#vexart

❤️ For Coën/Adelina (MBTT or some other ‘verse is fine)

Vesemir has a scant half-second’s warning - a tiny movement of the air,  flicker of a shadow out of place - and moves faster than any of the watching Wolves had realized their old swordmaster could move, rolling out of the way of his assailant. Geralt claws for his sword and Eskel readies a Sign and Lambert bites off a curse as the newcomer hits the ground in a beautiful somersault and bounces to his feet to lunge at Vesemir again.

Vesemir doesn’t draw a sword, but meets the attacker hand-to-hand, growling low in his throat as he tackles the man backwards. They roll over and over, both of them snarling, and the younger Wolves hesitate, unwilling to strike out and risk injuring their mentor.

The attacker is a wiry man with hair as grey as Vesemir’s own, and eyes of a startling and uncanny shade of green. He’s wearing light leather armor and far too many knives, though he also isn’t attempting to actually draw a blade. And Vesemir’s growling seems…pleased, somehow?

The fight is surprisingly long - almost an entire minute - and then Vesemir’s greater weight prevails, and he pins the attacker down on his back, Vesemir’s arm against his throat. The attacker is grinning, broad and delighted.

“Hey, old Wolf,” he says brightly.

“I’ll give you old, you decrepit moggy,” Vesemir retorts, and kisses the other man hard enough to draw blood.

Lambert makes a startled squawking noise. Eskel’s jaw drops. Geralt fumbles gracelessly with the hilt of his sword.

The ‘decrepit moggy’ - is he a Cat? Is Vesemir kissing a Cat witcher in the middle of the courtyard? - is certainly giving as good as he gets. He’s got a hand knotted in Vesemir’s hair and a leg wound around Vesemir’s hips, and seems utterly delighted to be pinned to the cobblestones and kissed to within an inch of his life.

“What the fuck is happening?” Lambert demands. Vesemir doesn’t bother to answer. He’s…uh…busy.

“We should…maybe…give them privacy?” Eskel suggests faintly.

“Yes,” Geralt agrees fervently, and they pull Lambert away between them. The Cat snickers.

“Chased off your puppies,” he teases.

Vesemir snorts and kisses him again.

I cackled so loudly my cat left, Leaf. For this, as tempting as it would be to put him in bunny ears, I'd probably write a mature sugar daddy AU, Vesemir/Guxart:

Modern AU, Vesemir is still a Witcher.

It's several years since Mignole passed away. Vesemir always knew it would happen, but it still hit him like an absolute freight train.

He's now extremely wealthy, but lonely as all hell.

Lambert, annoyed by his moping, jokingly suggests a sugar daddy service. At least Vesemir would get laid (not that Lambert wants to think about that: fucking yikes).

In a moment of weakness, Vesemir searches for it on the internet and falls down a rabbit hole.

Most of the "sugar babies" looking for someone are far too young and he closes the window at least four times in self-disgust.

Then, he happens upon a website where all the pictures are of older people. People like him, sometimes a little younger.

One photograph in particular catches his eye: a tall man with tawny skin and bright green eyes. His hair is lightly curled salt and pepper, and he looks absolutely dashing in a three piece suit.

The biography offers a name: Guxart, or Artie to loved ones.

The biography tells a familiar story: Guxart worked hard all his life, but he's looking down the barrel of a penniless retirement, because every Crown he made went to his extensive family.

(wow, Vesemir thought his family was large; Guxart has children and grandchildren in the double figures.)

Vesemir tells himself it's foolish. But he keeps returning to Guxart's page. Over and over.

Vesemir writes his number down and stares at it for several days.

And then he calls.

The man that picks up sounds tired, but brightens when Vesemir explains why he rang. They talk for a little bit: Guxart is funny and charming, and Vesemir loves the sound of his voice.

The words call out of Vesemir's mouth before he can stop them: would Guxart be available for dinner next week? The answer is an enthusiastic but surprised 'yes'.

They meet at one of Vesemir's favourite restaurants: an old Ofiri place just outside Novigrad.

He arrives first and orders a nice red wine for their table, and watches the door. He half expects to be stood up. After all, he sent a picture of himself so Guxart could spot him upon arrival.

But Guxart arrives. He tugs nervously at his jacket as he appears in the doorway, and straightens his tie. He looks even more dashing than in the pictures, his dark curls neatly arranged, his short beard trimmed.

He shakes Vesemir's hand and smiles warmly, but Vesemir can tell he's nervous. He touches the cutlery like Lambert does when he's straightening them to avoid eye contact, he touches his face once or twice and chooses a salad off the menu.

After a while, Vesemir can't stand it any more. He asks Guxart why he's so worried.

Guxart's lips press together tightly, the laughter lines around his eyes crease a little: he doesn't want to ruin it. The last few appointments didn't go so well. He was too old for one, too loud for another, the third was... well, he doesn't want to talk about that one.

Vesemir tells him that he's looking for a companion. Someone who he can talk to, share a bottle of nice scotch and fall asleep by a fire with. Most of his friends are dead; he lost his best friend several years ago.

