Archive of Our Own

The stupid networking party had gone on for much longer than Gaetan had planned for, given he hadn’t planned to attend at all. The book festival had finally closed its doors at 10pm, which was already five hours longer than he ever wanted to be at work, especially since he wasn’t paid for the overtime. Afterwards, the organisers had hired out the function room of the conference centre they were using and had put on free prosecco and a bar. Everyone who was anyone in the publishing world was there, as well as a variety of authors, both well-known and otherwise, and various other important people. There were speeches planned for later. Attendance wasn’t mandatory, of course, but people noticed and people talked and he very much hoped that he’d be able to get another promotion at some point in his career, so it was a good idea to be seen in the right places. It did his head in, especially when all these sorts of events invariably fell on a Friday night he’d hoped to spend with his friends.

At least if he was trapped here, he wasn’t trapped alone.

Geralt caught his eye across the room and wrinkled his nose at Gaetan, who rolled his eyes in reply. Geralt’s fingers flickered in quick sign, mostly directed at Yennefer, one of the editors, who was standing next to him to interpret. The last few words were definitely directed at Gaetan though.

‘I’m bored,’ his hands whined.

Gaetan chuckled and flicked back a quick, ‘me too’. It wasn’t even quite eleven o’clock but he’d already had more than enough of making nice with people whose names he couldn’t remember and whose opinions he didn’t care about. ‘How much longer?’ he signed.

‘Haven’t seen V-boss yet,’ Geralt replied.

V-boss was their sign name for Vesemir, the head of their department. He had overall control of the campaigns team, covering both Geralt in marketing and Gaetan in publicity. It was a good idea for Geralt to make sure they’d seen each other before he made his escape. For that matter, Gaetan should probably also be looking for him to check in. They’d crossed paths earlier in the day in the backstage area as each of them escorted a different author to their event, but it was worth making sure Vesemir knew he’d shown up to the party. He’d never bothered to keep his distaste of the things quiet, which meant Vesemir was all the more likely to believe he’d skived entirely if he didn’t see Gaetan with his own eyes.

‘Share a taxi after?’ Geralt signed, breaking Gaetan out of his thoughts.

Gaetan nodded, not bothering to sign back. They often shared a taxi home from these sorts of events, given how long they’d known each other. It wouldn’t raise any eyebrows and it was an excellent way to extract one or both of them from long-winded, unwanted conversations. Gaetan slung back the last of his champagne and set off to find his coat. He headed anti-clockwise, the opposite way to Geralt, making sure that at least one of them would catch Vesemir and hang onto him until the other one got there.

He collected his coat and his bag when he passed the cloakroom which was, for some godforsaken reason known only to the architect, through a door at the back of the event space and down a twisting corridor that seemed entirely endless. He grabbed Geralt’s stuff while he was there.

Moments after he made his way back out into the dubious freedom of the function room, he ran into Geralt. Almost literally. They ended up clinging to each other’s arms and laughing as they swayed, none too steadily, on their feet.

‘The pair of you are a mess,’ Vesemir opined from over Geralt’s shoulder. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

‘Dunno about him,’ Gaetan said, waving his thumb at Geralt, ‘but I’ve only had a couple of proseccos.’

Vesemir looked mildly dubious, but didn’t seem to want to argue. He shook his head and turned away.

‘Don’t do anything to embarrass us,’ he called over his shoulder as he left, no doubt to find some other employees to terrorise.

Geralt leaned against Gaetan, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Over the sound of music and chatter, Gaetan couldn’t hear anything, but he could feel the little puffs of air against his neck and had to clamp down hard on the urge to shiver with want. It wasn’t fair of Geralt to be so damn sexy.

‘Shall I leave him in your capable hands then?’ Yennefer asked, melting out of a shadow to join them. No doubt she had been conversing with someone supremely important, or maybe she’d been drinking the blood of the innocent. It was hard to tell with Yennefer some days. She was damn good at her job, but she was also highly terrifying. It was part of the reason she was often on interpreting duty for Geralt. No one was willing to be rude to him under Yennefer’s gimlet stare.

