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Logan has returned late from a bar or late-night walks a few times to Wade asleep on the pullout. Seeing him quiet and still had been odd. Wade’s ADHD filled ass never being still when he’s awake. 

Wade also sleeps like he’s dead. Logan had discovered this when he tried to wake him so he would move the first time. It was legitimately difficult to wake him up. So after that first time where it took an eternity to get him conscious enough to move, Logan either goes to sleep in the armchair he had gotten off the street the first week he was here, or tips Wade onto the floor with a pillow if he is in a bad mood. 

When he doesn’t give a shit, he’ll just crawl onto the pullout with Wade. He tends to wake up before him anyway. The few times he doesn’t, a few claws to the guts makes Wade shut up, or at least talk about something else.

Another thing with Wade is how casual he is about touch.

Sure, Wade had been touching him a bunch when they first met. But that had been to rile Logan up, to get a reaction, even if it was all negative. (The Honda doesn’t count in any positive way, the intent behind all of that had been hate and adrenaline. Even if the end result had been pleasant.)

Now though, it’s a hand patting his shoulder as they pass in the kitchen. A thigh bumping against his own as they watch shitty reality tv. Feet kicking him under the dinner table if he says something too blunt or rude. A shoulder bumping against his as they walk that damn ugly dog together.

It makes his skin crawl, mostly with how used to it he has become. And how he kinda, not that he will admit this to anyone except his own thoughts, likes it.

It’s all become routine, a weird kind of domestic life, (Logan hates that word), that works for them.

Speaking of routine, Logan often makes breakfast for them. Wade can barely cook, Al is blind, and Logan doesn’t mind that much most of the time. He needs to eat a lot anyway, and getting something into Wade that is somewhat healthy, and not just all sugar, makes him a little less irritating to deal with during the day.

Wade, of course, likes to tease him when he cooks. Stealing bites before it’s ready. Logan has become quite adept at fighting just with a spatula, smacking hands away with a grunted ‘fuck off.’

He’s off his game this morning though, as Wade manages to snatch a piece of bacon, straight from the pan where it was almost finished. Logan knows it must be burning his mouth and tongue, but Wade crunches on his price with a grin on his face. 

He’s wearing Deadpool pajama pants, bunny slippers, and a pink long sleeve with Hello Kitty on it, and he frankly looks ridiculous leaning on the counter, extra so next to Logan who is fully dressed for the day in his flannel, t-shirt, jeans, and boots.

“Haven’t had enough coffee yet peanut?” Logan grunts, smacking Wade’s hand as it tries to go for another piece. 

“Fuck off.”

“Oh you know I love it when you talk dirty to me, even this early in the morning.”

“It’s 10 am dipshit.”

“Oh you know the saying, it’s always 5 am somewhere.” Logan snorts, shaking his head. He grabs a plate to put the finished bacon on, putting some more in the pan. He lets Wade take a piece from the plate.

“Besides, I kept waking up because my dreams were being haunted by this sexy lumberjack looking figure, and I woke up with a raging hard-on that I had to take care of every-” Logan tunes him out, he had quickly learned to filter out through what Wade is saying, and what he can tune out. He flips the bacon, then stirs the eggs in the other pan where he’s keeping them warm on low heat.

There’s a hand in his hair, and that makes his focus snap back to Wade and his yapping. 

“You know, I always wonder if you roll out of bed with these little tufts.” Logan pushes his hand away, letting the claws out just enough so he knicks Wade’s skin. 

“Ouchie, someone’s a grump this morning. You’ve clearly not gotten enough caffeine in your hot bod yet. We should get that coffee that has a fuckton of it, the one with the skull or whatever, that lethal shit. Wonder if that would actually kill you, do you think your heart could give out on you? I think they even make you sign a wai-” Logan tunes him out again and wonders what it will take to shut Wade up. He is right, Logan has not had enough coffee for this. (Or booze, but he’s trying to do a little less of that.) 

Logan absentmindedly notices one of Wade’s scars on his cheek looks kinda almost like an H if he squints, so he does, and his mind drifts to the Honda. Unintentional, though not an unwelcome or unknown train of thought.

He’d rather not get blood on his bacon right now, so he goes for another component of the things that transpired in that surprisingly spacious car.

He steps towards Wade and turns, leaning forward, pressing his lips against Wade’s. It’s a brief kiss, but Wade doesn’t immediately say anything as Logan leans back just enough to gauge his reaction. He's enjoying the silence as Wade's eyes are flickering all over his face.

Wade’s mouth is gaping like a fish, opening and closing before his brain is booting back up. It makes Logan snort as he leans back all the way back.

The silence lasts for maybe thirty seconds, which Logan uses to turn and flip the bacon without it being in danger of being stolen.

“What the fuck peanut? You interupted me mid-monologue, that was fucking rude you-”

“Thought it would shut you up, but I see that didn’t work.” Logan takes a step to the side and away from Wade, but is hauled back and turned by hands twisted in the collar of his flannel.

“Oh no, you are not going anywhere until I get an explanation, or more.” Logan arches a brow, hands at his side, not touching Wade. The urge to punch or stab him is rising. 

And the urge to kiss him. 

Again. 

He knows all of those options would work for Wade.

And for him.

“I gave you an explanation.” 

“Grew tired of the claws old man? Don’t wanna stab this supple fle-”

Guillermo opens his eyes to darkness. Lungs that have not needed to breathe for years pull in air and let it out in a sigh.

"Happy anniversary," he murmurs to himself. He never tries to keep track. Honestly, he'd much rather forget, and most of the time he manages not to think about it at all. But when the day comes, Guillermo is always painfully aware of it.

Twenty years. He still marvels at it, sometimes. Absentmindedly he presses a tongue to a fang. It hasn't been a bad twenty years, either. He's built himself a good life, made friends, became a name to respect in the vampire circles of Brooklyn. It's not what he'd had in mind when he was human, but 364 days of the year he's perfectly happy with his life.

But on his anniversary, he can't stop thinking about old dreams, can't stop thinking about how quickly it all seemed to fall apart. Can't stop thinking about what might have been.

If he was still a human, he'd have already been up for hours doing chores but he'd be going to wake up Nandor, setting out his clothes, preparing for the night. If he was a vampire...who knows? Maybe bossing around whoever the new familiar is. God, he'd be such a pain in the ass. It's easy to let go of control in his own house, but after spending over a decade as a familiar, he'd never be able to stop himself from correcting people on the right way to do things. His way.

Guillermo finds Nandor already awake, their familiar fumbling with the clasps on his shirt.

"You've got them backwards," Guillermo says. "You have to tilt them towards you--no, the other way--" He lets out an exasperated sigh and crosses the room. "Oh, just let me do it. Go, I don't know, dust or something. And use the feather duster on the antiques, they're delicate aaand he's gone." He lets out a humph of annoyance and undoes all the clasps the familiar has already managed to bungle.

