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Regis stokes the hearth, gloved hand reaching directly into the flames. Geralt watches, silent, leaning against the fireplace, gold eyes drawn to the flash of pale skin swallowed by the fire.
Regis does not burn, is not consumed by the fire sparked into existence by Geralt’s own Igni. He rises and dusts off his hands of soot, sporting a pleased smile. “Now, show me the tome you found.”
Geralt hands over the book, lips pulled into a thin line. It was heavy, around two thousand pages, but Regis holds the fraying tome easily, delicately, with the same reverence one might hold a newborn.
The vampire settles neatly into the armchair, crossing his legs. He skims the first few pages, mouthing out the words silently. Minutes pass as Regis becomes transfixed by the tome, eyes jumping from word to word without pause. Eventually, Geralt grabs a bottle and two glasses from the kitchen, placing them onto the circular table beside the reading vampire. He takes a seat in the armchair beside Regis, pouring red wine into both glasses.
The aroma pulls Regis into the present, nostrils flaring at the scent of alcohol. “A nightcap? You know those are always hard to refuse.”
Geralt nods, taking a long drought of his own drink. It doesn’t take long for him to finish the glass. He pours another as he listens to Regis talk, hands gesticulating wildly.
“You’ve found quite an interesting piece of vampiric history, Geralt. I believe it was penned by one of the original elders thrust into this world during the Conjunction of Spheres. This is only one of many volumes of their life, as you might expect from an effectively immortal creature. Fortunately, you found the first volume. It would explain why it’s written entirely in the vampiric tongue. There aren’t too many tomes written in this language; I must admit I’m much better at speaking it than reading, given the lack of resources. But, overall, with enough time, I could pen an entire translation in common tongue, if you wish to read it. I believe there are even a few passages about the formation of the witcher class, something worth studying, I’m sure.”
Geralt nods again, placing the empty wine glass onto the table. He can’t bring himself to look directly at Regis. Not when flashes of Regis, a melted column in the middle of a crumbling castle, continue to plague his mind. Not when he imagines Regis thrashing in a suspended cage, howls of pain and bloodlust echoing deep in his marrow. Not when he thinks about all the pain Regis has gone through from simply being in his company—about all the pain he may still face.
Regis’ brows furrow in worry. “Is something wrong? Your silence is heavier than usual.”
The witcher snorts despite himself. “What, you can read my silences now?”
“Certainly,” Regis starts, searching Geralt’s face. “I’ve been your friend long enough to know the telltale differences of your moods—that is, when you are silent because you are tired, you simply do not wish to speak, or you are brooding over some weighty event.”
“I don’t brood,” Geralt says, crossing his arms.
“And I’m not over four-hundred years old. Please, Geralt, spare me your attempts at hiding your emotions.” Regis closes the book, letting the pages fall shut with a thud. “Furthermore, you are obviously upset. I can practically taste the cortisol wafting from you.”
“That’s a creepy way to say you can sense changes in my hormones, Regis.”
“We’ve already had this discussion back at my crypt. Minute changes in blood composition, whether they are in other vampires or humans, come with a change in scent. Your chemical structure is different from a higher vampire’s, but not as different as you might think. Your levels of cortisol and testosterone have increased while your oxytocin level has decreased, meaning, in layman’s terms, that your blood right now is a chemical cocktail of sadness and worry.”
Geralt rises to his feet, fixing as harsh a glare as he can muster at the vampire. It still hurts to look at him, but the witcher grinds his teeth and bears it, stance rigid. “I think you should leave.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Regis—“
“You can confide in me, Geralt. You’ve seen me at my lowest multiple times, in fact. You’ve even given me your blood, a gift I don’t think you realize the enormity of. So, let me help you this time,” Regis interrupts, also rising to his feet. He leaves the book on the armchair, approaching Geralt in the same way one might approach a cornered animal.
Geralt takes a step back. “That’s the problem. You keep helping me. You keep getting hurt because of me. Regis, you died because of me. If Dettlaff hadn’t found you…” the witcher trails, clenching his jaw. He hates the way his heart feels, as if it’s been skewered by a fiend’s antlers. The years of guilt, all of it, crush his chest in a single moment, swallowing whatever else he had wanted to say.
The pain travels to his bad knee, nearly sending him buckling to the floor if not for Regis’ sudden appearance at his side, hands at his shoulders to keep him upright. The warm weather of Toussaint had been good for his previous injuries, had made the phantoms of pain near non-existence, only a brief twinge if he spun too quickly in battle or didn’t dismount from Roach carefully.
Regis, ever the healer, guides Geralt as gently as he can to the armchair. He knows of the witcher’s pain, had seen the scars he never should have survived—the scar tissue at his chest, the pink, raised lines from the striga’s claws that marred his neck. He was a patchwork of death, a testimony to what the human body could endure.
“I’m fine, Regis. You don’t need to fuss over me,” Geralt says when Regis stoops down and begins to do his examination of the witcher’s knee. The witcher lets out a hiss of pain as Regis’ fingers press against his patella, causing the vampire to frown. In apology, he rubs a comforting circle just above Geralt's kneecap.
“If I don’t, who will? You may be a witcher, but you’re also human and breakable. Fussing over you, as you call it, gives me some peace of mind. Not to mention that you apparently still feel guilt over things beyond your control. It was my choice to follow you, Geralt, not anyone else’s. And I’d do it all again.”
