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Dandelion sighed, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes as he stared at his hands - treacherous hands. Blasted, idiotic poet! He’d been pining for Geralt for years. Their friendship had been the highlight of his life. He would give up fame and fortune… everything for another lifetime with his best friend, but he’d always yearned for more. Every time Geralt and that- that witch, had crossed paths, his heart was torn from his chest, and it took every ounce of self-control that he had not to scream from the mountains that it wasn’t fair.
She’d hurt him, time and time again, leaving Dandelion to pick up the pieces of Geralt’s heart, and yet he’d always gone back to her.
Until he didn’t.
Until one night, in the cover of darkness… Geralt had come back to him; silent and heartbroken. Their lips had met in a tentative kiss as Geralt had curled against his side. It was over. The djinn wish had been broken and the ties that bound them were cut free. Dandelion grieved with his friend, hating the tears that pooled in those gorgeous golden eyes, but he’d been… happy? After decades of pining, aching as he was constantly pushed to one side… he had a chance.
He’d sworn to himself that this would be different, that he could change. Geralt deserved that, and he’d assumed it would be easy. After all, he’d always blamed Geralt for his commitment issues in the past, and now Geralt was his… there would be no reason to stray. Dandelion didn’t want to stray.
And yet…
After months of their relationship going splendidly, Dandelion had fallen into bed with Valdo Marx. His rival had taunted and danced around him in a way that had seemed so fucking familiar… and the words wormed their way under Dandelion’s skin; poisonous and green with envy. Dandelion had been too drunk to see sense, and well… he was scared. The relationship was going too well. Everything was practically perfect.
If Geralt broke up with him it would mean that Geralt had seen something inherently wrong with Dandelion. Years of friendship would fail because Dandelion wasn’t good enough. Had he ever been good enough?
At least this way it wasn’t him. It was the mistakes that he’d made.
But Geralt… didn’t care? Or at least he didn’t care enough to leave him. He’d smelled Valdo on Dandelion in an instant, a small crease appearing between his brows, and then he’d sighed and pulled Dandelion into his arms.
“You’re an idiot, Dandelion,” Geralt had murmured in his ear. “But we never said we were exclusive.”
“I wanted to be.”
“I know, me too, but perhaps that’s too much to ask from you, poet,” Geralt had hummed, not letting Dandelion go from the hug.
He really hated that hug. It was too kind. Geralt should have thrown him on his arse. He should have screamed, yelled… anything but- but a hug!
Dandelion sighed again and glanced to the floor next to him. The witcher was still sleeping soundly, seemingly unaware of his torment. They’d curled up on one bedroll together like always, Geralt’s face pressed into the back of his hair, falling asleep quickly as he began to snore. Dandelion didn’t sleep. He’d stayed still in his lover’s arms until he’d become too restless and sat up, disentangling from Geralt’s embrace.
The night was cold without Geralt’s arms wrapped around him but he didn’t care. He deserved it; cold and lonely, a retribution for his actions. Geralt had forgiven him far too easily, but that did not mean he had to forgive himself. Swallowing, he leaned down to press a kiss to Geralt’s forehead and then stood up to gather his belongings.
“I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered, and then fled into the night.