Gaetan grinned at her and nodded. ‘I’ve got him!’ he asserted, playing up the drunkenness. Normally he didn’t drink much at these things, and tonight had been no exception to the rule. He’d spent most of his time talking to other senior publicists (which, for some reason that always baffled him, was a role almost at the bottom of the publicity pile) and making faces at Geralt across the room. It wouldn’t do any harm to pretend though. He might get a talking to about drinking too much, but he could plead the case of having forgotten dinner in the rush and the bubbles going to his head. It meant that if someone did notice him skipping out early, he had an excuse - he hadn’t wanted to embarrass himself or the company in front of someone important after he’d realised how drunk he was. Since he was sharing a taxi with Geralt, he’d obviously had to leave too. Completely foolproof.

They said their goodbyes to Yennefer and forced their way through the crowds and out into the hall. Thankfully, the function room was right by the lifts, so they didn’t have to try and make their way through the insane maze of hallways to find the exit.

The cold air slapped Gaetan in the face as they stepped out of the conference centre onto the pavement. He stumbled a little, somehow having forgotten that it was freezing outside after a whole day stuck in a set of rooms that were all just on the wrong side of warm. No one ever accounted for the body heat of all the festival attendees when they set the thermostats. Geralt grabbed his elbow to steady him, hanging on until he was sure Gaetan was steady again.

‘Thanks,’ Gaetan muttered, knowing that Geralt would be able to hear him clearly now that they were free of the hubbub inside.

Once he was sure Gaetan was steady, Geralt let go and turned to face him. Gaetan turned as well, far enough to see Geralt’s hands while also keeping one eye on the road to spot their taxi.

‘I’ve got a suggestion,’ Geralt signed, the motions quick, but lacking their usual crispness. Either Geralt was exhausted or he’d been availing himself of the free prosecco as well.

Gaetan raised an eyebrow and waited for whatever terrible suggestion was lurking behind Geralt’s smirk.

‘Let’s go clubbing,’ Geralt signed.

‘Are you fucking serious?!’ Gaetan squawked, digging his phone out of his pocket. ‘It’s… only midnight? What the fuck? I thought we’d been in there half the night. Feels like it should be closer to two. Are you sure?’

‘Yeah,’ Geralt signed. ‘Want to get drunk. That was so boring. People are so weird about talking to me at those things.’

Gaetan pulled a face that fell somewhere between sympathetic and disgusted. He’d noticed. It was one of the reasons he wasn’t allowed to act as Geralt’s interpreter any more. He’d snapped at one too many important people for ignoring Geralt and directing all their questions to Gaetan, even when it was Geralt answering them, or for talking loudly and slowly like Geralt was unable to understand plain English. Even if Geralt had been deaf, yelling at him in a room so full of people and music that Gaetan, with his perfectly fine hearing, could only hear half of what people were saying was completely ridiculous. Not to mention incredibly rude. Yennefer and her gimlet stare was a much better choice. The way she looked at people somehow conveyed, without a word being spoken, that she was disappointed in their idiocy and expected them to correct their behaviour immediately. People preferred to speak directly to Geralt rather than meet her icy gaze. Sadly, it didn’t prevent the over-enunciation or the way some people were just visibly uncomfortable speaking to someone who signed. Which was why Gaetan’s job was now to hang out with Geralt after events and listen to him moaning about the idiots. If Geralt was wanting to get drunk, tonight had probably contained either a large number of idiots or some particularly egregious examples.

‘Yeah, alright,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s go get shitfaced.’

Geralt grinned at him and dragged him along the pavement towards the centre of town. Gaetan was glad that they weren’t too far out, given that his feet already hurt from being on them all day. He was also glad he’d booked the taxi on the company account so that he didn’t have to deal with the fee for sudden cancellation. Hopefully he could steer Geralt towards a decent club rather than one of the dives he tended to prefer and then he could make an attempt at getting so drunk he forgot his own name.

