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The wine delighted, the bottle still faintly warm even so long away from a hearth, and the taste of it lingered long after each swallow, spices reminiscent of Skellige winters and days when staying curled up beneath thick furs with someone else was all to be done against the cold.
Geralt had favored this wine then, buying it by the bottle and storing it in pans of heated water on the lip of the hearthstone, the flames just barely touching it. It would be warm when they finally emerged from bed to huddle by the fire, and Geralt—shirtless, always shirtless—would offer the bottle to Triss with a quip about the frost collecting on her toes, her perpetually cold feet dug beneath his thighs, her knees at her chest.
“I wonder how he’s doing.” Triss swirled her cup, her boots kicked up onto the table she and Yen had pulled out onto the balcony after the laughter had finally died.
Geralt’s face as they pulled on their dresses with sweet smiles and painstaking care had left Triss in stitches as soon as they’d taken the wine and shut the door behind them. Even Yennefer couldn’t muffle her laughter behind her hand, and even though she hadn’t been reduced to tears as Triss had, the hallways echoed with their victory all the way back to their room. If she’d been a touch crueler, she might have let him listen to them celebrate all night long, but their room was too far, and once they’d settled in, the bottle between them, conversation had fettered out, their smiles slipping.
The city square opened before them, the couch from the room positioned to give them a view of the night’s activities, but Yennefer kept her eyes on her cup. “Mmm. Seething, I imagine.”
“Serves him right,” Triss said, taking another swallow. Each sip brought back more memories, the taste spoiling in the back of her throat, but there was little distraction to be found save her drink. “He’s lucky he’s got more worth as a Witcher than a toad.”
“Oh, Ciri would have loved that.” Yen finally glanced up from her wine, shadowed eyes for once devoid of ice. “I didn’t expect you to be such a vengeful soul—or fall to such stereotypes.”
“It wouldn’t have been for long,” Triss objected. “Just long enough.”
“Perhaps we’ll have the chance to revisit the idea once all of this is over. I dare say he’ll still deserve it.”
Oh, he would. Triss grimaced for half a second, a tightness creeping up into her chest, but she reached for the wine before it could seize her, seeping into the light haze of her thoughts and souring everything.
Pouring herself more—and realizing they were nearing the bottom at an alarming rate—Triss contemplated ordering more from the bar beneath them. The thought of having no more made their proximity a precarious thing, the long silences between them filled with memories and aches Triss would rather forget—at least now, on the eve of their triumph.
But Geralt had a tendency to taint things between them, whatever companionship the Lodge fostered severed by his interference. They’d known each other even before he’d arrived with his toned shoulders and incessant banter. Now they could hardly speak save of him, the damned man.
If only because words were better than thoughts, Triss said, “We’ll need a different approach next time. Doubt he’ll fall for this again.”
“No doubt.” Yen reached for the bottle in Triss’ hand, taking the last of their prize for herself while saying, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he meets us unsheathed next. He won’t jump for sweet promises from either of us now, I suspect.”
Triss snorted. “We had him by the nose the second you said together. I bet he’d have let us slather him in honey before we cuffed him—especially after that kiss. I don’t even think he noticed I wasn’t expecting it.”
She’d fumbled, her hands stilling at Yen’s elbow and on Geralt’s knee, but the lips on hers had been soft, just persistent enough to remind her to reply in kind. Afterwards Geralt had looked at them with such desire, but Triss had struggled to stay focused long enough to see his retribution through.
Yen shrugged, looking rather pleased with herself. “It seemed appropriate at the time.”
“Oh, it worked, that’s for sure. I’m not complaining—just didn’t think it would happen like that.”
Yen turned to look at her again, but this time, her lips quirked at the corners. She couldn’t remember the last time she was the cause of one of Yennefer’s smiles, at least not one which wasn’t cruel or inflammatory—at least, she hoped this one wasn’t born of their strife. “Our ruse? Or the kiss?”
Once upon a time, when the Lodge was just formed, the rumors of a witch who smelled of gooseberries and lilacs and cloaked herself in death and sable hadn’t disappointed, and more than once, Triss had caught herself staring. They said she’d been born of the raven, or either died by one, and the beauty it granted her was only second to the magic she commanded. There were few who could claim to not notice Yennefer.
It was a passing fancy, distracted thoughts pushed aside during meetings, and truly, Triss hadn’t had nearly enough to admit to that even if she was beginning to expect humor from Yen where before she’d only had cutting remarks or cool cordiality.
Skirting the question, she said, “Both. Everything. Seems like nothing seems to be going the way I imagined. The Wild Hunt isn’t even the worst of it—can’t believe I lost sleep over a man.”