He glances up at Nandor, whose eyes are shining with amusement.

"Shut up. Shut up!" he says again when Nandor chuckles. "I just want it done right!"

"At least you let him try to do it now."

"He can do the important stuff when he proves he can do it right." He finishes the clasps and adjusts the edges so everything is straight and neat. He helps Nandor slide on the robe and begins to do up the buttons, taking his time, because he can.

"My clothes are the important stuff?" Nandor asks.

"Don't you like it when I help you dress?"

An arm slides around his waist, pulling him close.

"I like it better when you help me take them off."

"I'm sure you do."

Nandor leans down, Guillermo stretches up--

The door to his room opens and the dream falls to embarrassing pieces.

"Good evening, master."

He plasters on a smile as his familiar opens the coffin lid.

"Good evening, Terry."

Guillermo still dresses himself. He's never been able to figure out a not-awkward way to ask his familiars to do it, let alone actually go through the process twice a day. Besides, he takes pride in remaining independent. If his familiar ever took off unexpectedly, he'd be able to do his own laundry and not let the house fall into--

He shakes the thought away and steps behind the screen.

"Alright, let's have it."

He likes Terry. She's his age--or the age he was when he was turned--and sharp as a knife, enough of a wise-ass to be able to trade friendly barbs, but smart enough to know what boundaries not to push.

"Marta called; the marquesa would love to be the keynote speaker at the Hispanic-American Vampire Society dinner, but she has a prior engagement on the day of, so we'd need to move it forward to the next week."

"Shit. Well, the invitations haven't gone out yet so we might be able to make it happen. Check with the venue and see if we can reschedule, and if not, if we can still get our deposit back. Then let Marta know."

He smiled, listening to her scribble down her notes. Terry had been a personal assistant before he ate her boss and offered to make her a vampire, and she had merged the two positions flawlessly. He had made a promise to himself, years ago, that he would never string his familiars along--five years at the most--but she's so competent he can already feel himself tempted to keep her around an extra year or two.

"Lord Montague called to ask if you were very sure you don't want to come to his party tonight."

"He called, or his familiar called to ask for him?"

"His familiar called," Terry admits.

"Never date a man who needs a third party to do the legwork for him. Tell him thanks but no thanks. What do I have today?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" He stepped out from behind the screen, giving her a puzzled look. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Terry said. Guillermo frowned, tugging at his sleeve cuffs. He usually tried to schedule at least one thing for today. It helped keep his mind off of things. The thought of sitting at home, watching TV, haunted by all the thoughts of things he couldn't have, was far from pleasant.

We'd be playing chess. We always play chess on Friday.

"You know what? Maybe I will go to that party."

-

Lord Montague was everything a vampire was supposed to be--handsome, rich, intelligent, confident to the point of being smug, and an excellent host. He threw parties that were talked about for centuries, he owned property and titles in four different countries, and he never missed a trick. Guillermo had been half-heartedly dodging his advances for the better part of the last decade, enjoying the attention too much to call it off and too bored by Montague’s pride to call it on.

It’s nice to be wanted, even if it wasn't by the right person.

And Montague is enough of an ass that Guillermo doesn’t feel bad about it..

"Guillermo!" Lord Montague spread his arms wide in welcome, his face split in a smile of genuine delight. He'd come to America in the 1920's and had never been able to let go of the outfits; he was dressed in a black suit with a bright red pocket scarf and his slicked back blonde hair was almost as shiny as his shoes. "So glad you could make it after all! I was worried you were serious about not coming."

"Well, I needed to get out of the house," Guillermo said, playfully, accepting the hug. He sidestepped when Montague tried to wrap his arm around his waist, but took the offered arm.

"Thomas!" Montague snapped his fingers and his familiar--a spindly middle-aged man who envied Guillermo more than just his status as familiar-turned-vampire--materialized beside him. "Take Mr de la Cruz's familiar to the familiar room. You're going to love this place," he told Guillermo, leading him up the stairs. "It used to be a gentlemen's club that was so exclusive, I had to kill three people before they'd start accepting applications to join."

Guillermo is only half listening, letting his eyes wander over the architecture. The art deco is quite beautiful, for all it's clearly been plastered on top of a fairly run-of-the-mill building.

The main room is set up around a large, polished dance floor. Tables and chairs cluster around the edges; at the back of the room is a set of stairs that leads up to a mezzanine. There are a few people he knows; Guillermo waves but allows himself to be led without pause to the upper level. That is, of course, the whole point: for Montague to be seen arm-in-arm with the Guillermo de la Cruz.

"I'm so glad you could make it," Montague says again, "it would have been such a dull night without you. Look who's here!" Montague calls to his esteemed guests, before Guillermo can so much as open his mouth to answer.

Guillermo settles in, allows Montague to stand a little closer than is strictly necessary, and forcibly pushes all thoughts of anniversaries firmly out of his mind. He is determined to have a nice night.

He gets forty minutes.

It really isn't fair, he is having a good time when Thomas appears and leans in--between Guillermo and Montague, of course, in such a way that Guillermo has to back away a step--to whisper in his master's ear that his special guests have arrived. Guillermo glances down the stairs to the door and feels his blood run cold.

It's entirely in his mind, of course. His blood hasn't run in twenty years, but he can feel the ice dripping through his veins all the same. Of course Montague would want them to come, of course he would invite them to the upper level, nothing could be better than to have the heads of the vampiric council arrive at his party.

He debates running. Maybe if he grabs Montague and drags him into a closet; he's willing to fuck the man if it means avoiding this interaction.

Too late.

Montague, ever the gregarious host, is moving towards the stairs to greet them. Guillermo has only seconds to decide how to play this.

Cold and contemptuous? You want aloof, I'll show you aloof; you are something I've stepped in and I'm just looking for a stick to scrape you off with.

Warm and friendly? I'm not hurt at all, look how well I've done for myself, I'm happy and successful and I hope you are too because I'm taking the high road.

Disinterested? Oh, right, you, I remember, it's been so long, I've hardly thought about you.

He’s relieved that he feels no urge to fling himself at Nandor's feet and beg to be taken back. At least he has some dignity.

Civil. He'll be civil at the start, polite and friendly, and adjust according to however Nandor decides to react.

The eyes of Nandor, Nadja, and Laszlo are all fixed on him within seconds. Laszlo looks contemptuous, Nadja enraged, Nandor...

Confused. Confused, and lost.

Guillermo grits his teeth against the urge to comfort, to explain, to forgive, to bend over backward trying to smooth the wrinkle from his brow.

Shit, Nandor hasn't changed a bit. Of course he hasn't; vampires don't change, they don't age, but still. It's like something out of a nightmare, how Nandor has stepped straight out of old and painful memories.

His cape pin is slightly off-center, and it makes his collar crooked. Guillermo wonders if he did it himself, or if he's found a new familiar to dress him--if he has, they aren't as good as Guillermo was. His fingers twitch with the urge to fix it.

