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Drinking alone in whatever tavern he could find had become Dandelion’s life. It wasn’t as if Geralt was the first friend that had died, but Dandelion had never expected to outlive the witcher, despite the elven blood that ran through his veins. They’d just survived so much together. Dandelion had seen Geralt battle countless monsters, and ruthless men. He’d been right by Geralt’s side as they fled across the Continent, chasing down young Ciri to save her from Nilfgaard’s grasp. Hell, Geralt had even survived for months on his own without his precious swords to protect him.
Fuck.
Dandelion knocked back another shot of vodka, the usual burn now numb after too many shots.
It was all his fault. His best friend was dead and it was all his fault. Geralt had been protecting him. The battle had been over, Ciri was safe and everything was supposed to be okay, but the universe just had it in for Dandelion. Of course there would be a fight against non-humans when he was around, most of the time he fit in quite nicely, but his dearest mother had left him a gorgeous elven bone structure and ears that weren’t quite round enough, not to mention he hadn’t aged properly since his late teens.
And humans were cruel.
More monstrous than anything Geralt fought.
Had fought.
“Fuck!” he yelled and knocked his glass flying, standing up and throwing his hat to the floor.
It wasn’t fair.
He’d never even told Geralt that-
No.
He couldn’t think like that. It was too late for regrets, and Dandelion could never regret their friendship. It had truly been the highlight of his life so far, but fuck, everything hurt. He just felt so empty without Geralt. How was he supposed to live knowing that he would never again see his best friend?
It was too much to bear, and he sank to the floor, crying without tears, noiseless sobs racking his body until his head started to spin and he barely managed to stop himself from hurling all over his poor hat.
“Dandelion?”
The world froze.
Dandelion’s eyes snapped up at the familiar voice, not quite believing his ears, and sure enough, there was Geralt standing in all his witchery glory, golden eyes gazing down at him, shining with worry.
“G-Geralt?” Dandelion stammered, still unable to process that his friend was really there. He reached out pitifully, a whine escaping his lips as Geralt’s fingers gripped his wrist, solid and tangible. “Oh fuck! You’re alive! You’re alive, gods, Geralt!”
He launched himself into Geralt’s arms, sobbing into the tattered and bloodied armour without even caring about the mess it would make on his own clothes. Geralt was alive. What did clothes matter?
“I’m here, Dandelion, I’m here,” Geralt repeated as Dandelion sobbed uncontrollably, gripping onto Geralt as if he might disappear at any moment.
“I- I thought you were dead, darling, oh gods, Geralt!”
He couldn’t help himself, so overcome with joy that he cupped Geralt’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together in a desperate kiss. He’d almost missed his chance once, he’d be damned if he lived another second without telling his witcher just how much he loved him.