The sunlight was made of knives. It was the only explanation for the stabbing pain as he attempted to peel his eyelids apart. His mouth tasted like sawdust and sweet apple and his head felt like someone had sent him to sleep with a sledgehammer. The sun needed to be turned off immediately. It was his only hope of survival. Rolling over, slowly and carefully, he felt his stomach lurch a little. He froze but it settled and seemed willing to stay under control. He peered over the side of the bed to find his clothes dumped in a messy pile with his binder on top. He winced as he remembered a particularly energetic bout of flailing while Geralt was helping him out of it and trying to avoid getting an eyeful. Not that Gaetan would have minded if he had, but Geralt was far too much of a gentleman to peek.

He’d been dressed in a baggy shirt that he recognised as belonging to Geralt and he was still in his own boxers. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t decided to wear a packer, which he sometimes did for big events where lots of people would be looking at him. He hated falling asleep and waking up to find it stuck to his leg though and he wouldn’t have survived Geralt helping him remove it.

Assessment complete, he pulled himself slowly upright, groaning as the movement jostled his aching head. He rested against the headboard and took stock, finding that the movement hadn’t upset his stomach, nor did it seem likely to rebel. He slid out of bed and found a pair of soft sweatpants had been left on top of the dresser for him, along with a glass of water and a box of paracetamol. Geralt really was a god among men, he thought, not for the first time in their friendship. It was little gestures like this that could give a man hope - he tried not to let it get to him. Geralt was also a complete menace.

Gaetan had very clear memories of Geralt matching him shot for shot in the club and stumbling all over himself in the street as they tried to hail a cab willing to stop for their obviously drunken asses. It had taken them over five minutes of giggling and swearing before either one of them remembered that they had an app for that. Yet, somehow, Geralt had still be with it enough when they got home to remember that Gaetan wasn’t allowed to sleep in his binder and help him out of it, to leave him water and even to plug his phone in with the spare charger he kept here for nights exactly like the last. It just wasn’t fair.

Gaetan, on the other hand, had been able to do nothing but giggle and flop about like a drunken fish the previous night. He hadn’t even been able to take his own shoes off. He conveniently ignored the fact that Geralt was a whole head and a bit taller than him and also significantly broader and heavier. It took a lot more alcohol to get him truly plastered than it took for Gaetan. Geralt had been drunk, but not nearly as out of it. He’d just achieved nicely relaxed.

The sweatpants were ridiculously comfortable when Gaetan wriggled into them, although he had to pull the drawstring tight to keep them on his hips. Geralt really was ridiculously broad. He briefly considered putting his binder back on, but realised it was an incredibly stupid idea, given how long he’d been wearing it the previous night and how off kilter he felt from the edges of his hangover. It wasn’t like Geralt had never seen him without it before either. Nor was he the kind of dick that would care.

He popped two of the paracetamol out of their blisters and tossed them back with a mouthful of water. As soon as it hit his tongue, he realised how incredibly thirsty he was. He barely resisted the temptation to guzzle the whole glass, knowing it would make him feel sick if he did. Instead, he took it with him, sipping carefully as he wandered out of the spare room and down the stairs. The whole house was brightly lit, since neither of them had bothered to close any of the curtains before they’d fallen into drunken stupors. It was a miracle the bedroom curtains had been shut. He poked his head into the living room and, finding it empty, tried the kitchen next. It was similarly and unsurprisingly devoid of Geralt.

This was far from the first time they’d found themselves passed out in spare rooms or on couches or even floors in each other’s homes after a night of heavy drinking. The very first time, they’d been at uni, on the way home from a Fresher’s party. Gaetan had made big, sad eyes at the tall, lanky boy who’d offered to walk him home and asked to use the loo when he mentioned they were passing his flat. Geralt, being a sweetheart and a gentleman, had agreed and had made them both a cup of tea while Gaetan was peeing. They’d both ended up passed out on the couch, tea half-drunk and argument over the best superhero half-argued. The morning had brought terribly cricked necks and a beautiful friendship, since they were both far too hungover to move. They’d ended up playing co-op Call of Duty for hours and ordering an obscene amount of takeaway. They’d swapped numbers before Gaetan left and then two days later had run into each other again at the Fresher’s event for the Creative Writing Society. After that, they’d drifted together over and over again, becoming inseparable.