"I'm sure everyone is familiar with our esteemed leaders--and consort," Montague adds, with a polite bow to Laszlo. "But let me make introductions! This is Lilith of the Veil, Morgoth the Unseen, Guillermo--"

"We've met," Laszlo interrupts, icily. To Guillermo he nods and says "Gizmo."

Guillermo's eyes narrow slightly at the old nickname, but he puts on a smile.

"I was actually Nandor's familiar," he tells Montague, in a lighthearted tone he doesn't feel in the slightest.

"Bodyguard."

The correction must be automatic, because Nandor looks about as surprised as Guillermo feels.

"A little of both," Guillermo acedes.

"That's right," Lilith says with a gasp. "I always forget you were a familiar! Oh, what a fun little reunion!"

"Yes," Guillermo says, not quite managing to meet Nandor’s eyes. "Nice to see you guys again. We'll have to catch up."

If I can't find a way to escape, first.

Guillermo is not avoiding anyone. He's not going out of his way to interact with them, but he's not avoiding them. Especially not Nandor.

Unfortunately, they seem to be doing the same thing, so for the last hour the four of them have been trading glances of varying levels of disquiet from opposite sides of the room and not coming within ten feet.

Occasionally Guillermo sees Nandor in hissed arguments with the others. He'd give anything to know what they're saying.

Montague's hand slides around Guillermo's waist, and Guillermo just manages not to sigh. Instead, he moves slightly so Montague can't quite get the right grip...but Montague just shifts positions with him. The two of them are now hip-to-hip, and it's not a problem, but Guillermo is not in the mood to play hard-to-get.

As subtly as he can, he jams his thumbnail into the web between Montague's thumb and forefinger, digging in hard. Montague jerks his hand away, and Guillermo gives him a placid smile.

"Excuse me," he says to everyone. "I've got to uh...visit the little bat's room."

This is met with much amusement. It always is, no matter how many times he makes that joke. Maybe they're just being nice.

He ducks into the first room he finds and shuts the door behind him. The window is cracked open; he rests his forehead against it and lets the cold air clear his head.

It doesn't really work. It works even less when he sees the reflection of the door open by itself. He almost hopes it's Montague, but the half-hope is dashed almost immediately.

"You don't seem very happy with him," Nandor says.

"I'm not with him. I'm just here. But I am happy," he hurries to add. "I'm very happy."

"But not with him," Nandor persists. Guillermo turns and frowns at him.

"What's it to you if I am?"

"I do not understand the question."

"Why do you care if I'm with him or not?"

"I don't. I was just surprised that you would be spending time with anyone who does not make you happy."

"I spent twelve years with you, didn't I?" The words fly out before he can stop them. Nandor doesn't flinch or puff up. He just looks away, eyes roving over the wall.

"I made you unhappy."

Guillermo can't tell if it's a question or not. Nandor doesn't say anything else, and Guillermo can't stand the silence.

"How have you been?" he asks.

"Good," Nandor says, quickly. "I am good. Things are...normal."

"Good. That's good."

"You are good also?"

"Yeah, I'm–I'm great. I'm doing fantastic."

"Good. Great."

Another uneasy silence falls. Nandor fiddles with his cape. Guillermo stares at the crooked pin. If you tilted the collar towards yourself and twisted your head to see past your own chin, it might look straight.

If he has a new familiar, he doesn’t let them dress him.

…doesn’t make them dress him.

"I noticed Colin Robinson isn't with you," he says at last.

"Oh, you did not hear. He died."

"What?”

"No it was fine," Nandor says, waving a hand. "He came back. Sort of. But he came back as a little baby and is growing up at the regular human speed, so he is too young for a party. Apparently it is an energy vampire thing."

"Oh. Wow, that's--Holy shit."

"You should come to the house and remeet him," Nandor says, and Guillermo can tell he regrets saying it the second the words are out of his mouth. "Or whatever."

Guillermo doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know what he'd do if he went back to that house.

He is saved from having to answer when the door opens again. This time it is Montague, and he looks far from happy to have found Guillermo sequestered away with someone else.

"There you are," he says, with a brittle smile. "I thought you were taking an awfully long time."

"Barely five minutes," Nandor says, annoyed.

"We were just catching up," Guillermo explains. "It's been twenty years since we've seen each other."

"In four days it will be twenty exactly."

"No, twenty years exactly today." Guillermo corrects. He should be flattered Nandor is even that close to correct. He even remembered the right number of years.

What is he saying, of course he shouldn't be flattered. Why does it matter is Nandor remembers?

"Is not," Nandor corrects right back. "You left twenty years ago in four days."

Guillermo blinked at him. Was that really how many days he'd stayed? It had felt like so much less than that.

...Nandor could remember when he left, but not when he was turned.

"Right. You turned me into a vampire twenty years ago today."

"What!" Montague interjects, scandalized, almost forgetting his annoyance. "Guillermo, how could you? You should have told me it was your anniversary, I would have thrown the party for you!"

"I never celebrate," Guillermo says, firmly, in a tone that he hopes gets across the fact that if he goes back out there in ten minutes to a chorus of 'for he's a jolly good vampire' he will never speak to Montague again, and quite possibly remove a limb before he goes. "Ever. I'll be back," he says, cutting off Montague's protests. "Your guests are waiting."

It comes out a lot colder than he wanted it to but he can't handle the balancing act of Montague and Nandor at the same time. He tells himself he'll make it up to Montague later.

Or maybe he won't, he thinks, when the door shuts very sharply. The man's a brat, and he's not nearly as endearing about it as--

"You don't celebrate ever?" Nandor echoes.

"No."

"But you were so excited to be a vampire." He sounds strange. "You wanted it more than anything."

"Because it's not a happy memory," Guillermo snaps. "I'd rather forget it, but I can't, so I don't celebrate and I try not to think about it, and I was doing a great job of it until you got here!"

"I made you a vampire!" Nandor puffs up, indignantly. "I gave you what you wanted! You were the one who left!"

"What? What does that--do you not remember how you did it? You acted like it was a chore."

"Oh, so you left because I did not give you roses and moonlight, that is it?" Nandor says, bitterly. "If I did poetry, you would have stayed?"

Guillermo would be blushing if he still could. Embarrassment crawls up his chest all the same, leaving him feeling exposed and ashamed. He'd thought he'd done a very good job hiding how he felt about Nandor, but clearly not, if Nandor knew how to use it to needle him.

"I don't want to fight about this in here," Guillermo says, rubbing his temples.

"So we go somewhere else and fight about it there," Nandor says, drawing himself up and glaring at Guillermo. "I am not afraid of you, Guillermo de la Cruz."

He remembered my name. Guillermo tries to kick the thought to death. Standards, Guillermo, you have standards now, for fuck's sake.

