The reason I say that is because when they met, Geralt had just gotten himself thoroughly soaked, and Dandelion, upon seeing him in that state, didn't burst out laughing, nor did he grab his lute and improvise a little tune on the spot.

The bard merely climbed down slowly from under Pegasus, nearly missing his footing and falling—Geralt was already ready to catch him, but he didn't go down in the end, otherwise that gold-trimmed, wine-red tight outfit would have been ruined.

Geralt thought to himself that if his clothes really got wet, he'd probably complain for a full ten minutes before getting distracted by a street vendor.

"Long time no see, Geralt!" Dandelion nodded as a greeting, and Geralt nodded back.

"I need to get back to the inn, take a bath, and change out of these clothes," the witcher said, tugging at the fabric clinging to his skin, which was mixed with water, blood, sweat, and various unidentified substances.

"That's perfect!" Dandelion said excitedly. "Take me to your room."

"No problem, Dandelion. Follow me."

Geralt led him to the remotest corner of the town, so remote that even Dandelion had no idea an inn was hidden there. The ground floor reeked of alcohol and sweat—it was the dockworkers' break time, which explained why the tavern was located here. Dandelion also noticed a back door behind the innkeeper, and he knew exactly what that was for, because several young, pretty women were standing around nearby.

The witcher was used to it, so he headed straight upstairs without lifting his head. A few women who recognized him said hello, and a few men who weren't too fond of him made some rude remarks.

"Oh, the white-haired one! Looks like you've got a new taste today?" The others around them laughed.

Geralt ignored it.

Then a rebuke rang out: "If you're looking for trouble, I'd be happy to oblige." But the one who retorted wasn't Dandelion—it was a dockworker. The friction was soon swallowed up by the noisy crowd.

The witcher blinked and looked back at Dandelion, who was following behind him. The bard nearly tripped again, and Geralt caught his arm just in time.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Given Dandelion's usual temperament, if he heard someone running their mouth, he would have doubled down and mocked them right back. But he acted as if nothing had happened? A wave of unease rose in Geralt's heart.

Once in the room, Dandelion sat down on the bed. Geralt quickly stripped off his wet clothes, walked over to the bard, reached out to feel his forehead—normal temperature.

"Geralt, what are you doing?" Dandelion swatted his hand away.

"Nothing," Geralt said, putting his questions aside for the moment—because he was about to take a bath. "Just stay put and don't mess with my bag."

Last time, the bard had volunteered to tidy his backpack, and Geralt had ended up tasting alcohol in his potion. Dandelion later said it was an accidental spill, and Geralt had given his arm a good hard pinch.

"I won't touch anything. I'll just sit here and wait for you to come back." Dandelion forced a smile, and Geralt thought it looked a bit strained.

Finally, a moment of peace.

As he sank into the warm water, Geralt had never felt so relieved, body and soul. Though the contract had left him a bit battered, the pay was decent. If he saved a little more, he could put aside a tidy sum: half for the travel back to Kaer Morhen, and half for the winter upkeep contribution—voluntary, of course, but he'd feel bad if he didn't give anything, and he swore he wouldn't let Vesemir laugh at him for half a year's work being all for nothing again.

Soon, his thoughts turned to Dandelion. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with him—it was strange, not just a little. He wasn't feverish, he didn't seem drugged, just quieter, calmer... no, that was the scariest part. For Dandelion, it was like a different person. The unease surged back in Geralt's chest. If something really had happened to Dandelion, he might actually consider skipping Kaer Morhen this year.

When he came out of the bath, he saw Dandelion lying on the floor, hugging his sword, with the potion bottles from his bag laid out in a row. He knew Dandelion couldn't sit still—at least in that regard, he was still the same Dandelion.

"Hey, wake up," Geralt nudged him with his foot.

The bard jolted awake, rubbed his temples, looked around in panic, and upon recognizing Geralt's room, let out a long sigh of relief.

"Let me guess—you didn't break up peacefully with another woman again, did you?" Geralt picked up his bag and bent down to gather the potions.

