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In many ways, Iorveth is like a big cat, Vernon figures.
He’s fiercely independent, comes and goes as he pleases and enjoys his solitude. (At times to the point where Vernon starts wondering whether the elf still lives with him, or just visits occasionally.)
He uses the windows as often as the doors when he comes and goes.
He brings home dead animals and drops them at Roche's feet. (Granted, that's a part of an unspoken mutual agreement—to Vernon's chagrin, Iorveth is just a much better hunter of the two of them. He's also a proficient butcher, but he prefers to leave the dirty work to someone else. The bastard.)
He sleeps in strange places. (The number of times Vernon had found him contorted on a tree branch, napping, is bewildering, and to make it even worse, Iorveth has the audacity to not suffer any joint pain or muscle cramps afterwards. He also seems partial to the roof and certain pieces of furniture—although Vernon is certain that the latter the elf does solely to fuck with him.)
And, of course, there's the way he reacts to touch.
As a general rule of thumb, Iorveth is not fond of it. He rarely initiates it and startles easily.
(He's especially jumpy about his hair and face. Vernon had gotten into a habit of asking and then carefully telegraphing his movements whenever he tries to touch either.)
It's not easy for him. Vernon craves the touch of his loved ones (after everything, it's still strange to consider Iorveth as such). But he's dealing with it—had been dealing with it for years , with Foltest so close and yet completely unreachable.
Had he hoped ( yearned) that things may be different with Iorveth? Yes. Does it bother him? Somewhat. But he'd be damned if he let it ruin their relationship after everything it took for them to find each other—and it makes him treasure the rare moments of intimacy all the more.
Which makes what happens that night particularly strange.
The bedroom window opens and a dark silhouette slips in after Vernon had already resigned himself to sleeping alone, blown out the candles and closed his eyes.
He instinctively reaches for the knife under his pillow.
"It's me," says a quiet voice that unmistakably belongs to Iorveth. Vernon relaxes against the pillows.
“One of these days, I’m going to stab you.” He grouches. “Are you coming to bed?”
“Yeah. In a moment.”
Vernon closes his eyes, listening to the rustle of clothing.
“Close the window.” He mumbles drowsily. “The draught is getting in.”
Iorveth makes a noise of assent and the window slides closed with a quiet thunk. Vernon sighs contentedly, ready to drift off.
Except then, the warmth of the quilt disappears.
“Wha-” Vernon startles, raising up on his elbows, his eyes immediately snapping open. Iorveth is right there in his space—on him, in fact, and a pair of arms cautiously wraps around his chest.
It's unlike him, but not enough for Vernon to look a gift horse in the mouth—so he reciprocates the embrace with a contented huff. Iorveth lets him, squeezes him tighter for a moment. A pair of calloused palms travels up his arms and stops at his shoulders, then caresses lightly.
It's so uncharacteristic, Vernon has to ask.
"Are you… Okay?" He tries cautiously.
"I'm fine," Iorveth rumbles. He sounds a little breathless. Maybe he was doing something strenuous, Vernon reasons with himself. He closes his eyes again. He had been hauling firewood and chopping it down most of the day. He’s really damn tired, and as nice as this is, right now he just wants to sleep .
The hands on his shoulders tighten, then slide down and a pair of lips latches onto his neck. Vernon groans. Another day, in different circumstances, he would welcome this. But not today and not right now.
Not to mention that this is pretty weird, too—Iorveth had never been this forward (had never been forward at all ) before.
He tries to gently push the elf away, but Iorveth stills completely instead, his face still buried in Vernon’s neck and his hands ceasing their downward journey to rest on his hips. Vernon opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling
“What’s gotten into you?” He murmurs. “Are you drunk?”
Iorveth huffs angrily into his neck and his fingers tighten.
“I’m not drunk.” The elf growls. “You don’t want this?”
“You’re definitely something .” Vernon sighs and pushes Iorveth away more forcefully to look into his face. What the hell is going on? Iorveth’s hands move to clench on his wrists—not quite hurting, but the subtle threat is there. It’s difficult to see in the moonlight, but the elf’s face is pale and sweaty, his pupils blown wide. “Sweet Melitele, what are you on ?”
Iorveth looks away.
“Forget it.” He growls, moving to stand, but this time, Vernon is the one to clamp a hand on his wrist, sitting up. Tiredness be damned, he has to know what is going on .
“Iorveth. Talk to me.” He demands. Iorveth glares and stubbornly remains silent. “What’s gotten into you?” Vernon repeats his earlier question.
