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“Ah, don’t look now,” Dandelion drawled, sidling into the seat opposite Geralt.
When Geralt ignored him and continued to spoon stew into his mouth, Dandelion began to cast overt glances over Geralt’s shoulder. “There’s that man you made an acquaintance with that one time. You know, intimately.”
The tone of his voice made Geralt stop eating and look up. Sure enough, Dandelion was doing the thing with his brows that he thought made him look impressively suave and knowing.
“What man?” Geralt asked, taking the bait and turning around to look. He didn’t bed a lot of men, and when he did, it was while sober enough to have full, unimpaired, control of all the logistics involved with bedding a man. He had scanned over the inn patrons when he entered, but he did it again and found no one fitting that description.
Dandelion tutted impatiently and jerked his chin towards the table in the middle of the room, directly behind them. “Him!”
“Him?” He said, looking over his shoulder and snorting in disbelief.“Istredd?”
Istredd was flawlessly handsome in the slightly calculated way that mages often were, with dark hair and beard, and striking features. But none of that was apparent at first or even second glance, due to the dusty blandness of his clothing, and the overall frugalness of his personal style. He was currently engrossed in telling the barkeeper a story the barkeeper seemed far less keen to hear.
Geralt watched the barkeeper shut down the conversation with a loud response, in the direction of the kitchen, to a call that Geralt certainly never heard. Istredd’s eager face fell as he tried unsuccessfully to summon back the fleeing man with his empty tankard.
Geralt chuckled into his own drink. It pleased him to see that even all the genius of a scholarly mage was useless against the common sensibilities of the common barkeeper.
“Dandelion, I can safely swear that I never had sex with Istredd.”
“What?” Dandelion furrowed his brows. “No, I distinctly remember the last time we ran into him and you told him to fuck off, I asked, ‘Who’s that?” And you told me that you once fucked him by a town square.”
“I said I fought him by a town square,” Geralt corrected, mouth full of stew. “In a manner of speaking. Now stop staring. You’re drawing attention.”
The last thing Geralt wanted was to draw Istredd’s attention. After that incident, he had run into the mage a handful of times. Geralt wasn’t sure what he was doing that was encouraging the mage to invite himself over each time. All they ever did was trade barbs, rehash old arguments, and drink separately, next to each other, in silence. The last part was decently enjoyable, but the rest of it was nothing but roiling aggravation that Geralt was beginning to suspect, was the part Istredd enjoyed.
“Oh,” Dandelion said, frowning. He made no effort to conceal the fact that he was studying both Geralt and Istredd. “Are you certain? I’m an expert in these matters and I’m quite certain he’s been giving you looks.”
Before Geralt could mock Dandelion for being able to attribute amorous meanings to even the most deadly of glares, a voice rang out from behind him.
“Geralt of Rivia! I thought I recognized that hair! Although, you have done a decent job of concealing it beneath all of the…muck.”
Geralt took the time to give Dandelion a pointed glare, both as a condemnation for bringing this upon him and as a warning to do no more damage, before throwing a look over his shoulder at Istredd. He was strolling towards them, his hands in the pockets of his dusty-brown trousers. The shyness and hesitancy of the gesture were belied by the cool smug smile on the man’s face.
“Istredd. Ran out of barkeeps to bore?” he growled at the man, before turning back to his stew.
Geralt hoped that was brusque enough to deter the mage, but instead, he felt the bench creak and saw amusement creeping into Dandelion’s face as Istredd sat himself down.
“How are you, Geralt? Seen Yenna lately?” Istredd needled snidely. Geralt glared over at him.
Istredd seemed to like bludgeoning Geralt with the reminder that Yennefer had still not taken him back, despite the similarity of his own circumstances. The topic of which of them Yennefer preferred had been much debated and rehashed to the point where he could carry on the argument without much mental involvement.
"No more so than you."
“Shame,” said Istredd, breezing past the veiled insult and not sounding sorry at all.
He leaned against one palm, watching Geralt put a spoonful of soggy, stew-laden bread into his mouth rather intently, which strangely made Geralt too uncomfortable to keep eating.
“But I suppose you must be glad to be free of her. You must have found it stifling to be kept at Yenna’s beck and call. She expects… certain attentions to be paid to her at a frequency which most might find to be… too difficult of a demand for them to achieve. I’m sure you must have felt quite out of your depth.”
