Work Text:
Dandelion squirms, pressing closer against Geralt. It’s summer; the warmth of another body isn’t pleasant, but Dandelion’s clingy sleeping habits are worth his companionship. Geralt wraps his arms around the poet, who wriggles before going limp across Geralt’s chest, chamomile scented curls tickling his nose.
He had found chamomile to be an unpleasant, cloying scent, but as it became associated with the comforting weight of Dandelion’s body against his, Geralt began to mind it less and less.
He falls asleep quickly, without his customary racing thoughts, but can’t help making a show of frowning when he wakes, sticky with sweat.