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Gaetan opened his satchel as he made camp to discover his potions had been replenished and his ingredients topped up. In his bag were three new pairs of socks, knitted from hand-spun wool and dyed his favourite dark blue. He knew when he pulled them on that they would be warm and softer than any other he’d ever owned. When he returned to Corvo Bianco for the winter, Lambert would have stocked up on his favourite jam, the one only available from berries grown in the freezing north, where he never went if he could avoid it.
Lambert relaxed back into the gentle press of Gaetan’s hand on his lower back, nudging him forward. He hadn’t heard the other witcher’s approach, but he recognised the touch. He fell asleep that night with Gaetan curled against his back, soaking in his heat. When he left for the Path, he would miss Gaetan grabbing his hand to drag him hither and yon to see whatever had caught the Cat’s attention. There was nothing else that could settle Lambert like the touch of Gaetan’s hand.
Neither Witcher ever used the word ‘love’. They didn’t need to. Their feelings were more than clear enough.