“I’d like to think he’ll be the one losing sleep tonight.” Yennefer shrugged, setting aside her goblet, and twisted on the couch, one leg pulled up beneath her. “And if he sleeps soundly, I’ll be sure to attach my familiar to him to haunt all of his baths.”
The image of one of Yennefer’s nastier familiars slipping into Geralt’s bath almost cost her a mouthful of wine, an undignified snort bursting from her as soon as she managed to swallow down the rest of her drink. Yennefer was wicked, she realized, covering her laughter with her hand and setting aside her goblet before she could drop it.
“You’ll have to teach me that one,” Triss said, smiling in unabashed delight and turning towards her. “Maybe when after all this. If you aren’t still bowing to Emperor Emhyr.”
Yennefer’s face was rosy with wine, less space between them than when they’d begun. Slowly, the vague feeling of things beginning to fall into place filled Triss’ chest with a warmth that spread up her neck and across the bridge of her nose. They’d been close before—there was no reason they couldn’t reclaim those days.
“He serves his purpose. The Lodge is safe again, might I remind you,” Yen said, running her fingers through her hair.
There was no shortage of pride to her, but Triss knew it was deserved for dealing with Emhyr. Just the thought of the man turned her stomach, but Yennefer had still wrangled amnesty from his ghoulish hands all while playing the subordinate. Had it been Triss, she might have tried more direct methods, likely with little success.
“And we owe you for that. Don’t think I’ll let anyone forget.” Triss touched her hand, and it felt right. For so long she’d worried such a thing might ignite her flesh or turn her blood to ice, but now they were simply Yennefer and Triss, the wedge between them left chained to a bed to be found come morning. “I couldn’t have done it.”
Yennefer’s eyes flickered down between the hand light upon her own and the back up to Triss, her mouth quirking after a long moment of consideration. “Oh, don’t fret. You may yet find some new cause to martyr yourself for now that the Lodge isn’t being hunted like hares.”
“Find a new hill to die upon?” Triss grinned.
“Yes, that.” Yen’s face was very close, warmer than before in the torch-light from the square below, and Triss watched her lips curve around each word. “You are quite adept at it.”
“You’re hardly better.” Her voice dropped, their proximity lending them the appearance of young girls, leaning close to whisper secrets to one another. “I heard you made a beacon of yourself for the Wild Hunt while looking for Ciri.”
Yennefer rolled her eyes, but did not pull away. “Yes, of course. I would propose a toast to our outstanding decisions, but alas, we’ve no more wine.”
Another bottle might have given them an excuse to reminisce, or either laugh until they were breathless, but Triss didn’t see the need. With their tongues loosened, conversation flowed easily now, familiarity returning with each passing remark.
More wine would only remind Triss of things she’d rather forget, and with Yennefer’s perfume clouding her senses, it was hard to remember Geralt or the aches he inspired. The taste on her tongue was Yen’s breath, lips parted, pulse quickening with every moment neither turned away, but they seemed locked in place, Yennefer’s hooded eyes merely watching, lilac gaze ghosting across Triss’ lips and down the delicate line of her throat.
She swallowed thickly, suddenly at a loss for words for all that she’d been enjoying how easily they made conversation after dwelling in weighted silences for so long.
Yen’s hand shifted beneath hers, and Triss was struck by the sudden fear that she would pull back, that this moment would come and go without even an attempt to grasp it. She needed to say something, needed to admit that this was more how she’d imagined them coming together in days long passed.
Instead, she closed that last crucial inch between them and pressed her lips to Yennefer’s.
There was no resistance. Yen didn’t flee, recoiling as though she’d been struck. She met the gentle pressure of Triss’ mouth with an encouraging part of her lips, opening herself to a cautious exchange. The rhythm they found was slow, testing the waters for the first time, but it made Triss dizzy in a way the wine hadn’t managed.
When they parted, Triss didn’t immediately open her eyes, exhaling what might have been a laugh. If Yennefer hadn’t cared to kiss her, she would have made that quite apparent, she told herself, a little giddy and a little sick.
Unable to help herself for all her nervous energy, she said, “That was certainly something.”
Yennefer’s wry chuckle was hot against her mouth, and Triss chanced a look, heart in her throat. Amusement played across Yen’s features, face touched with color, eyes hazy with something which made Triss’ stomach twist, and at once relief and affection filled her breast.
“Eloquent, aren’t you?”
“No,” Triss said, lips pulling up of their own accord.
“Of course not.” Yennefer’s hand turned palm up, fingers drawing lines against Triss’ palm for a lingering moment before withdrawing altogether. Leaning back into the cushions, she pushed a curling lock of hair behind her ear, decidedly pleased. “It’s good to have you back, Triss.”
Triss followed her lead, settling back into the couch so their shoulders brushed, and said, “You too, Yen.”