Chapter Text
The sound of the engine rips through the night air, reverberating in the surrounding stillness. Geralt rolls off the throttle and downshifts, guiding his Babiyetza ZX-900 down the twisting, speed bump laden streets of the planned community of Castel Graupian. As bustling as the nearby Imperial campus is, this subdivision always seems to be unusually quiet. That’s probably why Regis likes it, though.
Eyes settling on the little townhouse near the end of the cul-de-sac, Geralt takes a deep breath as he cuts the acceleration and coasts into the driveway.
Before he even has the kickstand up, he hears the front door open, and he smiles; apparently he’s not the only anxious one.
Stepping away from the bike, he turns back toward the house and holy shit.
A three piece suit might look dated on anyone else, perhaps even moreso with a cravat. But somehow, the ensemble looks stunningly modern on Regis. In fact, he simply looks stunning, full-stop. Geralt is far from a fashion expert, but the suit is obviously bespoke, hugging Regis’s body in a way that’s practically criminal, the particular seductive geometry of his figure exposed by the crisp charcoal fabric.
It’s not that Regis has ever looked unattractive when Geralt has spotted him on campus, on the way to his office or some lecture hall, but it’s a far cry from the philosophy professor’s typical attire of earth-toned sweaters and tweed blazers.
(Fuck, where did all the air go?)
Adjusting the drape of his mist grey overcoat on his shoulders, Regis descends the stairs to the driveway, throwing Geralt a look that’s… well, ‘suggestive' doesn’t really begin to cover it.
“Hey,” Geralt manages, about twelve separate emotions crammed into a single gravelly syllable.
“Evening,” Regis answers, a cat-like grin curling on his lips.
“You look—”
“—yes—” Regis’s gaze lands on Geralt’s chest, then creeps unsubtly up to his clavicle, just peeping out above the hem of his soft slate colored t-shirt.
“That is to say,” Regis corrects himself, dragging his attention back to Geralt’s face, “so do you.”
A tiny point of warmth flares in Geralt’s chest. Regis—his date, gods, he’s going on a date with Regis—likes how he looks.
“Are we…” Geralt crosses his arms and leans against the bike, eyes flicking away momentarily. He huffs a laugh. “Are we doing this?”
Regis barely raises his eyebrows, doesn’t stop smiling. “Finding yourself plagued by second thoughts?” He’s the epitome of calm; it’s not really a question—there’s a lingering hunger in their stares even now—but it doesn’t stop Geralt from jumping in to clarify.
“No,” he says firmly. “Gods, no. Just. I didn’t think… we’d ever actually…”
He hooks his thumbs in his jeans pockets.
“It’s been a long time,” he says finally.
Regis nods, sadness creeping into his expression. “I feel confident we can make up for any lost opportunities.”
Geralt stifles a wince. They have a lot to discuss.
“Well,” Regis injects some brightness back into his tone. “Where are we off to?”
“I was thinking Nilfburger drive-through,” and Geralt can’t help but grin when he says it.
“Oh, please,” Regis rolls his eyes. “Even you’re not that uncouth.”
Geralt chuckles, absolutely unable to keep up the ruse.
“We’ve got a 7:25 reservation for Tsuri.”
Regis’s eyes go wide. “That’s quite an achievement. How’d you manage it?”
“I got a guy,” Geralt shrugs. His clients sometimes paying him in trade and favors isn’t all bad.
“Are you thinking omakase?” Regis asks.
Geralt scowls playfully. “How the hell else do you eat sushi?”
That earns him a laugh from Regis.
“Ah, an expert on Hanni cuisine. Showing off your hidden depths? This early in the evening? My, my, aren’t we eager.”
“You have no idea,” Geralt growls before he can stop himself. He stands and cocks his head toward the bike—his Roach, as he thinks of her fondly. “Ready?”
Regis’s face falls, as if he’s noticing the bike for the first time, or at least, only now realizing what it implies for him. “You mean—?”
Geralt frowns. “I can get us a Portal if you want,” he says the rideshare app’s name like it’s a disease, reaching for the cell phone in his jacket pocket.
“No, no,” Regis gestures as he dismisses the suggestion—though not without sending something like a pout in Geralt’s direction. “I’m going to get mussed, you realize.”
“Maybe,” Geralt smiles, taking his time straddling the bike, “that was part of my plan.” He raises the kickstand and nods to the space behind him invitingly. “I like you mussed.”
Regis shuts his mouth, which had somehow been left hanging open fractionally. He shrugs his arms into his overcoat, and, body tensing in dread, he swings a leg over the back of the bike. Geralt reaches back, touching the top of Regis’s thigh softly, explaining how to sit, where he should place his feet.
Little sighs—practically hisses—of irritation escape Regis as he settles into place, tucking his knees up and finding his balance. Finally, he winds his arms around Geralt’s midsection, squeezing tightly. Geralt feels the professor relax slightly, burying his nose in Geralt’s hair and drawing a deep, calming breath.
“If you wanted me to put my arms around you,“ Regis whispers wryly, “you merely had to ask.”