theDemonCat

As everyone knows, Dandelion is a hopeless drunkard and loves buying drinks for his old friends. He'd drag Zoltan and Yarpen into a corner of the Chameleon three times a week, setting up their usual bout. Dwarves can hold their liquor far better than any human—two flagons down and they're still stone-faced—but even so, most of the time Zoltan and Yarpen took turns trying to drown the bard and failed miserably. Instead, they'd be the ones face‑down on the table, doing things they really shouldn't, while the bard watched them howling with laughter.

Of course, two against one was a numbers advantage, and every now and then Dandelion would lose at dice so badly he was close to pawning his trousers. The dwarves' eyes would light up, eager to finally see the great poet cut loose and make a proper fool of himself, getting their revenge at last. But Dandelion would just stagger to his feet, sway, and then flop straight backwards onto the soft cushions of the floor—and fall asleep on the spot.

Speaking of drinking buddies, you couldn't leave out that courteous vampire. Unfortunately, Regis had given up alcohol long ago—hadn't touched a drop in who knows how many years—so he only brought over freshly brewed homemade wine, smiling as he invited everyone to taste it. He always said, "Don't worry, this stuff has no alcohol at all."

Yet every next morning, everyone would wake up in some random corner of the Chameleon. When Dandelion found Dudu reduced to a puddle of gooey liquid, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd seen the doppler's primordial form before, sure, but Dudu hadn't been that "undignified"—meaning completely losing his fixed shape—in a very long time.

Dandelion would then write down every last bit of the previous night's absurdities into his notebook, barely hiding the gleeful smirk at the corner of his mouth. He'd better pray those prose sketches never fell into the wrong hands, though.

The Chameleon was rowdy and bustling like this every day. Ever since Dandelion and Priscilla had parted ways amicably, the place had become the ultimate gathering spot for their old circle. As for the books? Well, factoring in the foot traffic drawn by Dandelion's own fame, plus Dudu's business acumen, and the prime location right in the heart of Novigrad—all in all, it wasn't going bust anytime soon.

Geralt would drop by the Chameleon from time to time. The great witcher was perpetually approaching a retirement that never quite arrived—whenever someone found him after a stretch apart, he'd inevitably been dragged, willingly or not, into some new swirl of trouble. When the White Wolf finally had a moment to sit in his usual spot at the tavern, the gang would crowd around him, just like now.

"Hey, Geralt of Rivia, I got a question," Zoltan said, sitting across from him, a full mug of ale raised to his chest, foam clinging to his beard. Yarpen plopped down beside him, while Regis and Iorveth stood on either side of Geralt. "Shh, while that bard's not around—I wanna ask, has Dandelion never once actually gone off the rails when he's drunk?"

Geralt had just brought his cup to his lips, but his mouth was already twitching upward. Under the eager and curious gazes of the group, he took a slow sip, then said unhurriedly, "What do you think?"

"Meaning the White Wolf has definitely seen it." Iorveth let out a soft laugh, tapping his long elven fingers lightly against his cup. Geralt shrugged helplessly, conceding that the elf was far too perceptive.

"Hey, they've been friends for over twenty years—it'd be stranger if he hadn't, wouldn't it?" Regis nodded earnestly.

"We just want to see it once—the exact moment Dandelion hits that drunken threshold!" Zoltan cleared his throat.

"Exactly. Because that poet turns all our embarrassing moments into prose every day. Not that we're worried he'll spread it around—he's the type who loves showing off, but weirdly enough, he keeps it honest and only passes it among us. Nobody else gets to see it." Yarpen raised his glass.

"Ha, in a few decades you might be immortalised in history," Iorveth said, picking up his own drink and taking a light sip.

"I don't care about what happens after I'm dead!" Yarpen threw his head back and laughed.

"So, you all got together today to get me to make Dandelion drunk?" Geralt raised an eyebrow, giving a resigned wry smile. "These days, getting him drunk isn't as easy as it was a dozen years ago."

"This is really just a side note—the main point is always the gathering itself." Regis smiled.

Geralt made a knowing face and motioned for them to lean in. They whispered together, their scheming swallowed by the tavern's din.

The next evening, the Chameleon hung out its "Closed" sign early, but behind the door, voices and candlelight blazed. Zoltan and Yarpen now sported furry donkey ears on their heads—because they'd lost a round of Gwent to Regis, and lost quite thoroughly. The two dwarves scowled and dragged Dandelion over, demanding he avenge their honour.

"I'm a Gwent master, but—" Dandelion rubbed his index finger and thumb together, hinting at something. Zoltan snorted and grudgingly handed over a full cup of ale. The bard tipped his head back and drained it in one go, slamming the empty cup onto the table with a crisp thud. In the end, even Regis ended up wearing donkey ears, the vampire spreading his hands in resignation: "Where on earth did Geralt find so many headpieces..."

Next, Iorveth beckoned Dandelion over and performed a trick—standing on his hands in a water basin while eating an apple. After the performance, he casually handed the bard a drink. That was the real purpose. Dandelion beamed with delight and downed that one in one go as well.

Finally, he staggered over and plopped down beside Geralt. The witcher was flicking peanuts into the air with his fingers and catching them neatly in his mouth, while flipping through a draft of Dandelion's play thatlay on the table.