"You want to fight?" he asks.

"Yes I do."

"Okay." He rips the screen out of the window in one vicious tug.

A few moments later two large brown bats are fluttering through the streets of Manhattan looking for a place to duke it out without witnesses. They pick a nearby office building that's high enough that their shouting won't been overheard on the street, but not so high that it strains their wings to reach.

They land and regard each other in silence.

Where to even start? With the shitty turning, done without kindness or ceremony? With the emotional neglect? With Colin Robinson being the nicest person in the house to him for a whole week? With everyone driving it home at every available opportunity that they couldn't care less if he lived or died?

Nandor's back hits the wall hard, but he surges forward to meet Guillermo's mouth in the middle. His lips are cold, but the kiss is burning hot and every place they touch feels electric. Nandor manages to get his hands under Guillermo's shirt; Guillermo moans against his lips.

He's not thinking, neither of them is thinking--not with their heads, anyway. There is nothing but the need. They grapple with buttons and zippers and belts.

'Quick and dirty' doesn't even begin to come close. Guillermo has had some rough and frantic asignations in his time, even before he was a vampire, but they are nothing to the feverish desperation of himself and Nandor jerking each other off on the roof of an office building in midtown Manhattan. It feels like seconds--and it probably isn't much longer in actuality--before Nandor buries his face in Guillermo's neck, shuddering under his touch, free hand digging into Guillermo's shoulder.

It's the smell of Nandor's hair, so achingly familiar, dredging up memories of countless nights spent brushing and oiling the long, dark locks, that drags Guillermo over the edge.

For a few glorious moments, the world is perfect. Nandor is in his arms; the release has left them boneless; there is no pain to speak of. All is as it should be.

The afterglow sours quickly. All those thoughts come back, sharp as knives. What the fuck did he just do? What was he thinking? Had he forgotten how Nandor treated him?

He needs to go home. He needs to go home, now, and clean up, and never think about this ever again.

When he starts to pull away, though, Nandor's grip tightens.

"Please." The word is barely a whisper.

Nandor lifts his head and presses his mouth against Guillermo's cheek, leaning against him like he might collapse without the contact. His other hand slides out of Guillermo's pants and tangles in his shirt. Guillermo can feel the cold wetness of his own cum seeping through the fabric, and wonders which would be less mortifying--letting Terry see it or having to hand it over to the dry cleaners himself.

"Please," Nandor says again.

Even so, Guillermo's not going to stand here with his dick hanging out in the cold, even if he can't freeze anymore. Guillermo adjusts his position so his chest is still pressed against Nandor's, but frees up his hands to make them both something approaching decent. Then he wraps his arms around Nandor and hugs him tightly.

To Guillermo's surprise, although it probably shouldn't be so surprising, tears well up in his eyes. It's his turning all over again. On the rare occasions he allowed himself to daydream about this, he always imagined something special. Oh, he'd fantasized more than once about fucking or being fucked up against a wall, but not for their first time. If he ever got so lucky, he'd planned on it being something worth remembering. Something tender and precious, with loving words and a lingering touch, drawn out desire and exploration.

Not a mutual handjob on a dirty rooftop, with barely a word spoken and all this tangled up mess between them.

How could he do this to me? Treat me like shit, drive me out, and then fuck me and say please. What am I supposed to do now?

"What do you want from me?" Guillermo asks, hoarsely.

"This," Nandor murmurs, nuzzling Guillermo's temple, turning the press of his mouth against Guillermo's skin into a kiss. "This."

"This?" Guillermo jerks back, or tries to. Nandor's still holding on too tightly, Guillermo can barely get a step away. "What do you mean this? Back alley fucking? And don't you say we're on a rooftop, I know we're on a rooftop, that's not the point."

"You," Nandor says, desperately. "I want you. This. Us."

"Us."

Nandor leans in for a kiss, eyes sliding shut.

"Us," he says again. Guillermo grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him back.

"Why now? Why now, after all this time? After everything--everything I went through, why--why now?" He pulls free, knocking Nandor's hands away. But Nandor surges up and wraps his arms tightly around Guillermo, clinging to him.

"Come home to me," he says, and Guillermo's legs nearly give out with how badly he wants it. Nandor's voice is hoarse and low and it tears through every wall Guillermo tries to put up. "Come home, Guillermo. Every day I have missed you, I have wanted you. I will do anything you say, everything you say, but do not leave me again." His voice trembles as he pleads. "Show me mercy, Guillermo."

Guillermo wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants--more than anything--to say yes.

"Why now?" he asks again. "Why not twenty years ago? What am I doing now that I wasn't doing then?"

"I was stronger then," Nandor says. "All this time, the thought of you has haunted me, and now that I have held you in my arms--do not send me back alone, Guillermo. Do you want me to beg? I will beg. Just tell me what I must do to make you want to stay, and I will do it."

It is everything Guillermo has ever wanted to hear, and it's twenty years too late.

"What do you mean 'all this time'?" He pulls away from Nandor, though the man's hands cling to him, fingers grasping desperately as Guillermo steps away. "You didn't care! You said you didn't care! You told me--"

"I told you if you wanted to stay, you could stay, and you left! You didn't want to stay!"

"Did you want me to stay?" A terrible, horrible thought is beginning to occur, and Guillermo wants--needs--to be wrong. "Nandor, twenty years ago when I asked you if you wanted me to stay, you said you didn't care. Did you?"

"I wanted you to do what you wanted to do!" Nandor says, not quite looking him in the eye.

"But what did you want me to do? If it had been up to you--"

"It was your decision--"

"Did you want me to stay?"

"Yes!"

It's not quiet enough for the word to echo; even up here the sounds of traffic are too loud. But the word bangs around in Guillermo's skull, drowning out any other thoughts.

"I wanted you to stay," Nandor says bitterly, almost spitting the words out. "But you didn't want to stay."

Guillermo laughs. It's a soft, awful, poisonous laugh.

"See," he says, "the thing is...you didn't act like you didn't care. You acted like you couldn't stand the sight of me. You acted like I was this massive inconvenience you couldn't wait to get rid of. The second you bit me, you all started treating me differently. You guys were nicer to me when I was a familiar. Every chance you got one of you would put me down or shut me out. You didn't even want to teach me how to be a vampire! You would barely even look at me!"

Nandor is starting to put the pieces together; Guillermo can see it in his eyes.

"No," Nandor says, and Guillermo nods. "No, no, no--"

Guillermo smiles. The motion makes the tears in his eyes spill out and over. Isn't it funny? A fucking comedy of errors. All he'd had to do was stay. All Nandor had had to do was ask. He can't even feel angry about it. He feels nothing but grief. He could have stayed. None of this had to happen. He and Nandor could have been--

Nandor steps back, then again. He hit the wall and slumps as if stabbed. Guillermo starts to laugh again.