“I…” Iorveth starts, trails off, clearly unable to look Vernon in the eye. Vernon rubs at his eyes tiredly.
“I’m not letting go until you tell me.”
Iorveth seems to struggle internally, but he finally speaks through clenched teeth.
“I’ve heard you. Talking to Gwynbleidd.” Vernon blinks in surprise. Geralt had visited them a couple weeks ago, bringing a whole crate of some fancy wine that the three of them had a go at together. They had talked about a great many things, but Vernon doesn’t see what this has to do with anything—but then Iorveth continues. “Late at night. When you- thought you were alone.”
Now this Vernon definitely doesn’t remember. He might have blacked out a little at some point, though. He can’t hold his liquor as well as he used to.
He’s mortified to hear what enlightened truths he might have spilled in that state.
“You said I- You said you wished I was more forthcoming with my affections.” Iorveth says bitterly. “And that you were starved for my touch. ”
“And you- And you thought I meant sex ?” Vernon groans. He supposes it makes sense—if these are direct quotes, they are somewhat ambiguous. In all honesty, he can’t be sure what he had meant, back then. He was drunk off his ass.
Iorveth shrugs helplessly.
“Isn’t that what it always means?” He hisses. Vernon is shocked speechless for a moment. (And frankly, a little horrified by the implications.) Iorveth seems to take his silence as confirmation. He exhales faintly, then moves to stand.
“I’m leaving.” He murmurs softly, attempting to tug his wrist free.
Vernon doesn’t let him.
“Stay.” He breathes. “ Please. ” Whatever he had said, whatever he had meant back then—he needs to put it right and make Iorveth realise that it’s not reflective of how he feels.
For several long moments Iorveth just stares at him mutely, his hand still straining against Vernon’s grasp and Vernon starts worrying that something is irreparably broken between them. But finally, the elf relents and his hand slackens in Vernon’s grip. Vernon releases an audible sigh of relief.
“May I touch your face?” He asks as softly as he can. “I don’t mean anything by it.” He adds hurriedly. Iorveth seems to hesitate, but he nods eventually. Vernon tugs the elf down onto the bed and thankfully, he seems to understand the intent this time. He sits down at the edge, facing Vernon.
Vernon raises his hand very slowly. Iorveth follows it with his eyes. Doesn’t flinch when it touches his cheek. Vernon counts it as a small victory. He caresses Iorveth’s face and something astonishing happens. The elf leans into the touch. Vernon’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t help staring a little.
He swallows thickly—talking about emotions had never been particularly easy for him. For either of them, he supposes.
“What I meant …” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “Physical contact is important to me.” He sighs. “I can’t help it. It just is.” Iorveth’s jaw tenses. He’s watching Vernon like a hawk and his stare seems to be burning a hole right through him. “But it doesn’t need to be… Uh, carnal .” Vernon shrugs uncomfortably. He’s feeling extremely awkward—but he holds the elf’s gaze nonetheless. “I’m not a young man anymore, Iorveth. Things like that are… Not that urgent to me.”
Iorveth turns his gaze away abruptly.
“And what if they still were?”
This catches Vernon by surprise. He doesn’t know what it matters now, but clearly Iorveth needs some kind of reassurance. And in for an oren, in for a crown.
“Then I would deal with it, okay?“ He huffs. “I knew what I was getting into when I decided to shack up with an elf.”
Unfortunately, the statement has the opposite of the desired effect. Iorveth’s eye snaps back to Vernon, narrowing.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” He growls. Vernon leans away instinctively—it’s been a while since he had seen this kind of white hot anger.
“Well, you know.” He says uncomfortably. “Elves are not. Overly interested in sexual activities, right?”
Iorveth snorts.
“Dana Méabdh. Unbelievable.” He breathes, shaking his head. His expression is bitter. “Every time, Roche. Every fucking time I think you’re getting better, you ruin it with stupid shit like this.”
He pulls away from Vernon’s hand sharply and opens the window with more force than necessary, then disappears into darkness.
Vernon doesn’t stop him. He knows he fucked up badly.
The draught is getting in, but he leaves the window open, just in case.
-
Iorveth disappears for two days. Vernon tells himself that the elf will be back soon—he is hardly made of unlimited patience, and yet he had not given up on Vernon for worse offences. (So far.)
But a part of Vernon is afraid he’s not coming back.
So it’s quite a relief when on day three, the door swings open and Iorveth shoves in, carrying a dead deer and a basket of vegetables picked Melitele knows where.
