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The mattress shifts beside Geralt, and he gropes about blindly until he catches hold of a wrist. “Whrr y’going?” he slurs into the pillow. “’s still dark out.”
Iorveth sighs, and Geralt can practically hear him rolling his eye as well. “I told you I was only stopping through. I want to get moving before first light.”
“You could stay.”
Iorveth snorts. “In Toussaint? I think not.”
Geralt groans and rolls over. “Not forever. Just a few days. A week.” He cracks an eye open. “You could use the rest.”
Iorveth is sitting up beside him, but he hasn’t tried to tug free of Geralt’s grip, and makes no further moves to get out of bed. The fact that he doesn’t immediately scoff at Geralt’s suggestion says a lot about how tired he must be. Geralt had noticed the dark skin under his eye, the tension in the line of his shoulders, when he’d arrived—and Iorveth can’t have gotten more than a couple of hours’ sleep since they finally passed out last night.
As if reading his mind, Iorveth raises an eyebrow. “And how much rest would I be likely to get, if I did stay?”
“Missed you,” Geralt says, unapologetically shrugging the shoulder he’s not lying on. “Stay a few days, we’ll have plenty of time for rest. And for more catching up.” He rubs his thumb over the inside of Iorveth’s wrist, and the elf definitely rolls his eye this time.
“You really are insatiable. Don’t you have your sorceress for this sort of thing?”
“Variety is the spice of life,” Geralt quips, sliding his hand up Iorveth’s forearm. He reaches the tender skin at the inside of Iorveth’s elbow, traces the crease of it with his fingertips, and smirks at the way Iorveth’s breath hitches, just a little. “Stay a few more days. Indulge an old man.”
“I’m at least twice your age,” Iorveth gripes, but he lets Geralt tug him down to lie on top of him. Geralt slides his hands over Iorveth’s shoulders, down the planes of his back, over the curve of his arse. Not with any particular intent—he’s still half-asleep himself—but Geralt has missed Iorveth, and it’s nice, the way he settles in against Geralt’s chest.
“What’s so important in Zerrikania, anyway?” Geralt asks, stroking Iorveth’s spine. For a minute or two Iorveth doesn’t reply, and Geralt begins to wonder if he’s drifted back off to sleep.
Finally Iorveth lets out a long breath against Geralt’s collarbone. “Maybe nothing,” he murmurs. “Probably nothing. But I need to find out for myself.”