After university, they’d both moved down to London and crammed themselves into a tiny flat with three other guys who were also all trying to break into creative industries. They’d both ended up with different small publishing companies that had then been acquired by the same, much bigger company, leaving them working together. Since their friendship had never waned, even when Geralt moved out into his big house in Mitcham, it wasn’t a problem. Gaetan would never admit it to Geralt, but he’d missed seeing him every day after he moved and working together gave him that back. It had given them back the ability to grab drinks after work or just hang out that they had lost when they worked for separate companies. He’d never been sure, but Gaetan thought Geralt had missed him too.

Of course, things might have been easier for Gaetan if they’d seen a little bit less of each other. The burning torch he’d carried for Geralt had never gone out, even when they’d been apart more than they’d been together, kept in contact only by brief strings of text messages when they could find a free minute to chat. Living with him had been a trial. Geralt was the sort to wander out of the bathroom in a towel and nothing else, leaving poor Gaetan desperate to be anywhere else before he gave his hopeless crush away.

He didn’t know when he’d fallen. They’d been friends and then one day Gaetan looked at Geralt and realised he was in love. He’d always known Geralt was attractive, from that very first night in the club, but he realised that the emotions that hadn’t been present then were still not new; he’d been living with them for a while, unknowingly. They’d burrowed in and made a home in his chest when he wasn’t looking and he knew with a bone deep certainty that excising them would kill him as surely as if he were digging out flesh and bone. The time to save himself was past. He’d learned to work around it.

There had been times, here and there, where he’d wondered, even considered acting. Sometimes he’d catch Geralt looking at him with a softness that he didn’t usually show in his eyes. Occasionally, Geralt’s flirty comments, a staple of his communication, landed a little bit too honestly. But it wasn’t wise to hope and Gaetan had decided long ago that protecting their friendship was more important than the hollowness he sometimes felt when he went to bed alone.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he discovered that he’d made a cup of tea on autopilot. For once, the milk in the fridge was both fresh and not empty, so he could take his tea how he liked it, instead of black with extra sugar to cover the bitterness. Geralt was getting better about keeping milk around and his fridge properly stocked with food. It had taken both of them a while to get over the frugal habits of university once they started earning a liveable wage. Of course, the unexpected inheritance Geralt had received during his first year working had helped him significantly. It had been the reason he’d been able to move out to a proper house in the suburbs, unlike Gaetan who had finally graduated to living without a flatmate after four promotions. Nowadays, though, they could both afford a regular carton of milk without worrying.

He wandered through to the living room with his tea and booted up the PS5. There was a soft blanket abandoned on the back of the couch and he tugged it down to cover his bare feet as he curled up into the corner, against the arm. He rearranged some of the cushions and wriggled until he was properly comfortable in his makeshift nest. Logging into his own Playstation profile, he scrolled through the games, trying to decide what to play. There were plenty available, but he struggled to make a decision, especially since he wanted to avoid anything with a disk that would make him get up to put it in the machine. In the end, he chose a mindless and relatively plotless shooter and spent some time blasting zombie-bird-demon-creature-things to bits while sipping his tea.

Eventually, several levels in, he heard movement upstairs, followed by water rushing through the pipes as the toilet flushed. Geralt was awake then. He waited to see if he was going to come downstairs or burrow back into bed for a bit. The creaky third step heralded his arrival.

When Geralt entered the living room, he looked awful. Always pale, he looked almost ghostly in the morning light. His hair was tangled into something more closely resembling a bird’s nest than the usual sleek waterfall. There were deep bags under his eyes and his t-shirt was on inside out. Gaetan grinned at him.