Dandelion didn't answer, just stared blankly at the floor. Geralt frowned and pushed his shoulder. The bard flinched, then grinned at him: "Oh, oh, uh, what did you say just now? How could I not have heard? I mean, I didn't quite catch it, anyway..."

Geralt shoved his things aside, grabbed Dandelion, and set him on the bed, feeling his forehead again, stroking his cheek, and checking those blue eyes—big and bright. He pulled Dandelion back to the present.

"Dandelion, tell me honestly—what have you been up to lately?" He raised his voice, his tone serious.

"Drinking, singing, admiring beautiful scenery, and finally running into you, my dearest friend! And I did hear what you said this time, Geralt!" Dandelion said with utmost seriousness.

Geralt snorted and reached to undo his collar. The poet's thin body showed no abnormalities—no strange symbols, bruises, love bites, or wounds. Aside from his ribs being a bit prominent, he was clean.

"Hey! Geralt, what are you trying to do? First you randomly paw at my face, then you pull at my clothes. Not that your undressing technique isn't smooth, but it's still a bit off—let me tell you, you should—"

"Dandelion, are you really okay?"

"Well... actually... a little... I wasn't going to tell you so soon. Damn, how did you find out? I mean, we only just met today—you couldn't possibly know what I've been up to. Hmm," Dandelion paused to think. "By my plan, we should have met later, but I don't mind moving it up, because now there's only one last step left—and that's you."

"What... what? What are you talking about?"

"You should be grateful to have such—such—such a great friend," Dandelion spread his arms wide to show just how "such" it was. "I've been singing for three days and three nights without closing my eyes."

He yawned. "Because I accidentally came across some information about an awesome set of witcher armor. I swear this time I won't get your money swindled like last time. And the seller doesn't take money, so I sang for him for three days. He agreed and said someone would deliver it in a few days. If it turns out to be fake, please behead him for me. Thanks."

"No, I won't do that," Geralt said, his eyes wide. "But... Dandelion, why would you do all this?"

"Hah, Geralt, you don't remember—I knew you wouldn't—but I do," Dandelion said, proudly patting his chest. "Not long ago, you told me about your father—I mean Master Vesemir's legendary tales, and your gang of brothers who aren't really brothers but keep trying to kill each other. For the sake of my best friend's reputation—that is, my reputation—I wanted you to have something to show off in front of them this year."

"Trying to kill each other?"

"Geralt, come on—aren't you Wolves?" Dandelion made a face.

"Dandelion..." Geralt gripped his shoulders, then squeezed his neck. "I have some money left..."

"You bastard!" Dandelion pinched his cheek. "How dare you try to insult me with money!"

"Sorry, Dandelion," Geralt raised his hands in surrender. "So you're just tired... oh, I should have realized."

"Huh? What did you think was wrong with me? Geralt, the recommended sleep duration for ordinary people is over eight hours. Me? I recommend ten hours for myself." Dandelion yawned again and tugged Geralt onto the bed. "Now, Geralt, let's sleep."

Dandelion turned over, his back to him. Geralt blew out the lamp, his chest pressed against the bard's back.

"Dandelion, if I asked you to come with me to Kaer Morhen, would you say no?"

"Why would you think... I'd say no..." Dandelion's voice faded into drowsiness. Geralt couldn't help but smile, pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

Geralt barely stopped himself from punching the vanity. Not long ago, he'd been in this very room with a woman, and she'd teased him about the White Wolf truly becoming a white wolf. Geralt hadn't paid it any mind—figured she was just flirting. But when it was over and he looked at himself in the mirror, those bright white pointed ears atop his head were impossible to miss.

Then he spotted the tail, about the length of his forearm, dangling behind him. Geralt grew even angrier. Never mind the parade of oddballs he'd been running into lately—including some self-proclaimed bard who'd insisted on tagging along. Sure, this third-rate poet had done wonders for Geralt's "advertising," but the trade-off meant unclogging drains and clearing rats out of basements all fell on him too.