"All this time--I thought--And you thought--" He throws his hands up in despair. "And now we find out, when it's too late." Guillermo finally loses that terrible smile. "It's too late."

"Why?" Nandor says, abruptly. "Why is it too late?"

"It's been twenty years--"

"So what if it is twenty years? So what if it is a hundred years?" Some inner fire lights itself in Nandor's eyes. He straightens up and fixes Guillermo with a fierce stare. "I want you to come home. If you want to come home, you can! There is nothing stopping any of us!"

"I have my own life now! I have a house and a familiar and work--"

"Then I can come to you! I will leave Staten Island and move to wherever you are."

"Seriously? You'd just pack up everything and move into my house in Brooklyn."

"I don't even need my things! Forget my stupid things!"

"But what about the others?"

"What about them? They are my friends, they will always be my friends, but if you do not want to come back to Staten Island, I will go to wherever you are. It is not too late!" Nandor strides across the roof and grabs Guillermo's hands in his; the fire in his eyes leaves Guillermo light-headed. "I will not let it be too late!"

"Why didn't you just ask me to stay?" Guillermo asks. "None of this would have happened--"

"The same reason you did not ask me why I was acting as I was; the same reason you left when you wanted to stay. I was afraid that if I told you what I wanted, you would not care."

Nandor's grip on Guillermo's hands shifts so he is cradling instead of clinging.

"I have sired many vampires and none of them ever stayed. Whatever they said before I turned them, in the end none of them ever wanted me. The harder I tried to make them stay, the worse it was when they left. When you said you would leave it broke my heart. But to hear you say no if I asked you to stay...it would have broken me."

Guillermo swallows hard. He wishes his heart could still beat, he wishes his lungs would gasp for air. His body is so horribly, terribly still, even though his mind is a screaming swirl of emotions. There is no outlet, unless he starts screaming uncontrollably, which he hasn't entirely taken off the table.

"None of this had to happen!" Guillermo says. "We could have been happy, we could have--"

"We can still be happy now! You are mad at me, so be mad! But be mad at me in Staten Island, or in Brooklyn! I do not care if you are mad about this for the rest of my life, as long as you are there for the rest of my life."

Guillermo stares, speechless, into the blazing brown eyes. This is Nandor the Relentless, and that ferocity that had once levelled cities is now turned towards Guillermo. Nandor saw love within his reach and that stare said he was willing to tear the world apart to get to it.

I will not let it be too late.

Fuck if that isn't the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to Guillermo in his life.

"I love you," Guillermo says.

How could he say anything else?

-

Guillermo decides he'll count this time as their first time, under the excuse that even if it's their second time having sex, it's their first time making love. And it's infinitely better. They're in a bed, for one, and significantly more comfortable. But even if it the sex was terrible, it would be perfect, because he is so, so in love.

The sex isn't terrible. Nandor is very good.

(Guillermo is better, but he doesn't say anything, because it's not a competition even if he's winning. He keeps his mouth shut and takes private satisfaction in the way Nandor's eyes roll so far back in his head he might be looking at his own brain.)

He makes himself stay in the moment, refuses to think about how this could have been happening twenty years ago, it should have happened. It's happening now, and right now, that's the most important thing.

Well, the most important thing is that if Guillermo holds Nandor's hips like this and thrusts in at this angle, Nandor makes sounds like a dying animal which are--paradoxically--extremely sexy.

But not letting lost time ruin a perfect moment is a close second.

They don't call it quits until Nandor's arms give out while he's on top and he nearly headbutts Guillermo as he collapses.

"Okay," Nandor says, face pressed against Guillermo's shoulder. "I think I need a break."

"Let's call it a night," Guillermo suggests.

"Until tomorrow night," Nandor says, hopefully. Guillermo hums in agreement and kisses Nandor's forehead. He's more tired than he would have thought, even discounting the extremely vigorous sex, but he suspects something about the resolution of twenty years of grief might have something to do with it.

"It's late. I don't want you to go," Guillermo says, because when he learns a lesson he learns it, "but you don't have a lot of time to get back to Staten Island from here."

"I also do not want me to go," Nandor says. "So I will not go."

"You won't be able to sleep," Guillermo says.

"I will watch you do it," Nandor says softly, tracing a fingertip across Guillermo's cheekbone. "There are worse ways to spend a day."

Guillermo wants to argue, but he's losing the fight to keep his eyes open. Nandor smiles at him.

"Goodnight, Guillermo."

"Mi amor," Guillermo murmurs, and is asleep in seconds.

-

The soft knock on the door doesn't wake him, but Nandor sitting up does. He raises his head as the door creaks open. Terry sticks her head in.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Terry? Terry!" He sits bolt upright, nearly banging into Nandor. "Oh my god, I left you at the party--"

"Lord Montague is not a happy vampire," she tells him. "Like, declare the two of you his mortal enemies not happy."

Guillermo rolls his eyes.

"Fucking drama queen. Whatever. He didn't threaten you or anything, did he?"

"No, I wasn't there for that; I left right after you did."

"How did you know I left?"

"You put that 'find my phone' app thing on your phone; I use it to track your movements."

"Excuse me?"

"Anyway, long story short," Terry holds up a large leather satchel, "I have some of Nandor's ancestral soil so he can actually sleep while he sleeps over. Laszlo and Nadja say congratulations, by the way, but they sounded pretty sarcastic."

"She's an even better familiar than you were," Nandor says, impressed.

"I flew to Iran to get you--fine, whatever. She's great."

Terry crosses the room, her eyes carefully averted, and hands Nandor the bag.

"Thank you," he says, with a small bow. Terry gives him a bright smile and Guillermo a big thumbs up, and slips out again.

"We're talking about this tracking my movements thing," Guillermo calls after her.

"No we aren't," she says, and shuts the door.

Nandor tosses the bag of dirt under the bed and flops back with a relieved sigh. Guillermo settles down next to him, but Nandor insistently pulls him into his arms, so Guillermo's head is resting on his shoulder and his arm is across his chest.

Guillermo's eyes begin to sting again. Twenty years. Twenty years of this they could have had, and hadn't. All that time, lost, wasted, because they were too afraid--

"You know the good thing about living forever is that lost time is not so much. If we were going to die at ninety, twenty years is so much of our lifetimes. But for us, we have many twenties ahead of us. In a few hundred years it will seem like nothing."

Guillermo pushes himself up onto his elbow. Nandor's expression is very serious.

"It feels like a long time to me."

"Yes. But the long time is over. Everything is downhill from here."

"Uphill," Guillermo corrects. Nandor frowns.

"No, downhill. Uphill is harder. Downhill is easy. No more struggles."

"Aha," Guillermo says. "My mistake."

"I am tired of hurting," Nandor says. "I want to be happy."

"I want you to be happy, too." He leans down and presses his lips to Nandor's. By the time the kiss is over, Nandor is asleep. Guillermo smiles and tugs the blanket up over the two of them.

