Work Text:
Novigrad. The 24th. Meet me in the markets.
There’s no signature on the scrap of parchment, no written one, anyway, but Yennefer would know the traces of Triss’s particular brand of chaos anywhere.
She and Triss have been tiptoeing towards something--something more than friends, something not quite lovers--for years now, but this, this invitation to meet in a place where neither of them live? It is an escalation, and a blatant one, and Yennefer feels a twinge deep in her chest at the boldness of the gesture, a long-forgotten place that thrills with the prospect of being courted. For all her decades, she suddenly feels young, young in a way she never was, and the idea terrifies her as much as it excites her.
Triss sees her, sees her like no one else does, and Yennefer has the fleeting thought I can’t, I shouldn’t, I musn’t. For a moment, she indulges the notion of running, of hiding behind all of her great walls, of scrawling no, I’m sorry, no in reply. It leaves her feeling cold, so cold, so different from how Triss always makes her feel so very warm and comforted, and no, no, she is Yennefer of Vengerberg and she will not run, she will not hide. She holds her head up high, squares her shoulders, and ruthlessly tamps the urge down, down down down into the depths where it cannot be found again.
She lives so much of her life in the shadows, who is she to resist the sun when it asks to shine upon her?
She traces her fingers over Triss’s words, and as she contemplates the best way to send her response, she lets herself smile.
*
A single sprig of lilac, a note tied to the stem.
See you soon.
Triss smiles, as bright as the early-summer Temerian sun, and carries the flower into her workshop, gives it a place of honor on her desk.
She looks at it often as time slows with anticipation and the days crawl by, and she lets herself dream. She dreams in hues of deep purple and black. She dreams of sharp eyes and barbed words and pointed smirks.
She dreams of Yennefer, deadly, beautiful, full of fire and rage and tempests, and gladly lets herself be consumed.
*
Novigrad is as it always is: loud, bustling, chaotic in such a quintessentially human way Yennefer’s not sure their sorcery can ever find a way to match it.
The dark clouds on the horizon, the rolling thunder still miles off, haven’t kept the crowds away. Of course not. The markets of Novigrad will never quiet, not when there are purchases to be made, deals to consummate. People rush around them, songs fill the air, the scent of sweetmeats and delicate pastries entice young and old alike, and Yennefer, she pays attention to precisely none of it, caught up as she is in the vibrant blue of Triss’s dress, the bounce of her curls, the lilt of her voice as she tells of the latest spell she’s been crafting, the way her soft hand fits so perfectly in Yennefer’s own.
The words play on a loop in her head--you’re beautiful, you’re stunning, kiss me, kiss me please, let me bask in your light forever--and she wants to say them, she’s never been shy a day in her life, she should be able to say them, these words that are honest, that are true, that are the deepest part of her heart transformed into something that can be communicated, something that she can feel and that Triss can hear, but they get lost somewhere on the way to her mouth, she can’t quite make herself take the leap, and she’s kicking herself, drawing on reserves of strength, working up the nerve, and then--
The sudden crack of lightning, the rumble of power in the air, pure undiluted chaos, makes both of them jump.
The heavens open up and rain pours down upon them and the denizens of Novigrad’s markets shriek under the onslaught and race for cover.
They have the right idea. Yennefer turns to join them, to raise a shield to protect her and Triss from the deluge, something, anything, but Triss remains rooted where they stand, her feet planted, unmoving. Her hold on Yennefer’s hand grows strong, her grasp ironclad, and Yennefer’s thoughts of shelter start to fall away. She stays, and Yennefer with her.
“No don’t, Yen,” she whispers, barely audible over the rain falling onto the cobblestones. She closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sky, serene, beatific. “Sometimes . . . sometimes you just have to let the rain wash over you, cleanse you. Let it carry away all of your troubles, your fears, your insecurities. Feel at one with the world as it holds you in its gentle hands and then begin anew.”
The fabric of Yennefer’s dress is growing heavy and the sting of the rain on her face is not at all gentle, not even close. A cutting remark about the water that is leaking into her boots and soaking her stockings is on the tip of her tongue, it’s right there, she’s about to say it, but she looks over, looks at Triss, looks at her sodden hair plastered to her face, at her gauzy shawl that’s now completely useless, at her upturned hand, delicate, strong, reaching towards the sky. She looks like she’s receiving a blessing. Yennefer would do anything to be blessed by her.
Let the rain wash away your insecurities and begin anew.
Yennefer takes a deep breath--in, two three, four, out, two, three, four--and decides. Here it is. She’s at the edge. Time to make the leap.
She reaches out, takes Triss’s other hand in hers, links their fingers. Triss’s eyes blink open. Oh, those warm, brown eyes. Yennefer could dive into their depths, lose herself in them, and willingly.
“May I kiss you?” she asks, and it’s barely a whisper, but she feels as though she has screamed it, raw and shrill and world-changing.
She leaps, and Triss, Triss catches her.
The smile on Triss’s face, incandescent, luminous . . . by all the gods, Yennefer would burn worlds to ensure that she sees that smile again.
Triss leans forward, still smiling as their lips meet. They press together, soft, so very soft, and then not soft at all, passion exploding, bursting forth.
The rain washes over them, and they begin anew.