He drops it at Vernon’s feet with a small grunt.
“Don’t use up the hide. I need new boots.” He says, then turns on his heel to leave.
“Stay for dinner.” Vernon says, striving to sound casual. Iorveth pauses and looks over his shoulder.
“No.” He says curtly and leaves.
-
Vernon doesn’t see much of Iorveth for the next week.
He busies himself working on the deer carcass—skinning and butchering it, curing the meat, tanning the skin and carving tiny fox figurines out of the bone.
Then one night, he wakes up to the sound of the window opening. He shoots up in bed, heart hammering and hand clenching on the knife. It takes him a few moments to realise that no one is inside. Instead, there’s soft singing and the sweet smell of aimilse—Iorveth’s usual pipe filling of choice—coming from the outside.
Vernon rubs the sleep out of his eyes and sticks his head out the window to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, Iorveth is sitting on the roof above.
“I’m not climbing through the window.” He grumbles. Iorveth doesn’t reply—seems to be ignoring him, in fact. Vernon sighs and goes to grab the ladder.
-
They don’t talk to each other at first. Iorveth continues singing quietly for a while—he had changed the song in the time Vernon was clambering up—staring up at the stars. Vernon settles an arm’s length from the elf, content to just listen and watch his profile for now.
Once the song ends, Iorveth doesn’t pick up a new one. Vernon takes it as an invitation to begin speaking.
“I’m sorry.” He starts, fumbling for words to explain himself “What I said- I didn’t think .” Iorveth turns slowly to look at him. Vernon feels like he’s digging a hole for himself, again , but he can’t seem to stop . “It’s just… With all the rumours about elves, and with the way you are, I assumed…” He trails off. “I’m sorry.” He repeats, finally stopping himself.
“You assumed that because I am like this, all elves are like this." Iorveth says, eerily calm. “As you dh’oine are prone to do.”
Vernon bites back the instinctive response of elves do that too!
“Yeah. As us dh’oine are prone to do.”
Iorveth looks up to the stars and takes a puff from his pipe.
“Disappointing as it may be, it’s just me. Most elves have a very active libido, at least for the first couple hundred years. It’s the fertility that’s usually the problem.”
Silence settles over them after that. Vernon decides to break it after a few minutes.
“Will you stay tonight?” He asks.
Iorveth seems to ponder his words, but finally nods. Vernon’s shoulders sag in relief. It feels like absolution.
He sincerely wishes he could leave it at that, but he needs to talk about that night.
“So… Back then.” He says vaguely. “What exactly were you trying to accomplish?”
Iorveth understands. He turns away, but not quick enough for Vernon not to notice the grimace and the blush spreading over his cheeks.
“You know what .” He spits the words. “I already told you.”
Vernon shakes his head.
“I guess I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you thought jumping me in the middle of the night while high out of your head was a better idea than, oh, I don’t know- talking to me .”
“I wasn’t high .” Iorveth protests, turning towards him sharply. Vernon’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
“You’ll have to excuse my scepticism.” He says dryly.
“It’s not- I was just-” Iorveth is visibly flustered. Vernon would find it funny in any other circumstances, but as it is, he’s actually somewhat concerned. Finally, the elf takes a breath and seems to collect himself. “It was just some muinaan. For courage .”
Vernon doesn’t know the plant in question, but he is familiar with the type of courage Iorveth is referring to.
“You know, you’re at least a hundred years older than me. Aren’t you supposed to be wise or something?” He asks. It seems to take Iorveth by surprise, and he lets out a startled chuckle.
“That just means I had a hundred more years to forget any insight I might have gained.” Iorveth is looking at him intently, and for the first time in over a week, there’s some warmth in his gaze.
“Fair enough.” Vernon concedes with a smirk.
Isn’t that what it always means?
There’s a notion weighing at the back of his mind, but he’s afraid of spoiling the moment. But he had never been one to shy from a challenge, so he tries to articulate it.
“The last time we talked…” Iorveth frowns at him, clearly of the impression that they were done with that conversation. “Just listen. Please. ” Vernon says hastily, then pauses to gather his thoughts. “Something that you’ve said… Obviously I don’t know everything about your life.” Vernon rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. He knows plenty of gory details from the elf’s past, but the topic of relationships is not something Iorveth had been particularly forthcoming about. “And I don’t want to make any… Untoward assumptions, but… I just wanted you to know that I would never touch you without your assent.”
To his surprise, Iorveth laughs .
