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“We are made for loving. If we don’t love, we will be like plants without water.”
― Desmond Tutu
“Regis?” Geralt poked his head into the conservatory, the room a mad explosion of foliage . “Hello?”
“I’m here!” came the reply from somewhere amidst the greenery.
Geralt frowned. He liked plants as much as the next guy —well, no, probably quite a lot more than the next guy, actually— but this was getting ridiculous. The conservatory had crossed the line into ‘greenhouse’ right around the time Regis disposed of the sofa. Not to mention, the man worked in a massive actual greenhouse at the university.
Geralt shuffled down the remaining narrow walkway and stuck his head around a rather large abutilon, thick with drooping red blooms. There was Regis' familiar form bent over an assortment of pots, soil, and gardening tools. His usual faded red apron did not prevent him from getting smeared in dirt from head to toe. Geralt smiled affectionately. “Hi, Regis.”
The professor looked up, mouth stretching into a wide grin when he saw his friend. “Hello, Geralt.” His hair somehow looked even more wild than usual, swept dramatically back off his face, counterbalanced with long, heavy sideburns. He had black hair, though Geralt had noticed streaks of silver appearing over the last year. He thought it made Regis look terribly dashing.
Geralt cleared his throat. “Marla let me in, I hope that was alright. She was just leaving for the day.”
“Of course, of course,” Regis waved a hand. “She made lemon-glazed blueberry scones earlier, you must stay for tea.”
“Sure.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” Regis turned his attention back to his workbench. “I could use another pair of hands repotting all the bougainvilleas.”
“Hmm.” Geralt examined the long row of purple and red flowers with an arched eyebrow. “All of them?”
Regis sliced open a new bag of potting soil with relish. “Indeed.” He gave Geralt a mischievous grin. “You know where the spare gloves are.”
With a good-natured grumble, Geralt retrieved a pair of gardening gloves and apron out of the cupboard under the table and pulled on his gear. “Alright. Hand me that pot.”
The time flew by as they worked, as it always did with Regis. Between visits, Geralt made sure to save up anecdotes he knew Regis would like. Making Regis laugh with a dry quip was his favourite thing. It was like being bathed in sunshine, tendrils of warmth creeping over his skin.
When they had finished with the bougainvilleas, Regis brushed his hands with a satisfied sigh. “Brilliant. Now the clianthus.”
Geralt’s eyes bugged out until Regis began to snicker. “Only kidding, my friend. I’m done for today.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes at him, trying not to smile. “Oh, you think you’re funny.”
“I know I’m funny.” But then his face grew serious. “I... er… had something I wished to speak to you about.”
“Alright.” Geralt pulled his gloves off.
“Please, have a seat.”
Geralt looked around. “There’s nowhere to sit, Regis.” The rest of the furniture hadn’t lasted much longer than the sofa.
“Really?” Regis turned to scan the room. “Oh my. I thought I left some chairs... Well, then…” He gestured in the direction of the rest of the house. “After you. Let’s have tea.”
Geralt smiled. “Need some help?”
“Oh, no. You can wash up in the powder room, I’ll just go…” He waggled his dirty hands and wandered off to the kitchen. “Meet me in the library!” he called back before the kitchen door swung shut behind him.
If he had to pick, the library was Geralt’s favourite room in Regis’ house. Three of the walls were covered in books, shelves two storeys tall with a winding ladder leading up to a narrow walkway. The other wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, currently bathing the room in the golden late-afternoon light. Geralt meandered over to the coffee table to see what books Regis had pulled out lately. He was settled into the buttery leather sofa, already lost in the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, when Regis clattered in with a heavy tray.
Geralt hopped up to help but Regis scoffed at him. “Sit down, I’ve got it.”
He placed the tray on the table and busied himself pouring tea into two fine china cups. “You must have a scone, Marla would be horrified if you didn’t, but I also made some cucumber sandwiches if you’re hungry…” He waved a hand at the plate covered in tidy bite-sized squares.
“You didn’t need to go to all the trouble…” Geralt protested as his stomach growled.
Regis smiled. “Please… eat.”
Once their plates were empty and cups refilled, they sat back on the sofa, a comfortable silence descending.
But then Regis put his teacup down and turned to face Geralt. “The university is hosting an awards evening in three weeks’ time and I was wondering… if you’d like to accompany me.”
Geralt had attended the odd university function with Regis over the years, but it was usually at the last minute to help fill seats. “Okay. I’ll double check, but I should be free.” Let’s be honest, I’m definitely free.
“Very good.” Regis nodded once, pleased with himself.
Geralt took another swallow of tea. “What’s the award?”
“It’s the Glenn-Mercer Grant.”
“Oh, wow, did someone at the university win it this year? Who?”
“Well, it’s… ah… me.”
“You?” Geralt nearly choked on his tea. He put his cup down, coughing. “Regis! That’s incredible!”
He could swear Regis was blushing, which he had never seen before. “I didn’t want a fuss. But they said I should bring someone.”
“Congratulations! This is a huge honour!” Geralt shook his head, stunned by the news. “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
Regis shifted and tugged at the pleat in his pants. Even when he was gardening, his clothes were sharp and elegant. “Yes. But I’m afraid I’m not being completely clear.” He took a breath. “This is a date. I’m asking you on a date, Geralt.”
“Oh.” Oh.
Oh.
His stomach shriveled into a point, then exploded, sending a shockwave through his body. Date. Date? Date!
Then he realized Regis was still talking.
“...apologize if I've overstepped, Geralt. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now and I thought perhaps you would be amenable... But if you’re uncomfortable in any way—”
“Regis,” Geralt interrupted, hardly able to hear his own voice over the pounding of his heart. “I would love to go with you. As your date.”
“Oh.” Regis’ shoulders relaxed. “Lovely.”
Geralt watched the relief washing over Regis’ face. He… he doesn’t know.
Heat crept up Geralt’s cheeks. “Regis… we’ve been friends for, how long now, five years?”
“Well, yes, at least that long.” He frowned. “Or is it six? What year did they remodel the main library, because I distinctly remember—”
“Regis.” Geralt had to interrupt him again, smiling. He shifted closer, and carefully placed his hand over Regis’ long, graceful fingers. His mind was spinning, whirling around this new reality. His voice came out in a low rumble. “Do you… do you not know how I feel about you?”
Now it was Regis’ turn to look confused. “Feel about me?”
Geralt moved even closer, tilted his head. “I....” I love you, he wanted to say. I’ve been in love with you for five years. But the words stuck in his throat. He squeezed Regis’ hand, eyes flicking to his lips.
Regis swallowed hard. “Geralt…”
“Yes?”
“You—” he reached a hand up to Geralt’s cheek “—have some dirt on your face.”
A laugh burst out of Geralt as Regis’ thumb swept across his cheekbone, his fingers slipping along Geralt’s jaw. “Got it,” Regis whispered.
“Thanks.”
“May I kiss you?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”