Jaskier never seemed to tire, always volunteering to handle the cleanup after Geralt's contracts: washing his clothes, scrubbing his hair, restocking supplies, organizing potions and blade oils—the whole tedious list.

Geralt figured he'd better dodge Jaskier for a while, or the nosy bard would never let him hear the end of it. Just as the witcher pulled on his shirt and threw his cloak over his shoulders, ready to track down whoever was behind this prank, he nearly collided with Jaskier in the doorway.

Before Geralt could tug his hood up, those perky little ears stood out plain as day, looking impossibly soft. The bard clapped a hand over his mouth in exaggerated shock, and Geralt already knew exactly what face he was making. "Oh, my God, Geralt. My God!"

"Shut up—"

"How can anyone shut up? I can't help it!" Jaskier's laughter bubbled through his fingers. "Have you turned into a puppy?"

Geralt shoved past him, storming outside with a scowl, and the bard trotted after him as always. "Hey, Geralt—your cut! That's what I came for! You don't want it?"

Geralt stopped. Jaskier nearly slammed into his back—*nearly*, because after months of that exact thing happening, he'd developed excellent reflexes. Otherwise, Geralt would've clocked him one for sure. The witcher snatched the coin purse from Jaskier's hand and marched on.

The bard trailed beside him with a grin, sneaking curious glances under the cloak, trying to catch a glimpse of those hidden ears. Geralt shot him a weary glare. "Don't even think about moving your hands!"

"I won't! How could you accuse me of that? That's so unfair," Jaskier tilted his head. "I'm just wondering—who are you going to see about… you know, your dog-ear situation? Don't tell me it's that sorceress!"

"Yep, you guessed it. So you can leave now."

"Then I definitely can't leave! What if it goes like last time?" Jaskier's eyes went wide.

Geralt spat to the side, untied his mare's reins, and swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. Jaskier looked up at him with hopeful eyes, but the witcher simply spurred his horse forward, ignoring the plea entirely.

The bard put on his most pitiful expression, though Geralt wasn't cruel enough to ride off at full speed—he held the horse to a walk.

They traveled a ways in silence.

"What kind of magic is this?" Jaskier finally asked.

"No idea. The most annoying prank imaginable."

"I really want to touch them, Geralt. Forget the tail—at least… at least let me pet your ears?"

Geralt said nothing.

They stopped in front of a tent—home to a traveling fortune-teller, an old woman who knew her share of magic. Jaskier looked around with eager curiosity while Geralt cut straight to the point, pulling back his hood.

The old woman smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Gwynbleidd—the White Wolf."

"You know him?" Jaskier popped up on tiptoe behind Geralt's shoulder.

"Of course. I follow the threads of cause and fate. I came here to meet Gwynbleidd," she said mysteriously, turning to rummage through her shelves. "Creation from nothing—old magic. Not particularly deep, not particularly shallow."

"Just get to the point," Geralt said.

"The cure is simple enough." She handed him an empty glass bottle, her gaze shifting to Jaskier. "White Wolf, you suffer from what most do: you avoid your own heart. Stop using coldness and anger to drive away those who love you. When the time comes, the river will find its own course."

Before Geralt could press further, white light flooded his vision. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the inn room, standing before the mirror—still staring at those wolf ears on his head. In his hand was the glass bottle, now engraved with letters: *JASK*.

Not an illusion.

Well. That was about as subtle as a brick.

Geralt glanced out the window. If he'd read the magic right, he was back before he'd left the room—which meant in a few minutes, Jaskier would knock on the door.

Right on cue, the door gave a hesitant rap. Two soft taps at first, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Geralt caught them clear as day. Then two more, a little louder, though still not quite at normal knocking volume. Geralt crossed to the door and pulled it open, finding Jaskier mid-motion, frozen with his hand raised for a third knock.

The bard quickly shook off his awkwardness, beaming and holding up a pouch of coins. "Our—our share! We made a decent haul!"

Geralt smiled back—though it didn't look particularly friendly from Jaskier's perspective. He grabbed the bard by the scruff of the neck, hauled him inside, and kicked the door shut behind him, pressing the poet against the wall. "Let me guess—you remember what just happened too, don't you?"