-

Guillermo opens his eyes to darkness.

"Happy anniversary," he whispers to himself.

There is a playful knocking on his coffin lid. Before Guillermo can answer, the lid swings open, and Nandor grins down at him.

"Happy anniversary. Twenty-one years a vampire, very exciting!"

Guillermo grabs Nandor by the shirt and hauls him down into the coffin. Nandor disappears inside with a yelp, the lid banging shut behind him. Guillermo only got the larger coffin because he likes a little more room (he's still not quite used to it, even after twenty years). That Nandor is able to fit quite snugly inside with him is just a bonus.

"One year of you and me," Guillermo says. "Even more exciting."

Nandor's grin gets wider.

"That is an extra happy anniversary."

"I can tell you're extra happy," Guillermo says.

"You make me extra happy. Have you ever had happy anniversary sex? It is very good."

"Can't say I have," Guillermo says, his hands sliding from Nandor's chest to his back, and then his lower back. "I--"

There is a sharp rap on the coffin.

"I hate to interrupt, Master, but you did instruct me to remind you that you always regret having sex in the coffin."

"Do you just hide out there and listen in?" Guillermo demands.

"No, but I saw Nandor go in, and the door isn't shut, and I know you."

"Terry, you are being the buzzkill."

"Sorry, Nandor. I have my orders."

"No, she's right," Guillermo sighs. He pats Nandor on the ass, earning himself a playful little squirm. "Come on. We can do all kinds of weird anniversary sex on the bed."

"Ah-ah," Nandor stops him and boops him on the nose. "On the ceiling."

"On the--No. We are not having sex on the ceiling."

"It is our anniversary!"

"That's not--Ceiling. Okay, cariño, whatever you want."

Nandor leans down and presses their lips together in a slow kiss. When he pulls away his expression is one of such adoration Guillermo forgets that he doesn't need to breathe, and feels breathless.

"You are whatever I want," he murmurs. Guillermo melts.

"Mi amor--"

Knock knock.

"Master--"

"Terry, go dust something and let me make my regrettable decisions in peace."

"Okay," she says in a tone that says 'I'm not going to verbally tell you I told you so but I am going to say it very loudly with my eyes when you have to ask me to clean the vampire semen out of your coffin and you will have to ask me even though I know you're going to want me to do it'.

But Nandor is nibbling on his neck and it's their anniversary and Guillermo couldn't care less.

What the hell was that? Had Guillermo just--? Had he really just--? And without even a word of explanation?

None of his familiars had ever–He couldn’t even remember his wives just walking up and kissing him out of the blue!

He tried to think back, if Guillermo had been acting any different that day, but came up with nothing. It had been a perfectly ordinary–if boring and frustrating–day. Right up until Guillermo…did that.

Should Nandor do something? He should do something. For starters, get up out of his coffin and track down his familiar and demand to know what he was thinking. And Guillermo would answer, oh yes. He’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Nandor started awake at the sound of a door opening nearby.

"Good evening, Master!" Guillermo called, cheerfully.

Nandor said nothing, staring fixedly at the darkness, mind whirling.

So...had that been a dream? It must have been. But it was so real, and it didn't have any of the strangeness of a dream--except for the part where Guillermo had kissed him.

A goodnight kiss.

He put his fingers to his lips, as if he would be able to feel some sign of Guillermo’s touch, some mark or bruise. But even if Nandor was able to bruise, it hadn't been that kind of kiss. It was just...nice.

"Master? Are you awake?"

"I am awake," Nandor said. He listened to Guillermo bustle around the room, and thought hard, trying to remember the night before. Did he remember going to bed twice? Or was that the night before?

The coffin lid rose, and a sudden thought jolted through him--if it had really happened, would Guillermo kiss him good morning, too?

But Guillermo just gave him his usual, cheerful smile and held out a hand to help Nandor up.

Nandor eyed Guillermo warily as his familiar dressed him, looking for something, anything that could indicate something had happened the night before. A blush on Guillermo’s face, a nervous stiffness to his motions, some sly sideways glance, a self-satisfied smirk at his own cleverness for confounding his master.

Nothing. Not a hint, not a twitch, nothing.

It must have been a dream.

But it felt so real. If Nandor thought about it, he could still feel Guillermo’s lips, the warmth radiating from his skin--

Nandor felt a familiar stirring, and very quickly shoved the thought away. That was the absolute last thing he needed while he was being dressed by his familiar who may or may not have snuck a very sneaky kiss the night before.

"Guillermo…"

"Yes Master?"

The words did you kiss me last night stuck in his throat like a lump. If the answer was no, it would be such a weird thing to ask, and raise the question of why exactly Nandor was dreaming about kissing his familiar-- of his familiar kissing him, he corrected.

If the answer was yes, it would--

Well.

Nandor wasn't sure what he'd do if the answer was yes.

"Nevermind."

The thoughts haunted him the entire day, gnawing at his brain. He bounced between picking apart every facet of the dream/memory and watching Guillermo like a hawk for any evidence one way or the other.

But as the evening wore on, and Nandor was no more certain of the truth, a new thought took hold, more concerning with each passing hour.

Was it going to happen again?

Nandor half wanted to dismiss Guillermo early and get ready by himself, just to avoid finding out. He didn’t, because for some reason that felt like admitting defeat–to himself, to Guillermo, or to the universe at large, he wasn’t sure.

By the time dawn arrived, Nandor was almost a wreck. He didn’t want to give any indication that anything was wrong–if it had been a dream, then he didn’t want to be awkward for no reason, if it was real, he didn’t want Guillermo to know just how easily he could get to him.

It was agonizing to act normal as Guillermo undressed him, as if he wasn’t waiting on pins and needles for, for something. Waiting for fingers to trail over his skin, for the hands adjusting his clothes to press against his body, for Guillermo to lean just a little too close.

"Master?"

"What?" Nandor said, startled.

"Is everything ok?" Guillermo’s expression was worried. "You've been really...intense today."

"No. Yes. Everything is fine."

Guillermo’s hand didn't linger any more than usual when Nandor ascended the steps to his coffin. Nandor’s whole body was tense as he lay down, wound like a spring, braced for the first sign of, of anything.

"Goodnight, Guillermo. "

"Goodnight, Master," Guillermo said.

And began to close the lid.

"Wait!"

Guillermo jerked the lid up, startled.

"What? What's wrong?"

Nandor opened and shut his mouth a few times, floundering, trying to find something to say other than aren’t you going to kiss me?

"I...that…Did you forget something?"

"Uhhh…" Guillermo looked around the room, and down at Nandor. "Did I?"

"I don't know," Nandor said. "I was just...checking. If there was anything you thought you should do."

It had been a dream. It had to have been a dream. There was no way anyone could fake that kind of bafflement, that open and honest confusion.

“Nevermind,” Nandor muttered, and laid back down again.

“Are you sure?”

