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After everything, after battling the Beast of Beauclair and coming out with—well, not a win, but a truce of sorts—after settling down at Corvo Bianco, Geralt discovered that he was quite enjoying the life of retirement.
He spent long days tending to the herb garden, taking Roach out for exercise, experimenting in the alchemical lab in his cellar. B.B. helped him pick out varieties of grapes to plant for winemaking in the autumn, so Geralt didn’t have to rely on contracts for an income as he had his entire life. It was nice, putting down roots, settling down. Yen, Dandelion, and Ciri even came to visit every so often.
But most of all, Geralt was bored.
He spent the first few months after the Night of the Long Fangs trying to distract himself from his failure to protect Syanna. He took on every contract he could find—everything from slyzards nesting on Mount Gorgon, to drowners settling in the sewers.
He worked so hard, in fact, that pretty soon, there were no more monsters left to hunt. At first he couldn’t believe it—scoured the land, in fact, hoping for something to show up. Soon after, though, he was forced to accept that Toussaint had no more use for him, and he turned his attention to home.
But now he was bored beyond belief, the monotony of maintaining a vineyard absolutely mind-numbing. The only light in his life was Regis’ occasional visits, when he could spare a couple of hours free from tending to Detlaff.
Which was why he was in such a good mood this morning—Regis was coming over, and they would be spending the day together.
He heard the knock at his door at precisely ten—right on time. “Regis,” he greeted warmly as he opened the door.
“Ah, Geralt. Good to see you, my friend,” Regis said easily, stepping inside and pulling Geralt into a hug, which Geralt returned warmly.
“You’re looking good,” Geralt commented—and Regis did, for a recently-regenerated higher vampire who was in the process of regenerating another higher vampire.
“Oh, don’t flatter me. I’m sure I look a fright,” Regis said, scratching at his chin, which had started to grow stubble. Geralt wasn’t even aware vampires could grow stubble.
“Nah, no worse than I do,” Geralt said, stroking his own beard self-consciously. It had perhaps been too long since he’d visited the barber—it was approaching ‘mountain hermit’ rather than the normal close shave he preferred.
“Ah, I will admit, I was wondering when you’d decided to grow your beard out. Evidently it was less of a choice and more an accident?”
Geralt huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, more or less.”
“Well, I will remind you, I am still a barber-surgeon. If you’re amenable, I could offer my services?”
“Hmm. Not a bad idea,” Geralt mused. “Where should we do this?”
“I noticed you have a rather lovely chaise on top of the hill—the lighting would be good there, as well.”
“Oh, yeah, Yen likes to hang out there. I’ll grab a bucket of water and soap and meet you there?”
“Perfect,” Regis answered.
Geralt gathered the soap and water, heating it with a quick blast of Igni, and hiked the short ways up the hill, where Regis had laid out a towel and razor in preparation. “Me first, or you first?” Geralt asked, setting the bucket and soap down.
“I can shave you first, since it’ll take longer,” Regis decided, motioning to the chaise, and Geralt removed his shirt and lay down, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight. Regis was one of few people he would allow near him so unguarded with a blade in hand—and Geralt marveled for the thousandth time how stunning it was that he had gone from trusting no one in this world except for the other Wolves, to expanding his social circle to so many—Dandelion first, then Yennefer, then Ciri, and little by little, the people of the Continent welcomed him wherever he went, until he could call an entire host of people his friends.
It was a heartwarming thought. He’d never thought he could have this—a quiet retirement with visits from friends, slow days in the sunshine, nothing pressing at him, nothing to worry about except whether or not he needed a shave.
He came back to the present when he heard Regis lathering up the soap in his hands, gently applying it to Geralt’s cheeks and chin moments later. He hummed in appreciation.
“I haven’t even started yet, my friend,” Regis laughed.
“I know. Still nice,” Geralt answered, then fell silent as Regis carefully yet skillfully applied the razor.
His beard came off in slow, smooth drags, leaving behind a faintly prickly feeling—but nothing like the itching he had subconsciously felt before. This close, he could feel Regis’ breath mingling with his own, every place where his slender fingers touched like tiny points of warmth. He shivered.
“Everything alright?” Regis murmured, dragging the razor across his upper lip, then lifting it away to allow Geralt to speak.
