft tap, perhaps, a rustle, and very briefly only the vague, dark silhouette of an animal. Geralt closed his eyes again, convinced that all of this was a dream after all, and yet relieved when he realized in the first light of morning, later, that the man next to him was very real.
Did he find wolf tracks outside the tent? Perhaps, but an inexperienced walker (or an angry farmer) could easily mistake them for those of coyotes. When Regis poked his head out of the tent and began to gently rebuke him, in a mixture of his doctor's voice and the same tender tone he had used the previous night, he made no mention of the tracks. Geralt realized that whatever came, he would not face it alone because he did not have to. The fears of the inhabitants were not so important at that moment.
ok so I went inactive for what a week or so, I have nearly a hundred drafts piled up again, but part of the reality is half of them are Arcane-related and I feel like I can't reblog any of that without first making my own personal opinions and stance on that story/series/show clear, and then some of it is simply never going to see the light of day.
also like. I have two jobs and I'm working on an art portfolio and I stream regularly and I play games with my friends and spend time with my family and that just means I can't be consistent with Tumblr. which is fine because I mostly use Tumblr to look at fanart, read the occasional fiction, and see funny shit happen every so often
that said hi I'm gonna try and get some of these drafts out and maybe in the future I'll learn to stop hitting "save to drafts" instead of "queue" or "reblog"
and also at some point when I have the motivation and time of day at the same time I'll sit down and talk about Arcane again.