It’s an ugly, bitter sound.
“I know.”
Vernon frowns.
“Do you?”
Iorveth sighs, combing through his hair, pulling at the strands a little too forcefully for Vernon’s comfort. But it feels wrong to stop him after what he had just said.
“It’s not- about you .”
Vernon’s frown deepens.
“Well, what is it about, then?” He asks, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.
The elf is silent for a time.
“Talk to me, Iorveth.”
Iorveth seems to draw into himself—he hugs his legs to his chest and rests his chin on his knees.
“When you’re in a relationship with someone,” he says slowly, “it carries certain… Expectations.”
Vernon considers it. He had never really thought about it, but—Iorveth is right. Couples did certain things together, and that was that. Obvious .
Iorveth had not seemed particularly interested in some of these things, and that was fine , but it did make Vernon question what they were to each other at times. But perhaps—perhaps Iorveth’s idea of what constituted a relationship was just vastly different from his own.
Or maybe it was the same, and it just didn’t agree with Iorveth’s nature.
“I suppose it does.” He sighs, reclining on his elbows and looking into the stars. “So where does that leave us?”
Iorveth doesn’t respond for a while. Vernon turns towards him to peer at the expression on his face. His lips are pressed thin, brows furrowed—but for all that, his eye seems more sad than angry.
“I don’t know.”
Vernon doesn’t know either, but he knows that whatever it is between them, he doesn’t want to lose it.
His hand reaches out, seemingly of its own accord. By the time he catches himself, it’s already hovering by Iorveth’s face.
“May I?”
Iorveth nods, and Vernon gratefully settles his palm on the elf’s cheek with a light caress. Iorveth briefly closes his eye. It’s nice, but Vernon has an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. He hopes this time there will be no fallout by the end.
“You don’t have to ask every time.”
Vernon blinks in surprise, startled out of his thoughts.
“I… Don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Iorveth shrugs his shoulders.
“I’m not uncomfortable.” He purses his lips. “Not anymore.” Hearing that stings a little. Vernon doesn’t ask, did my touch make you uncomfortable before? He tries to focus on the positive instead. Not anymore.
“And if I do this?” He asks, putting his arm around Ioveth’s shoulders and leaning on him. The elf snorts.
“It’s fine, Vernon. You can touch me, I’m not made of glass.”
It’s difficult to grasp the new boundaries, because they are not clearly defined. Vernon thinks that they need to have a conversation about that as well, but he doesn’t think he’s ready for that yet. They’ve spoken enough for one night.
“I bet you’d still break if I pushed you off the roof though.” He says instead, and it sends Iorveth into a surprised bout of laughter.
“So don’t push me off the roof, bloede dh'oine .” He finally says between chuckles. Usually, it’s very clearly meant as an insult, but now it certainly seems affectionate. He grasps Vernon’s hand and laces their fingers together, then puts it over his heart. Vernon wonders briefly if the gesture means anything, but ultimately simply allows himself to enjoy it. They sit in silence for a little longer until Vernon decides that he misses the warmth of the quilt.
“Come inside.” He says softly. Iorveth nods.
-
“Are you coming to bed?”
“Yeah. In a moment.”
Vernon lays on his back and closes his eyes, listening to the rustle of clothing. After several minutes, Iorveth settles in beside him. Vernon doesn’t move—despite what Iorveth had said, he is still afraid of startling him.
“Goodnight then.” He says. They had shared this bed many times before, but today it feels somehow awkward.
“Vernon.” Iorveth whispers. “Turn around.”
Vernon gives an irritated sigh, but obligingly turns away from the elf. He had agreed to this after all.
“Dana Méabdh- the other way.” The elf breathes. Judging by where his voice is coming from and the tickling sensation on the nape of Vernon’s neck, he must have moved closer.
“Oh. Yeah, okay.” He turns around and comes face to face with Iorveth. The elf is looking at him intently.
“It seems you got the wrong idea into your thick skull.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Iorveth scoots even closer and tucks his head under Vernon’s chin. “This was always fine.” He murmurs. “...If it’s alright with you.”
“Okay.” Vernon laughs, incapable of saying anything else. His chest feels like it’s about to burst. “Okay.”
He wraps his arms around Iorveth and squeezes lightly, testing a little. Iorveth gives a satisfied little sigh, melting into the embrace.
“Dearme, en'ca minne.” He mumbles sleepily. Vernon wonders if Iorveth realises that he knows what the words mean, and decides not to dwell on it. Just the fact that he said them is enough for now.