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Geralt flew down the path towards Corvo Bianco, enjoying the feel of the wind in his hair. Roach was still new to him and he’d been out in the surrounding fields all day with her, getting used to her new personality, and getting her used to life as a witcher’s horse. She’d been startled easily at the beginning of the day but she was slowly adjusting, with a little up from Axii to keep her calm. His old Roach was still in the stables, too old to be much use to him now but, as a semi-retired witcher, he could keep her now.
He liked that.
Giving up on his horses had always been hard so he was enjoying the luxury of looking after her without the stress of life on the path. Dandelion helped to look after the old girl too, and his dear old grey, Pegasus in the stall next door. The time they spent in the stables together were some of Geralt’s favourites. His husband had never quite understood Geralt’s love of horses but the quiet grooming of their manes and even mucking out the stables was a routine that Dandelion found grounding. Of course, he never stopped chattering away about some harebrained scheme or a new song, or just catching Geralt up on any news from Novigrad or Kaer Morhen. It almost resembled their days adventuring together by the fireside, except now they could go upstairs to a soft bed rather than sleeping on the cold hard ground.
“Geralt!” Dandelion waved wildly from the doorway of their home.
Geralt smiled at his husband as he dismounted before bringing Roach to a stop. She carried on cantering for a few steps and then trotted off to the stables. Dandelion pranced over to him, the feather in his hat bouncing as he walked.
“Dandelion,” Geralt greeted his husband warmly.
“Geralt, you’re finally back! I have a surprise for you, my dear,” Dandelion wrapped his arm around Geralt’s shoulder, guiding him into the house.
“Roach?”
Dandelion scoffed. “She’ll be fine. I’ve never known you to have a horse that couldn’t fend for herself for a while. She always finds the nearest food trough and water. Honestly I have no idea how you do it, now come on!”
“Where are we going?”
Dandelion laughed, leaning against Geralt and pressing a kiss on his cheek. Geralt felt a slight warmth in his cheeks. He couldn’t blush in the same way that Dandelion could but there was still something there, something that only his bard had ever been able to draw out.
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Nonsense!” Dandelion exclaimed “Everyone likes surprises, even grumpy old witchers. Don’t you trust me, Geralt?”
Geralt sighed. “Fine.”
“That’s the spirit! Let’s go.”
Dandelion let go of his shoulder and laced their fingers together, pulling him into the house. It was beautiful decorated thanks to B.B but Dandelion had added a few extravagant touches of his own, namely in the form of their matching portraits. Geralt hated them; well he hated his. He was rather fond of Dandelion’s even if it was ridiculous. His husband could barely wield a sword, let alone slay a wyvern.
“Now, I know you’ve been getting a little bored in your retirement—”
“Semi-retirement, still help out at the vineyards.”
“And you did say you wanted to learn a new skill…” Dandelion sang, a smirk dancing on his lips that only ever spelled trouble.
Geralt sighed. “Spit it out, Dandelion.”
“I’m going to teach you how to play the lute!” He announced with a wide wave of his hand.
Geralt pressed his free fingers to his forehead, a low groan rumbling in his chest. When he’d aired the suggestion of learning a new skill he’d been thinking something along the lines of blacksmithing or crafting his own armour, at a push maybe learning how to make the wine from the grapes on his estate. Dandelion would enjoy that, he could imagine the bard with his brightly coloured trousers rolled up to his knees, holding hands as they squished the grapes together. At least, that was what Geralt thought wine making entailed. He wasn’t really sure. It had been a while since he’d seen the process in action. He kept meaning to take Roach down to where they made the wine but he had a soft spot for the views around the villa.
“The lute?” he grumbled.
Dandelion squeezed his hand, cupping his cheek in the other. “Come on, Geralt. It’ll be fun! Think of all the things I’ve learnt for you over the years, how to make a fire, how to sew up old shirts and stitch wounds. I even learnt how to fight!”
Geralt snorted.
“I did!” his husband protested.
“You did very well,” muttered Geralt, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You are a terrible husband, my love. I could defend myself against bandits, I’m sure of it!”
Geralt just raised an eyebrow.