“…Why?" Geralt finally asks, dizzy from the sharp pain that erupts at the slightest movement of his knee. He wants to lie in his bed in the dark, to sleep away the pain as he’d done many times before. But Regis is here, tending to whatever ghosts plague him, and despite everything he’s said, he doesn’t want him to leave. He never really does.
Regis remains quiet for some time, kneeling before Geralt. The words he wants to say are at the tip of his tongue, but he knows that the second he says them aloud, their dynamic will change. Fear grips him briefly at the thought of the witcher disappearing, of leaving Regis to stew in his one-sided attraction. But, he’d hid his feelings long enough; Geralt deserved an honest answer.
“Because I care deeply for you, Geralt. More than I think you realize.”
“Do you mean you…” Geralt struggles for the word, its concept still somewhat foreign to him. He still couldn’t believe that anyone could truly care about him, that someone could want him in his entirety, despite his mutations, despite the blood he’d spilled, despite everything that marked him as too broken to love or be loved in return.
“Yes. I’ve loved you for awhile now. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but even higher vampires experience fear. I did not want our relationship to… suffer. I can leave now, if you wish. I won’t bother you any longer.“
As Regis moves to stand, he feels Geralt grasp his wrist, pulling him forward. He braces his free hand on the armrest to keep himself from tumbling into the man’s lap, dark eyes wide in shock. The vampire is cautious as he hovers between Geralt’s knees, an admonishment for so recklessly pulling him down and potentially hurting himself through the stunt dying on his lips as Geralt cups the nape of his neck, bringing Regis’ face closer.
“The feeling’s mutual, you know. I think… I think that’s why I’ve been having trouble working all this out—my thoughts, I mean. It wasn’t just guilt over having a friend die for me. It was losing you, not seeing you, not being able to talk with you, not having you by my side—it killed me. I never want to lose you again.”
“You won’t. I swear it.” Regis affirms, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s. For a moment, they both close their eyes, basking in each other’s presence, in the closeness that they both never thought possible.
When Regis pulls away far enough to study Geralt’s face, he gives a fanged grin, teeth exposed, unable to hide his happiness. The vampire notices the way Geralt’s pupils dilate at the sight of his teeth and he chuckles, surging forward to kiss the man.
Geralt responds eagerly, threading his fingers into Regis’ hair as the vampire settles into his lap, careful to not jostle his knee. Regis leans into the touch, into the warmth and scent that he had yearned for, memories flooding through him.
He remembers their first meeting, of seeing a man with gold eyes and milk-white hair, two swords strapped to his back. He knew Geralt was a witcher—and yet, he pursued a friendship. Risked it all, revealed his true nature as a higher vampire, ended up with Geralt’s sword pointed at his throat, and regretted none of it. How could he? Not when the witcher was alive, heart beating steadily in his chest, blood circulating through his body, corporeal and brimming with life. Everything he did to keep the hansa safe wasn’t for naught, as Geralt was here, kissing him, silencing the demons of his past that said he didn’t deserve love.
Regis kisses back with a fervor akin to bloodlust, wanting nothing more than to melt into Geralt’s hold, to drown in the feeling of the witcher underneath him. Years of longing, of holding himself back, disappear as he trails kisses down Geralt’s jaw, nipping lightly at his throat.
Geralt’s breath hitches in return at the teasing scrape of fangs against his skin, tightening his grip of Regis’ hair. He pulls the vampire back up so he can kiss his lips, intertwining their fingers. Geralt continues to kiss Regis, returning the favor by pressing his teeth against the hollow of Regis’ throat, eliciting a low growl from the man.
“So vampires like being bitten too. Interesting…” Geralt trails, lips pulled into a smirk.
“My dear, there are many things I like,” Regis purrs, cupping Geralt’s cheek with his free hand. His eyes were completely black, pupils blown wide, his gaze sending a shiver down Geralt’s back. “But we’ll have plenty of time to indulge in them. No need to rush.”
Whatever witty reply Geralt has dissolves from his mind as Regis kisses him again, fangs tugging at his lips. He never presses down hard enough to draw blood, but Geralt groans all the same, losing himself to the feeling. His thoughts are only about Regis, about making up for lost time.
At some point, a sort of lethargy seeps into Geralt’s bones, lulled to a peaceful state of bliss with the warmth of the fire and Regis on top of him. He yawns without meaning to, pressing his face into the crook of Regis’ neck.
“Tired already? My, my, someone’s growing old,” Regis teased, untangling himself from the witcher despite Geralt’s groan of protest.
“You’re one to talk, considering you’re four times older than me.”
“And yet I’m still full of vigor. Come now, let’s retire to your room.”
“Probably thanks to my blood…” Geralt mutters, letting Regis lead him to his room, fingers still entwined.
Geralt falls asleep the moment he rests his head on Regis’ chest, lips pulled into a soft smile. In sleep, he looked younger, no longer burdened by the weight of past horrors. The vampire sought to commit the memory to heart, knowing that seeing Geralt unguarded was a rarity, a gift only he was privy to.
Regis continues to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, fondly recalling when he fell asleep beside Geralt in the crypt. Even after giving his blood, Geralt still humored him then, letting him sleep with his head lolled against the witcher’s shoulder. It had warmed the vampire’s heart.
“Goodnight, Geralt. I’ll be here when you wake. Always.”