‘Hungover then?’ he asked.

Geralt didn’t even bother with signing a response, choosing instead to stick his middle finger up and drop onto the couch in a boneless heap. He wriggled around until he was horizontal, with his head propped on Gaetan’s stomach. He didn’t seem to mind that he needed to move Gaetan himself around to achieve the desired sprawl. Gaetan, of course, was helpless to resist. It was almost a ritual at this stage in their friendship. Geralt would emerge, hungover and suffering, and then he would sprawl all over Gaetan, soaking up his warmth as they lay around the house playing video games, snacking and ordering more takeaway than they could realistically eat. Today would be no different. It hurt, a little, in the way that poking a mostly healed bruise hurt.
Nothing, especially not a tiny amount of pain, would make him give these days up, though. He was too selfish. Even if he couldn’t have everything he wanted with Geralt, he could still have this. Closeness, comfort, and friendship was hardly second-best, even if he knew some people would see it as settling. He didn’t. He just wanted Geralt in whatever capacity he could have him. As long as they were in each others’ lives, he was content.

‘Playing?’ Geralt signed, fingers flicking quickly and surely, despite the way his face creased with pain around his closed eyes. Gaetan wanted to reach down and stroke the lines furrowing his forehead.

‘Dunno,’ Gaetan told him. ‘Some shooter game with weird monster things. I’m guessing you got it free in a bundle or something. It’s shit, but it doesn’t need me to think much.’

Geralt gave him a thumbs up and somehow got even heavier as he relaxed and went completely boneless across Gaetan’s torso.

‘Talk?’’ he signed.

‘I can do that,’ Gaetan agreed and launched into a profane but quiet rant about the stupidity of the developers’ monster designs, the level progression system, and the batshit insane controls.
Once, years ago, in the aftermath of a particularly messy night of drinking, Geralt had explained that he liked the feeling of Gaetan’s voice rumbling through him when they lay like this. He’d said that the vibration was soothing. Gaetan had melted and he’d stopped complaining about the endless requests for his voice, even if he sometimes struggled to think of something to say.

They didn’t talk about Geralt’s inability to speak. Gaetan had asked about it once or twice at university, when he’d been younger, dumber, and less able to work out what was a sore spot and what wasn’t. He’d also been less willing to care. A couple of years hanging out with Geralt and his group of friends (their group of friends, a fact which had taken him an embarrassingly long time to understand) had cured him of the habit of going for the jugular that he’d developed as a kid. Back then, it had been a necessary defence mechanism, but as an adult it just made him a dick.

It wasn’t that Geralt was unwilling to talk about it with people he trusted, was the thing. It wasn’t traumatic or anything, it was just the way his body worked. He was, however, justifiably fed up being poked and prodded about it, and doing so was a good way to end up on his shit list. Gaetan had dropped the subject as soon as that became clear and instead began learning sign so that Geralt would be able to talk to him without his ever-present notebook making an appearance. The first time he’d responded to Geralt in sign as well as verbally, Geralt had cried.

These days, it was second nature to sign along with his speech whenever Geralt was looking at him. Technically, it was unnecessary since Geralt could hear just fine, but it helped him retain fluency. He was pretty sure that his fluency in BSL had contributed heavily to his assignment to the same team as Geralt at work. It meant that there was almost always someone handy when Geralt had something to communicate that he didn’t want to or didn’t have time to write down. By this point though, most of their team could interpret his most frequently used answers anyway. Some of them could even sign a basic conversation themselves.

Eventually, his throat beginning to feel dry, Gaetan pushed Geralt’s head off his stomach and went to make another cup of tea.

‘Order breakfast,’ he commanded as he walked out of the room.