Dandelion tilted his head, a mischievous smile on his lips. “I even beat you that one time!”
Geralt chuckled, ah yes, the Crimson Avenger. “Hmm, let you win, for Ciri’s sake.”
“Poppycock! That had nothing to do with Ciri and you know it! Come on, my love. Humour me?” Dandelion gazed at him with wide cornflower blue eyes and Geralt sighed, knowing he’d lost the argument.
“Fine, I’ll learn the lute.”
Dandelion bounced happily, clapping his hands together “Oh I just knew you’d agree!”
The settled on the long couch, side by side. Filavandrel’s lute had already been propped up against the wall, ready for their arrival. Geralt smiled and shook his head fondly. Dandelion had had no doubts that Geralt would agree.
“First things first,” Dandelion announced, leaning into Geralt’s side as he placed the golden lute in his lap. “How to hold it.”
“I know how to hold it,” Geralt groused.
Dandelion laughed. “Oh really?”
“Yes.”
Dandelion peered at him, the challenge twinkling in his eyes. He really did seem so much younger than his years. There was barely a wrinkle on his face and he still had the childlike glee that he’d had when Geralt had first met him so many years ago. Not for the first time Geralt wondered whether the poet had elven blood, or had perhaps sold his soul to a demon. It seemed like the sort of trouble he would get into, especially when Geralt wasn’t there to protect him. He made a note to ask Dandelion about later on when they were settled in their bedroom for the night.
He glanced down at the lute. It felt awkward in his hands but he’d been watching Dandelion play for the better part of three decades now. He knew how to hold the damn thing, but the poet made it seem a lot easier, with his long lutist fingers. Geralt huffed as he adjusted the instrument, copying Dandelion’s pose from memory the best he could.
The bard let out a low whistle and laughed. “Well well, colour me impressed, my dear. That’s not bad.”
“Told you.”
“Hah! Stop your grumbling, Geralt. Holding it is the easy part. Next I have to teach you how to play. I know you have nimble fingers, but there are thirteen strings on the lute, a little different from your witcher signs.”
“Just get on with it,” he grumbled, eager to get this over with.
Dandelion laughed, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder with a contented sigh, his hands covered Geralt’s on the neck of the lute, moving his fingers so they weren’t pressing any particular string. “We’ll get to that later, my love,” he whispered in Geralt’s ear, breath tickling against his neck.
Dandelion talking him through how to pluck at the strings, not so hard so that the strings would snap but firm enough to pull a ringing twang from the instrument. Geralt, as Dandelion had said, was used to moving his fingers independently when he made his signs, but he kept fucking up even a basic scale, catching strings out of turn.
“This is ridiculous.”
“You are doing splendidly,” Dandelion protested. “The lute is a fickle instrument, not easy to master and you, Geralt, have never even tried.”
They stayed at it for a while longer, until Geralt’s fingers started to ache. Dandelion never left Geralt’s side, hands lingering on Geralt’s thigh when they weren’t fussing with his fingers on the neck of the lute. It was harder than it looked. Dandelion’s fingers danced effortlessly over the strings, making the instrument sing more beautifully than any other bard, and on top of that he sang like a nightingale.
Geralt couldn’t even answer Dandelion’s questions without fucking up, and his responses were monosyllabic and tuneless.
He was in awe of his husband, more than he ever had been. With a heavy sigh he pushed the elven lute back into Dandelion’s hands.
“I’m done,” he explained when Dandelion raised his eyebrows. “Want to hear you play now.”
Dandelion lit up, as he always did when Geralt asked him to play. He stretched out his arms before cradling the lute, looking far more at home with the instrument in his hands, his hat askew, dark locks of hair tickling his chin.
“What would you like me to play, darling? Something daring? Something romantic?” Dandelion winked, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. “Or perhaps something more lewd.”
Geralt snorted, rolling his eyes at his husband, “Something beautiful,” he suggested.
Dandelion nodded, smiling brightly as Geralt’s hand rested on his knee, stroking soothing circles through the brightly coloured silk.
“As you wish, my dear husband.”
And he began to sing.