“What?” Nandor whispered. Guillermo’s eyes seemed very dark, and there was a look in them–calculating and curious–that reminded Nandor very much of what he’d seen the night before.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else,” Guillermo said, and just like that, he was Guillermo again. Regular, unassuming, reliable Guillermo. The change was so abrupt, so complete, Nandor couldn’t tell if it had even actually happened, or if he’d just been expecting it.

“I’m sure,” Nandor said, though privately he wondered if he ever would be.

“Alright. Goodnight, Master.” Guillermo carefully shut the lid.

Nandor waited until he heard the door open and shut, and then let out a sigh.

“May I buy you a drink?” he asks instead, eyes crinkling around the corners.

Geralt can’t remember the last time a person offered to buy him a drink. Or anything.

“Why?” he asks, skeptical.

Jaskier blinks once before he’s smiling slyly, leaning forward. “Because your swords aren’t the only intriguing thing about you,” he purrs.

Geralt stares at him, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Or hearing. And maybe it’s the fact he didn’t question his appearance, or comment on his horns, but he finds himself saying:

“Okay.”

And that was how their relationship began.

After that, Jaskier follows him. He doesn’t ask, of course, but Geralt doesn’t exactly turn him away. He thinks he probably should—life on the road is dangerous, and Jaskier is many things, but he isn’t a fighter—but he doesn’t have the energy.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. Better than admitting the truth—that he actually kind of enjoys the bard’s company.

It’s on their third week of traveling together that Jaskier returns from the market, tasked with gathering supplies for their travels. He smiles almost nervously, an odd look for him. His confidence was usually a constant, blinding thing.

“I might’ve bought something.”

Geralt looks up, sighing heavily. “We’re low on money, Jaskier,” he dryly reminds him. They couldn’t afford many luxuries at the moment. They were lucky they had even been able to rent a room for the night.

“I—I know,” he says, fast, “but it wasn’t expensive, I swear, and I just—I couldn’t help myself.”

Geralt’s curiosity is undeniable. He hates himself for it. “Well?” he prompts impatiently. “What is it?”

Jaskier shuffles closer. “You can’t laugh. Or be mad.”

He arches an eyebrow. “No promises.”

Evidently satisfied with just that, Jaskier digs something out of his bag. He reaches out and opens his palm. Geralt blinks slowly. In the palm of his hand is a sparkling necklace, adorned with gems of different colors; blue, red, green.

Geralt doesn’t laugh. He looks up. “For you?”

Jaskier laughs sheepishly, shakes his head. Geralt squints, frowning. He doesn’t know why the next logical conclusion makes his stomach churn.

“For your latest conquest?”

Jaskier smiles again, a little more confident. “Sure,” he says, chipper. “If my latest conquest is a grouchy old man with a horse named Roach.”

Geralt is surprised for a multitude of reasons. “I don’t—” But he can’t say he doesn’t wear necklaces; his medallion is a weighted reminder that he does. But the necklace is objectively too small for that. There was no way it would stretch around his neck. “That won’t fit.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Oh, no, I know that.”

Geralt feels like he’s missing a piece of the puzzle, and he doesn’t like it. “Why would you buy it, then?”

“I could, uh, show you,” he offers, shifting on his feet.

Geralt isn’t so sure he trusts him—it’s just been a few weeks—but he also isn’t scared of him. He’s human, and weak. “Okay.”

Jaskier beams, brighter than the sun. Geralt has to look away. He climbs on the bed, behind him. Geralt’s fingers twitched, drawn to his sword, but he resists. As much as he likes to pretend he doesn’t trust Jaskier, he does. Enough to know he wouldn’t hurt him. But then he feels it; something brushing against one of his horns and he stiffens.

He doesn’t have much feeling in them, but enough to know Jaskier is messing with them. Why?

Before he can vocalize his discomfort, or curiosity, or maybe even anger, Jaskier is sliding off the bed and scrambling back to his previous spot. He takes one look at Geralt and—he grins, eyes sparkling.

“What?” he asks gruffly, reaching up to feel, but Jaskier stops him.

“Here,” he says, rushing over to grab a shard of a broken mirror off the dresser. He returns with it, and Geralt takes the shard, peering at his reflection.

The necklace has been wrapped delicately around one of his horns—the right. He tilts his head, the precious stones glittering. “Jaskier,” he says. He’s not sure how he feels, or what to say. One thing is certain: he’s never worn jewelry or anything on or around his horns. He tried to do everything he could to hide them. To pretend like they didn’t exist.

This—this would just draw attention to them. “Take it off.”

He can smell Jaskier’s disappointment, heady in the air. “But—”

“Take them off,” he repeats.

Jaskier frowns, but obeys. He climbs back on the bed and gently removes the necklace. “I don’t understand,” he says after, standing with the necklace dangling from his hand. “I thought—I mean, I thought you’d like it.”

Geralt stares at him. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I know you don’t like them,” he answers quietly. Geralt doesn’t answer. He has nothing to say. Jaskier sits on the bed next to him. “I don’t understand why,” he continues, even quieter. He fidgets with the necklace. “I think your horns are really—”

Geralt suddenly stands. “We should sleep.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker to the window. “But it’s not even dark yet.”

“I don’t care,” he replied tersely. “I’m tired.”

Jaskier doesn’t argue. He knows better by now. He’s stubborn, and annoying, but a fast learner. They sleep and in the morning Geralt’s eyes search Jaskier’s belongings as he packs, but the necklace is nowhere to be seen. He should be happy, but he isn’t. They leave after breakfast and travel for hours. Jaskier is uncharacteristically quiet.

Months later, they stop in a small town, unaware of the upcoming festival. Geralt is in a sour mood, and wants to leave immediately, but Jaskier convinces him to stay. (“Just for a day,” he had begged with wide, sparkling eyes. Geralt grunted, “Fine.”) But his mood stayed sour; he was searching for jobs, not festivals, full of food he can’t afford and loud children.

But at least Jaskier is adored by the townsfolk. He plays for them and sings to the children. They give him food, free of cost, and he splits every bit of it with Geralt despite his protests.

“You don’t have to,” he says, meaning it.

But Jaskier just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Take it, you big oaf.”

Later in the day, sky darkening, Jaskier rushes over followed by a hoard of children. He grimaces at the sight. He never has been particularly fond of children, but not for the reasons he assumed others would think. He just hated the way they looked at him, like he was a monster. The way some of them turned and ran at the sight of him.

But these children—they don’t run, or even stare at his horns.

Jaskier shoves a basket in his face. “Your turn.”

The basket is full of flowers, all different kinds. Geralt looks around at the children; all of them, even the boys, have flowers tucked in their hair if not outright crowns made of flowers, twisted together by the stems. He knew it was all thanks to Jaskier.

“I don’t think—” he starts to say, but then a young girl is grabbing his hand, tugging insistently.