He didn’t bother specifying what he wanted. They’d been ordering from the same shitty hole-in-the-wall café since Geralt had moved out here and he always ordered exactly the same things. So did Geralt. Creatures of habit, the pair of them were. He made a cup of tea for himself and a coffee for Geralt, adding milk to both cups and then tipping two spoonfuls of sugar into Geralt’s coffee. Normally, he didn’t take sugar, but he always craved it when he was hungover.
He made Geralt sit up to take his coffee—nice as it was to snuggle up, he had no intention of scalding something important because Geralt hadn’t made sure he had a good angle to drink at. He’d only needed to be doused in one milkshake to learn that lesson. They curled up at opposite ends of the couch, their legs meeting and tangling under the blanket in the middle. The food would take at least half an hour to arrive; the true price of deliciousness.

‘Film?’ Geralt signed.

‘Sure,’ Gaetan signed back. ‘What?’

They argued for a while, trying to decide what to watch. Gaetan was a proponent of something familiar while Geralt wanted to try something new. In the end, they settled on ‘Moonlight’ which neither of them had seen, but both of them had previously expressed interest in. It had been out for a while, but there had always been another film that they wanted to see more. Today’s lazy hangover day seemed exactly the moment for it.

They stayed at opposite ends of the couch, pausing only briefly to retrieve their delivery and scarf down the breakfast burritos they had ordered. It was enough to clear the last of the hangover ick from Gaetan, leaving him feeling loose and relaxed. It didn’t have quite the same effect on Geralt, but he’d always suffered more from hangovers than Gaetan did. They restarted the movie and curled up, sliding down the couch until they were both practically horizontal, their legs tangled together until neither of them could move without disturbing the other. It was a good film.

Gaetan enjoyed the closeness and the warmth and the slow build of the plot. Then, the characters were sitting on the beach talking, making eye contact, swaying together and apart and together again. It cut to a close-up of a thumb stroking a cheek and then the pair were kissing with fervent desperation and intense softness.

It was too much for Gaetan’s poor heart to handle. He’d known it was a queer film, of course. It was one of the things that had drawn them towards it. He just hadn’t expected to be so affected by a simple on-screen kiss. It was the tenderness of it that was getting to him. The old friends, cradling each other. Abruptly, he was desperate to be touched. It felt like every one of his nerve endings was on fire and his clit throbbed with need between his legs. He squirmed a little, trying to pretend he was just adjusting his position in an effort to get some relief for the need.

He didn’t dare look at Geralt. He couldn’t bear it if he was the only one affected by what was happening on the screen. It wasn’t like Geralt was hiding feelings for him anyway. There was no chance he was also sitting there hard and aching, wishing that his best friend would just bridge the gap. It was obviously solely Gaetan’s problem.

On the screen, the kiss continued, then Kevin’s hand fell to Chiron’s belt and the actor started moaning in little harsh, punched-out breaths and Gaetan was burning. It was somehow more erotic, more real that most of the porn he’d ever watched and half the problem was his heightened awareness of Geralt’s leg tangled with his, pressing against the soft inside of his thigh, his heat obvious through the thin cotton of Gaetan’s jogging bottoms. Jogging bottoms that belonged to Geralt.

‘I’m sorry,’ one of the characters said and Gaetan couldn’t breathe.

He wriggled and twisted himself upright, Geralt pulling his legs back as soon as he realised what was happening in an attempt to help. As soon as he was free, Gaetan was up and dashing out of the living room to the toilet. He slammed through the door and leaned over the sink, panting and trying not to catch a glimpse of his flushed face and blown pupils in the mirror. He turned the cold tap on and splashed some water on his face, hoping it would cool him down. It did little except make his face as wet as his cunt.

He was panting still when the door creaked and footsteps padded closer. Geralt, coming to check on him. Fuck. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so damned inconvenient. How the hell was he supposed to explain this? He was being weird. He knew he was being weird. He took a couple of deep breaths and looked up, catching Geralt’s eye over his shoulder in the mirror.

‘Sick?’ Geralt signed. It was only long practice in similar positions that let Gaetan read the mirror inverted signs, although that one was easier than most.