It's hard to make new friends at their age. Vesemir's just desperate for a friend. He will pay, of course. That's how the whole thing works.

Guxart blinks once or twice, and then the tension melts away with a single breath. Yeah, he wouldn't mind a friend.

After that, the meal goes well. Vesemir takes Guxart back and they share that scotch on his balcony. Vesemir buys Guxart a cab home, and they agree to meet again soon.

They message each other in the days in between. Vesemir feels a warmth growing in his chest.

The next time, they play chess and discuss botany.

The time after that, they go to a beer tasting and end up snoring on Vesemir's sofa.

After that, they attend a theatre performance and there's another meal, then a country walk, then a horse trek, then a poetry reading, then...

...a kiss. On Vesemir's balcony. Guxart cradled against Vesemir's chest, a hand in his hair and another at the small of his back.

Guxart damn near purrs, and Vesemir asks whether he would like to stay a little longer than an evening.

“Why didn’t you shoot, Connor? Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?”

2. A forbidden kiss / has to be kept a secret.

Guxart and Vesemir had never seen eye to eye.

From the moment Aiden and Lambert had started dating, their two adopted fathers had bickered relentlessly over every minor area of conflict. From whether it was still important to have a "day of rest" on Sundays to the appropriate way to shell a damned prawn. Family dinners were uncomfortable, and their respective sons and daughters began finding inventive ways to keep the two separate.

They were just too different. Guxart was a well-dressed, wine-drinking professor of business and finance. He enjoyed the debates on Radio 4 and regularly attended operatic performances at the theatre. Vesemir liked his workman's jeans and jackets with lots of pockets, preferred draft beer and taught anthropology at the local polytech. Guxart thought Vesemir was slovenly, and Vesemir thought Guxart was a snob.

When Aiden proposed, the wedding planning forced Vesemir and Guxart into close proximity for extended periods of time, and Lambert organised a betting pool to see who would throw the first punch. Geralt put down a hundred quid on Vesemir, but Eskel was certain that Guxart would soon pull the stick out of his backside and beat Vesemir with it.

The wedding day arrived and the two grooms cornered their respective fathers separately.

"Don't ruin this for me, old man," Lambert said, waggling a finger at Vesemir. "Keep a beer in your hand and your mouth shut."

Vesemir huffed. "If he behaves himself, then I will."

"Fucks' sake."

In a room not far away, Aiden took the glass of wine out of Guxart's hand. "Be polite. No snarky comments about his bowtie or his tweed suit." Guxart huffed, rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement.

The vows went off without a hitch. The speeches were suitably embarrassing and dinner was perfect. Everyone crowded into a huge hall for the reception to drink the rest of the night away. Lambert and Aiden spent their time thanking guests after their first dance but met for a breather a few hours in.

They clocked their two fathers propping up the bar as they flopped on one of the soft couches at the edge of the dance floor. Lambert's eyes widened and he lurched forward to intercept, but Aiden grabbed his elbow. "No, wait. I think--I think they're being civil."

"No way," Lambert breathed and looked again. Aiden was right. Vesemir was leaning on the bar with a pint, nodding as Guxart talked. Guxart was emoting with one hand, something he only did when talking earnestly about something, while he cradled a glass of merlot in the other. Lambert whistled quietly. "Shit, do you think we should split them up before they realise what they're doing?"

"Nah. We'll keep an eye on them. Send in the big guns," Aiden flicked his chin towards Eskel and Geralt doing shots at the far end of the bar, "if they start throwing hands."

"Gotcha."

The night drew on, Guxart and Vesemir took up a seat at one of the empty tables, still immersed in deep conversation. Everyone was too drunk or too busy dancing to notice the way they leaned towards each other, their palms open, their bodies tilted close. Eskel dragged Lambert over for some shots and Aiden was swarmed by his extended family to do the macarena; Vesemir and Guxart slipped outside into the gardens.

Geralt and Ciri followed them about twenty minutes later to get some fresh air (and check that Vesemir and Guxart didn't have their hands around each other's necks). They both stopped dead on the gravel path as they sighted two bodies pressed close in the shadows of a poplar tree. Vesemir had Guxart pressed to the trunk, their mouths locked in a slow, passionate kiss. Guxart's hands kneaded at Vesemir's waist and Vesemir had a hand tangled in Guxart's curls, the other supporting his weight on the tree behind.

"What do we do?" asked Ciri.

"Uhhh...." Geralt was still rebooting after his mental crash.

"Dad, do we tell Lambert and Aiden?"

"You know what?" Geralt rested a hand on Ciri's shoulder and turned her back towards the venue. "Ignorance is bliss, what they don't know can't hurt them, and, uh..."

"We saw nothing?"

"Yeah, we saw nothing."

Geralt and Ciri returned to the dancefloor.

Vesemir and Guxart had discovered a lot in common that night. Their left-wing political ideals, their love of cricket and jazz music, and the begrudging but earnest crush they had developed on the other. They had become so used to being lonely old men, self-sufficient and guarded to avoid disappointment, that they had feared giving it a chance. Their adopted sons being in love only complicated matters further.