“Please, mister,” she begs. The lump in his throat prevents him from talking. All he can do is nod. The children cheer, jumping and clapping their hands.

Geralt kind of feels like he’s dreaming as he sits on the ground and Jaskier stands behind him. His ear twitches when he feels Jaskier’s hand brush against one of his horns.

Finally, Jaskier clamps a hand down on his shoulder and turns toward the children. “Well?” he asks with a toothy grin.

The girl from before—Anne, as he now knew—rushes forward and throws herself at Geralt. He startles, catching her and blinking owlishly. “You’re so pretty, mister!”

Geralt looks up at Jaskier, still standing behind him. Jaskier just shrugs, looking pleased with himself.

Defeated, he looks back down and awkwardly pats the girl’s back.

Later, they return to the inn and Geralt forgets he even has something on his head until he passes a mirror in the hallway and pauses. Long enough that Jaskier backtracks and joins him. “What is it?”

Geralt had expected a flower crown, maybe, but he should’ve known better. Jaskier had wrapped both of his horns with the flowers.

“Oh,” Jaskier says when he notices the mirror, fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “Look, I know—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, turning to him. “The kids liked it. That’s all that matters.”

Visibly relaxing, Jaskier nods. “They liked you,” he corrects, quiet but firm.

Geralt wants to argue, but he can’t. He swallows thickly, turning away and continuing down the hall. “Not for long,” he says, tasting bile. Once they grew up, they would see him as a monster. Just like everyone else.

Jaskier turns, suddenly, grabbing his arm. He stops. They both know he could pull his arm away if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t; he just turns to him. Jaskier is watching him, frowning. “I told them all about you, Geralt,” he says. “All the stuff no one knows because they don’t bother to get to know you.”

“Why?” he asks instantly, not understanding.

Jaskier shrugs. “Because I think they deserve to know. To decide for themselves how they feel about you, and your kind. Not their parents. Not the general public.” Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never heard those words before. Jaskier smiles slightly, turning back toward the room. “Come on; I’ll get them off for you.”

Back in the room, he sits on the edge of the bed while Jaskier hums from behind him. Flower after flower drops in his lap. He resists the urge to shiver as Jaskier’s fingers brush his horns, over and over. They always have been sensitive, annoyingly so, as if their general existence wasn’t enough of a burden.

Finished, Jaskier plops back on the bed with a sigh. Geralt stands up and hesitates briefly, glancing at the pallet on the floor. Thus far, they hadn’t shared a bed.

“Stop thinking so much,” Jaskier mutters, “and get up here.”

Geralt’s head jerks up; Jaskier isn’t even looking at him. He smiles, if only because he knows he won’t be seen. Shredding his clothes, down to his loincloth, he crawls on the bed and settles next to Jaskier. It isn’t much of an improvement, really, lumpy and scratchy.

After a few minutes, Jaskier rolls over. His eyes are closed, but he isn’t asleep, not fully; Geralt can tell from the steady beat of his heart. He smiles slightly; “Your—your horns,” he mutters tiredly.

Geralt keeps himself from tensing, not wanting to jostle him, but his stomach twists painfully, preparing for the worst. In his half-sleepy state, maybe he would finally express how he really felt.

Jaskier turns his head, and his next words are muffled greatly, but Geralt still hears them, clear as day:

“–are cute,” he finishes.

Geralt doesn’t sleep very well that night.

It’s just a few weeks later that Jaskier convinces him to attend a banquet with him. “It’ll be good for us,” he says, bright-eyed. “Monetarily, I mean,” he adds. In just a few months, he has gotten to know him a little too well. “I’ll play, make some money. You can mingle, pick up some jobs.”

He’s hesitant at first, because he hates celebrations and nobles even more, but Jaskier has a point. Their money is dangerously low.

But there’s just one problem. “Do you think they’ll let me in?” he asks. It’s not a question bred from pity, but experience. He has been closed off from many places, celebrations and stores alike, after they got one look at him.

Jaskier pauses at the question, like he can’t believe he just asked it. “They invited me to play,” he says sternly, a hand to his chest. “And I was told to bring a guest of my choosing, and that is you. They can suck it up or leave us both at the door.”

It’s the bare minimum, he supposes, but he’s still warmed by the loyalty, though he would never say it in so many words.

Later, he approaches Jaskier. The banquet is soon, no longer than an hour away. “Can you help me?”

Jaskier startles, looking up from the stack of parchment precariously balancing on his thigh. “Uh,” he says before he shakes his head, hard, and pushes the stack out of his lap. “Sure. What is it?”

Geralt swallows around the lump in his throat. “Can you do something?” His fingers are nearly shaking as he points at his horns.

“Huh?” But then—his eyes brighten and he’s nodding. “Of course. What do you want?”

Geralt watches as Jaskier shoves the stack properly out of the way before he sits, perched on the edge of the bed. His face is warm. “Anything.”

Jaskier takes that and rolls with it. He disappears, grabbing his bag, before returning. He’s silent as he works. Geralt doesn’t ask any questions. He trusts him—more than he cares to admit, even. Finally, Jaskier jumps up to grab the mirror. It’s cracked, but only in the corner. He stares at his reflection.

His horns have been wrapped with ribbons—blue, nearly the exact shade of Jaskier’s eyes—and tied off with a bow. Geralt should laugh, or demand something else.

He doesn’t.

Jaskier shuffles on his feet. “Well?”

Geralt looks up and he’s unable to stop himself fully from smiling, just the barest hint of teeth. “Thank you,” he says in way of a reply, but it’s enough for Jaskier. He grins and strolls across the room, grabbing his bag.

And then they’re on their way to the banquet, walking quietly out of the inn and toward the banquet hall.

They’re almost there when Jaskier asks:

“Why did you want me to—” he gestures at his horns without looking “—you know?”

Geralt can hear the chatter of people as they walk, approaching the hall. He tenses without realizing it. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I guess—I just want people to be less frightened by them.”

Jaskier suddenly stops. Geralt slows, taking a few more steps, before stopping entirely and turning to face him. “You shouldn’t worry what they think,” he says, staring at the ground. His hands are curled into tight fists, shoulders hunched to his ears. He looks up without warning, and Geralt is speechless: his eyes are a dark blue he’s never seen before, blazing with rage. “Your horns are a part of you, and anyone who thinks they aren’t beautiful isn’t worth your time.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He never does. Thankfully, Jaskier is better than him in so many ways.

He smiles, blinking once and he’s back to himself. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says.

Geralt appreciates it, really, but—“I think we should,” he says, meaning it. He smiles slightly. “We really are low on funds, and you eat a lot.”

With an offended gasp, Jaskier wiggles closer and loops their arms together. Geralt should push him away, probably, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. They walk the rest of the way to the banquet, and with each step Geralt feels more confident.

Let them stare at his horns, or call him a monster. He didn’t care, not with Jaskier by his side.