He read aloud: "'...I was supposed to rescue a princess—how did it turn out to be a witcher?' Dandelion said with grief and indignation." Geralt gave the bard a deadpan look, and the latter burst out laughing.

"You go straight for my drafts!" Dandelion snatched the notebook back from Geralt's hand.

"Thanks, your draft was sitting right on the table," Geralt replied flatly.

They traded drinks back and forth for several rounds, and the others crowded in one by one, handing glass after glass to Dandelion. The bard's left eye twitched; his gaze began to blur. He smacked his lips and mumbled thickly: "Ooh, what... what's this brew? It's fantastic!"

"Ask Geralt!" Zoltan downed one himself. "It is fantastic!"

"Lambert's private stock—don't tell him. I barely managed to sneak it out of Kaer Morhen." Geralt's eyes gleamed with mischief.

They exchanged knowing glances and took turns, long past counting how many drinks Dandelion had downed. Just as the bard started swaying and humming out‑of‑tune ditties, Geralt raised a hand lightly, signalling them to stop.

All eyes focused sharply. Dandelion, sitting beside Geralt, wobbled and tried hard to focus his gaze on the witcher's face: "Geralt?"

"Dandelion."

Suddenly, Dandelion plastered himself against Geralt's arm, clinging tightly, and didn't move for a long moment. Just as the group thought this plan had also failed, the bard unexpectedly planted a kiss on Geralt's cheek. The expression on the witcher's face was even funnier than Dandelion's action.

"What the—" Geralt raised his hand and wiped the saliva off his face.

"HAHAHA!!! Watch your arse, witcher!!" Zoltan laughed so hard he nearly toppled off his stool.

"I have a bad feeling about this, but I'm quite happy to see the White Wolf make a fool of himself," Iorveth said with a grin, trying to lean on Regis's shoulder, only to find Yarpen beside him instead. He stumbled and nearly fell, sparking another round of roaring laughter.

Sure enough, the next second Dandelion slapped Geralt on the backside. The witcher grabbed the bard's shoulders with lightning speed: "That's not how the plan was supposed to go!"

"HAHAHA, screw it, I'm dying of laughter," Yarpen said, wiping tears from his eyes, then suddenly remembered something. "Oh, Regis, here you go." The dwarf fished out Dandelion's paper and pen and handed them to the vampire.

"Oh, this feels great," Regis said, taking the pen and paper. "Dandelion will be delighted to see this tomorrow."

Dandelion was still squirming and struggling in Geralt's arms. Geralt loosened his grip slightly, and the bard, carried by momentum, lurched into the witcher's chest and promptly settled onto his lap. Dandelion wrapped his arms around Geralt's head, burying half of the White Wolf's face, leaving only one exasperated golden eye visible, while his hands hovered in the air with nowhere to go.

"Brilliant! Now, who among you is good at drawing? Can you capture this scene?" Regis mused, holding up the pen.

"I'll do it!" Yarpen volunteered, snatching the pen, but after only a minute of drawing, he handed it back.

Geralt tried to peel Dandelion off him, but the bard clung like a limpet, not budging an inch. Dandelion gnawed on Geralt's hair while mumbling indistinctly, "Original‑flavour cotton candy is way better than strawberry." The witcher's face suddenly darkened, but the others were too lost in laughter to notice.

Dandelion did notice, though. He stopped mumbling, tilted his head, and blinked his bleary eyes: "Geralt, is your sword poking my arse?"

Everyone followed his gaze to the door—where Geralt's silver and steel swords sat peacefully on the weapon rack against the wall.

Dandelion let go of Geralt's head, pushed himself back by the shoulders to look down, and then flashed a lecherous grin: "Nice. Silver for monsters, steel for humans, and flesh—"

Geralt clamped his hand over Dandelion's mouth, turning the rest into muffled grunts.

"No, no, let him finish!" Zoltan howled, sprawled back in his chair with his donkey ears askew.

"Damn it, I don't remember the plan saying I'd be the one humiliated!" Geralt rubbed his throbbing temples. "It's his arse that's misbehaving—not my fault. Wait, Regis, don't write down things you shouldn't!"

"Of course not!" Regis agreed, but his pen kept moving.

"Oh, oh..." Iorveth stared intently at Regis's pen tip, barely swallowing his laughter.

Geralt's expression turned fierce, his face compensating so his body wouldn't spring up. But Dandelion shuffled even closer, their bodies practically pressed together. The bard looked around, then leaned into Geralt's ear, trying to whisper—but everyone could hear: "There seem to be quite a few people around, Geralt. You want to do me right here?"

The air went dead silent.

"Wait... shut up!" Geralt scratched his head.

"Wait, aren't you going to deny it?" Iorveth couldn't help shouting.

"He won't deny it, hehe. Let me tell you—Geralt is a total romantic." Dandelion said with a smug grin. "Picture this: you walk into a closed room, surrounded by flowers, and wine too, and in the middle, a stone‑faced witcher kneeling on one knee—nobody could refuse! Friendship and love becoming one is the most wonderful thing in the world!" With that, he leaned in and gently kissed the corner of Geralt's mouth.

Under the stunned, almost speechless stares of the crowd, Geralt simply shrugged.