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The best part about getting to Vergen was definitely the bath. Skalen had shown Geralt to a small bathhouse near the inn when Geralt asked and in no time at all Geralt found his way there. After Everything in Flotsam, two days on the barge and fighting a seemingly endless swarm of wraiths, taking off his armor and getting into hot water felt incredible.
Some of the burns not yet fully healed from his memorable departure from Flotsam twinged a little, but Geralt was happy to ignore them in favor of enjoying his first real bath in a long time.
He’d been soaking for a while when he heard someone enter the room. By now he recognized the fall of Iorveth’s steps – heavy, except when he wanted to go unseen and became nigh silent even to Geralt.
He was silent now. Geralt kept his eyes closed and gave him the chance to leave just as silently, if it was solitude he was looking for.
“Geralt,” Iorveth broke the silence. Not looking to get away, then, even after days of Geralt’s company.
“Iorveth.”
“I thought you were going straight to sleep.” It sounded a bit like a question without going so far as to ask what Geralt was doing here. “The bed not to your liking?”
“It’s a bed,” Geralt said. It had seemed completely serviceable in the two whole minutes Geralt had spent in his room before coming here. He could take it or leave it, though. He’d slept worse places than dry level ground, even in his limited memory.
“Yet here you are.”
Geralt didn’t feel like explaining and instead listened to the quiet sounds of Iorveth undressing. Some curiosity broke through the haze of tired relaxation, but he kept his eyes closed and well away from Iorveth. He didn’t think they were quite at the point of trusting each other enough to bathe together, but then Iorveth had trusted him quite a lot more than that not too long after meeting him.
“Getting yourself more presentable for those nobles?”
Iorveth scoffed and the next piece of his armor hit the ground with more force.
“Think they’ll agree to your help?” What Geralt really wanted to know was why Iorveth was offering, but he didn’t think he’d get a straight answer, if he were to ask. Why any humans, and why these humans in particular?
“They will do whatever Saskia wants them to do.” Iorveth sounded unconcerned.
That was another mystery Geralt didn’t think he’d get an answer to – Iorveth’s faith in the lead of a human. Getting enamored with her attempts at having everyone be equal seemed far too peaceful and idealistic for Iorveth. Before getting here and finding out who exactly the Scoia’tael were supporting, Geralt would have sworn Iorveth would murder anyone saying he was equal to humans.
On the other hand, Saskia didn’t seem afraid of going to war. Maybe Iorveth was all too ready to get idealistic, as long as he could spill blood for those ideals.
“Move,” Iorveth said and startled Geralt into finally looking. He was sitting down into the water already by the time Geralt’s eyes focused on him. He was close enough that Geralt did have to shift to the side to give him room and one of Iorveth’s calves still ended up resting on Geralt’s knee.
The stone pool wasn’t that small. Geralt wasn’t saying anything about it, though, if Iorveth felt like sitting on top of him. Hmm, bad choice of words. That was a thought he could have done without when naked and right next to Iorveth.
Or maybe his thoughts were on the same path as Iorveth’s, who was looking Geralt over shamelessly. Even this Geralt couldn’t quite interpret – Iorveth’s gaze was balancing between lewd and simply curious, tracing all of Geralt’s scars with the ease of someone well acquainted to getting injured.
The scars on Iorveth’s body were fainter than on Geralt’s and made by blades more than teeth and claws, but he had about the same number of them. The tattoo vines distracted Geralt from counting Iorveth’s battle-scars. He did his best to look up and not trace them where they continued as a dark shadow under the water.
Iorveth was lounging against the side of the pool with the posture of someone sitting on a throne. He was done inspecting Geralt and instead was frowning in the manner that Geralt was convinced was his most neutral expression.
“The sorceress isn’t here, nor is Letho.”
“I’ve noticed,” Geralt said and bit his own tongue to say nothing about Iorveth bringing it up.
“Yet here you are, offering Saskia your help.”
“Pretty sure she volunteered me without asking.” Or had it been Iorveth who volunteered him by bringing Geralt along? One Let’s go, Geralt and here he was, planning a war. Maybe by leaving Flotsam with him, Geralt had already unknowingly volunteered his services to whatever Iorveth was planning.
“But you mean to help her,” Iorveth pressed, his voice a question and a threat. His stare was daring Geralt to say otherwise.
“Why not,” Geralt said with a shrug and his decades honed indifference in the face of being threatened. “My friends are here.”
“The friends you can’t remember. I didn’t take you for the selfless kind.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at the mocking in Iorveth’s voice. If Iorveth wasn’t going to explain his own sudden devotion to this cause, neither was Geralt.
When it became clear Iorveth wasn’t going to threaten Geralt in truth, Geralt once again closed his eyes and rested his head back against the edge of the pool. He didn’t have to worry about his eyes straying any more, but the lack of distraction meant he could feel every faint current in the water from Iorveth moving, from him breathing. The place where their legs were touching felt as if some continuous magic were pulling all of Geralt’s sense of touch to that one point of contact.
Iorveth didn’t even pretend the way his hand landed on Geralt’s upper arm was accidental when he stretched his hands along the sides of the pool.
Geralt stayed still as Iorveth’s fingers traced his shoulder and stopped at one of the lingering burns. For a few moments he mapped the edges of the welt. Then he pressed on it and Geralt couldn’t contain a sound of pain. It might have sounded very similar to a moan.
After a pause Iorveth pressed on it again and Geralt put his hand on Iorveth’s leg with a growl of warning. It was enough to make him stop poking at Geralt’s wounds, but it didn’t completely discourage him from touching.
As Iorveth’s fingers kept travelling up Geralt’s shoulder and neck, Geralt focused on keeping his breaths even. He wasn’t sure where this was going. Well, he was pretty sure what it was doing to him. Iorveth’s reasons, though, were an ever increasing mystery.
Slowly Iorveth sank his fingers into Geralt’s hair, nails scratching Geralt’s scalp lightly. It was enough to break Geralt’s stillness and make him exhale sharply.
The next moment Iorveth’s hand in his hair tightened and pulled firmly enough that Geralt chose to move instead of fighting Iorveth on it. Iorveth pulled until Geralt’s back was to him, his legs brushing against Geralt’s hips.
“Let me get your hair,” Iorveth said, voice some approximation of sweet that from Iorveth sounded like mockery. His fingers were gentle against Geralt’s head again, however, smoothing away the tingling from the earlier roughness.
“Who’s being selfless now?” Geralt grumbled. He didn’t manage to sound very displeased, though, and tilted his head back into Iorveth’s touch. It was maddening and soothing at the same time like everything else about Iorveth. It felt like something Geralt was going to give in to.
“How little you know me, witcher.” Iorveth leaned loser until his lips brushed Geralt’s ear as he spoke. “I’m never selfless.” It sounded like a lie to Geralt, but one he was willing to leave be.
Instead he leaned back against Iorveth, so very willing to play Iorveth’s game, whatever it was.
Iorveth did wash Geralt’s hair and he took his time about it. Only when Geralt was thoroughly convinced he’d for the first time in his life come from his head being touched, did Iorveth press his lips to the back of Geralt’s neck.
Iorveth’s kisses were just as maddening and soothing as the rest of him.