"What? What? I think… I'm not sure I follow," Jaskier tried, batting his big, innocent eyes as if that would convince Geralt of his sincerity.

Geralt gripped his chin. "You little idiot. If you didn't remember, you'd have screamed at these ears all over again."

"Ah! I did *not* scream the first time!" Jaskier corrected indignantly.

Geralt shrugged and released him, and only then did the bard realize he'd given himself away.

"So… I still have no idea how to break this curse," Jaskier said, scratching his head and plopping onto Geralt's bed. "Oh! Speaking of—let me touch your ears!!"

"Fine."

"Wait, you're agreeing that easily?" Jaskier stopped swinging his legs.

"We're friends, aren't we?" Geralt sat beside him, deliberately leaning down closer. Jaskier blinked, suddenly not caring whether this was some trap—his one and only desire was to feel those soft ears.

The bard reached out carefully. The texture was like stroking a dishcloth—Geralt wasn't stooping low enough. Jaskier stood up, trying to get a better look at the ear's anatomy, but he lost his balance and tumbled into the witcher's arms. Geralt caught him around the waist, and as Jaskier landed against his shoulder, he spotted that tail wagging like mad.

On the vanity, the glass bottle seemed to have filled with some shimmering, translucent liquid. Geralt noticed without making a show of it.

Jaskier pulled back, saw the tail stop its frantic motion, and suddenly a wave of heat rushed to his face. He covered his burning cheeks. "Geralt… did you… did you mean that?"

"Mean what?"

"That we're… we're friends." Jaskier hid his mouth behind his hand. "I thought you were just using me to break the curse, and then you'd go back to ignoring me like you always do."

Geralt coughed awkwardly. "So that's why you pretended not to remember—you thought that."

"Well—you—" Jaskier mumbled, "I was just going to make you suffer a little, so you'd realize how important friendship is—especially how important *Jaskier* is—and then I'd burst through the window and surprise you."

"Good thing you didn't. I'd have shoved you right back out," Geralt said, shaking his head.

"In that case, witcher, I'm going to take full advantage of this moment and get completely insufferable," Jaskier announced, his enthusiasm flaring up—only to be slightly dampened by the murderous look Geralt shot him.

"Fine."

"*Fine*? But your expression…" Jaskier caught sight of that wagging tail. "Oh. All right, then."

Jaskier's spirits lifted again. "First—I want you to—" He grabbed Geralt's hand and placed it on his own waist. "Oh, this feels amazing! When you hold my waist, your fingers almost touch!"

"Ahem." Geralt pulled his hand back, still somehow incapable of blushing. "That's impossible?!"

"Anything is possible! Now I have a question—you don't have to answer out loud. I'll just watch your tail." Jaskier giggled.

Geralt looked away.

"I already know we're friends. Now, second question—what do you really think of my songs?" Jaskier crossed his arms.

"All right, are you planning to get full revenge here?" Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I admit—I've secretly listened to you sing plenty of times."

"I knew it!" Jaskier burst out laughing, and that little puppy tail wagged joyfully.

"Now, third question—*ahem*—pay attention, Geralt, this is serious." Jaskier planted his hands on his hips. "Tell me you don't like Yennefer at all—not one bit—not that sorceress!"

"Come on, we broke up," Geralt cleared his throat. "I haven't had any contact with Yennefer in ages."

Jaskier watched the tail with satisfaction. "Last question!"

The bard's face turned red.

"I… I said I like you. Do you like me?"

"To be fair, you're very cute," Geralt said flatly—but his tail wasn't wagging.

Jaskier's face crumpled in disappointment. The witcher walked to the vanity, picked up the now-full glass bottle, and watched it shatter in his grip. At the same instant, the ears and tail vanished from his head.

"Idiot. I won't be lying to myself anymore," Geralt said, pressing a kiss to Jaskier's hair. "I'll say those words to you—but give me some time to get ready."

Jaskier looked up, eyes bright.