The topic of who Yennefer preferred in bed, however, was not one they had broached yet. Geralt presumed it was because there was no contest there. Geralt huffed a faint, hollow chuckle, “Ah, is that how it was for you?”
He drew his lips back in a toothy sneer that bore more of a resemblance to a snarl. “I found Yen to be quite easily satisfied. She often complained of being hardly able to lift a finger after all the attentions I gave her,” he said coolly.
Istredd’s eyebrows rose, his cheek twitching with a suppressed smile.
“Oh, indeed?” He mused mildly with infuriating calm, crossing his arms across his well-toned chest. “If that was indeed the case then why do you think she came so often to me? There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Geralt. Women lie all the time to please their partners.”
There was a familiar heat settling low in his belly, making his breeches feel stifling, that Geralt had learned to ignore around Istredd, but he was never really able to resist a challenge. It was always a test of wills with Istredd, and Geralt was not going to lose. Taking inspiration from Dandelion, he affected a suave and boastful air and said, “Yeah? Do you think she lied eleven times in one night, about being satisfied?”
Istredd's eyes widened almost imperceptibly for a moment as the implication landed. Recovering himself, he scoffed incredulously, eyeing Geralt up and down the way one would look over a lame horse being sold as a thoroughbred. “I very much doubt that, Geralt.” His tone and smile were very much amused.
“You don't know what you're doubting. I can lay waste to more than just monsters, Istredd. And many would thank me for the privilege!” Geralt snapped back, unable to control the feeling or the volume in his voice.
Dandelion sputtered and quickly dabbed at the spilled ale on his jacket with his cravat. Istredd’s face went from surprise to something shrewd and almost triumphant. A stiff silence had fallen over the table, the sort that Geralt usually associated with walking into a trap of a monster laying in wait.
Istredd stood carefully, took a deep breath in, and bent low over Geralt, shielding them both from Dandelion’s view.
Geralt tensed. He was fairly certain Istredd wouldn’t attempt to start a fight right then, in the middle of an inn, but he couldn’t help jerking back involuntarily. He felt a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place, a prickle of stubble against his ear and hot breath, murmuring a retort, a new challenge, that took all of his focus and heightened senses to hear.
With a squeeze to his shoulder, Istredd pulled away, looking damn pleased with himself.
“I await your decision. Good night, Geralt,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and backing away. “Bard.” He spared Dandelion barely a nod, before turning away and heading up the stairs.
“Ugh!” Dandelion muttered under his breath with a grimace. He wrung his hands, which were dripping with ale, and looked mournfully into his half-empties tankard. “I knew it! I knew it! I hate to say this, Geralt, my friend, but you clearly have a type.”
Geralt rolled his shoulder, chasing away the lingering sensations. “What are you talking about, Dandelion?”
“Powerful mage, unattainably attractive, treats people like shit? Sound familiar?”
“He’s not that attractive,” Geralt muttered, downing his ale.
“No? Did you see how he kept flexing his chest while talking to you? I’ll bet he’s got nice tits under that dreadful shirt. And did you hear how he spoke to me?!” said Dandelion, sounding half admiring, half outraged. “Ugh! I told you! You saw the way he was looking at you, right? That is the look of a man who only has one thing on his mind and is certain he’s going to get it — believe me, I would know, Geralt. Tell me I’m wrong!”
“You’re wrong,” Geralt grunted, pushing the bench back with a harsh creak, and standing up abruptly.
“Hey!—“ Dandelion squawked indignantly as he scrambled to pick up his tankard before the remainder of his drink could spill.
He fixed Geralt with a shrewd look, as Geralt stepped over the bench. “What did he say to you?”
Geralt slapped down a handful of coins, enough to cover his supper and ale with a bit left over for another drink — which he trusted Dandelion to spot immediately.
“What did he say to you, Geralt? And where do you think you are going? Why, you haven’t even finished your stew!” Dandelion remarked, his brow and his voice raising to lofty heights.
“Shut up, Dandelion,” said Geralt, adjusting his codpiece and belt.
He turned before he could catch whatever insufferable look the bard had on his face, and headed for the stairs.