“Fine. Sorry.”
“It’s quite alright. I just don’t want to cut you.”
“Hmm, yeah, blood. Not good,” Geralt joked.
“Oh, Geralt, please. You must know I would never—” Regis rushed to assure him, looking anxious.
Geralt held up a hand to stop him. “No, sorry, of course I know. Bad joke.” Especially after Tesham Mutna and the horrors they had seen there.
“Of course,” Regis said softly, and after a moment’s pause, returned to shaving Geralt. He basked in the attention, like a cat in a sunbeam, blinking open his eyes lazily when Regis patted the remaining soap off with a wet towel.
“Hi,” he said stupidly, staring deep into Regis’ dark eyes.
“Hello,” Regis replied, a quirk to his lips. “It passes muster, I hope?”
Geralt nodded, not even needing to see it. He trusted Regis, intimately—moreso than a simple shave, even. “Your turn, then?”
“Gladly,” Regis said, stepping aside so that they could trade places. Regis, however, kept his tunic and vest on. Geralt would’ve loved to see more, but understood that Regis wasn’t quite comfortable with that yet—was insecure about his body in the wake of regenerating—and Geralt would never ask unless he knew Regis would be completely comfortable and willing.
Geralt was no master barber like Regis, but he did know his way around a blade. He was utterly careful in his shaving, even though he knew it would take far more than a straight razor to hurt a higher vampire. But it was about the trust, the intimacy of the motion, that made it such a heady, heart-pounding experience.
Regis was a model patient, keeping completely still the entire time—so still, in fact, that had it not been for the slight rise and fall of Regis’ willed breaths, he wouldn’t have looked out of place in a crypt.
It was over sooner than Geralt would have liked, since Regis had had far less of a beard then Geralt. Reluctantly, Geralt rinsed the razor off and patted Regis’ face dry, staring perhaps far too obviously at Regis’ lips.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to want—he had wanted Regis forever, it seemed, but they’d always been too busy in the past, and then Regis had been dead, and then with that whole mess of a contract…
Well, Geralt wanted, was the point, but he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he actually had the time and opportunity to do something about it.
He wasn’t lucky (or unlucky) enough to get away with it unnoticed. He lowered the towel, keeping it balled in his lap, head bowed, until he felt gentle fingers lifting his face. He allowed it, meeting Regis’ depthless eyes.
The emotion he saw swirling there took his breath away. “Geralt,” Regis said softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Geralt deflected, swallowing against a suddenly too-dry throat.
“My dear friend, you truly must think little of me if you think that I cannot tell when something is troubling you.”
“It’s—really, it’s nothing,” Geralt tried again.
“If you don’t wish to tell me, that’s alright. I only wish to help.”
Geralt shook his head helplessly. “I trust you, Regis, of course I do, but…”
“But what?” Regis breathed.
“I don’t want to ruin this. Ruin us,” Geralt finished lamely. There, it was out in the open, now, or as close as it was going to get, anyway.
“I don’t mean to presume, but Geralt, are you saying that perhaps you wish to…how to put it…expand our friendship?” Regis asked, lowering his hands to set them on top of Geralt’s.
Geralt looked down, ears burning, and nodded.
“Oh,” Regis said softly. “Oh, my dear.”
Fuck, Geralt had fucked everything up. Regis didn’t feel the same—felt surprised and repulsed, actually—and now Geralt needed to just go crawl in a hole and die before the embarrassment swallowed him whole. He made as if to get up, but Regis’ surprisingly forceful grip on his hands kept him in place.
“No, Geralt, wait. I apologize. That wasn’t an appropriate reaction at all, nor was it indicative of my feelings. I would be delighted to explore this with you.”
“Really?” Geralt didn’t mean to sound like an uncertain teenager, but he certainly felt like one—heart pounding too fast in his ears, palms sweaty.
“Yes, my dear,” Regis said, and then, slowly telegraphing his moves, giving Geralt plenty of time to pull back, pulled him into a kiss.
It was slow, unhurried, two old friends-turned-more relearning each other in an entirely new way. The way it all slotted together felt perfectly fitting, somehow, for this new stage of life Geralt had entered: unfamiliar, and yet inexplicably like home.
Geralt couldn’t wait for more.