He shook his head. It wasn’t the hangover bothering him, especially since he wasn’t even the one that was still hungover. He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t sick though. Who spent so much time lusting after their best friend, desperately hoping and reading into every touch, every joke, every moment until they drove themself so insane that they gave up, in the hope that they could at least keep the friendship that they had? He’d thought… No, he’d hoped he was over it. He knew he loved Geralt, but he’d bundled all of the attraction up, shoved it into a box, and stored it away somewhere it should never have emerged from. It should have been enough. Now though, it had emerged and he’d been undone by one on-screen kiss and a thirty second handjob you couldn’t even see.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, resisting the temptation to drop his eyes back to the sink and avoid Geralt’s piercing gaze. Geralt hated it when he did that because it cut off their line of communication. Years ago, when Gaetan had been less able to control his impulses and had still struggled with eye contact, he’d agreed that Geralt could kick him when he turned too far away. Geralt had taken the permission and run with it. He didn’t think he could cope with even that harsh contact just now, so he kept his eyes up, focused on Geralt’s hands.

‘Why?’ Geralt asked.

It was such a simple question, but there was no simple answer. Gaetan shook his head again. He couldn’t. Geralt blew a long breath out through his nose, his auditory equivalent of a growl or groan of frustration.

‘Why did you leave?’ he asked.

‘I had to.’

The words slipped from his tongue without his permission and he immediately wanted to reel them back in before they landed. It was true, though. Geralt wanted truth and he got it. There was no way he could have stayed in that room, cuddled up with Geralt like he wasn’t soaking his boxers with arousal at the thought of his best friend touching him like Kevin touched Chiron.
Geralt looked him up and down. Gaetan, looking at him through the mirror as he was, could see exactly what Geralt would be noticing. His head was covered in a thin growth of peach fuzz, due to be shaved again soon. His eyes were supported by deep bags, similar to Geralt’s own, and his cheeks were red and flushed under bright eyes. Most damningly, he still couldn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, keeping his attention on his unmoving hands instead.

When Geralt’s hands did move, it wasn’t to sign. He reached out and grasped Gaetan by the shoulder, gently exerting pressure to turn him around. It was light enough that he could have resisted, but he was man enough to admit when he was beaten. There wasn’t a lot of space with how close Geralt was standing, and he found himself with his lower back pressed to the chill porcelain of the sink, Geralt a line of burning heat in front of him since he hadn’t stepped back to make space. Gaetan swallowed, utterly off-balance and unsure what was going to happen next.

What did happen was Geralt’s hand, reaching out and skimming up from his shoulder to his neck to cradling the back of his head. His hands were huge and warm and Gaetan wanted to fall into the sensation, but he didn’t understand what was going on. Geralt’s thumb brushed back and forward over the soft, sensitive space below his ear, imitating the touch that had affected him so much on the television screen. It was just the once, but it sent an intense shudder coursing through Gaetan’s body. In response, Geralt smiled, a slow, dangerous smile that Gaetan didn’t recognise. Then, he leaned in.

The movement was slow enough to give Gaetan plenty of time to slide sideways or shove Geralt or make any other movement to suggest that he wasn’t happy with being caught in the position he was in. He did nothing of the sort. He wasn’t quite brave enough to lean in and meet Geralt halfway, still pretty sure he was dreaming, but he held his ground and let Geralt come to him, pressing their lips together in a soft kiss. Gaetan let it happen and huffed out a soft breath when Geralt leaned back just enough to separate them. He could feel the heat of Geralt’s breath on his face, the line of his body carefully not pressing closer. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to run outside and spin in circles and scream his triumph to the sky. It couldn’t be real. Could it?

‘Really?’ he asked, keeping his voice steady by force of will alone.

Geralt was clearly reluctant to let him go, but he stepped back far enough to sign. His hands dragged as he pulled them away from Gaetan. Gaetan’s neck immediately felt cold, as did his waist, where Geralt’s other hand had landed. Why had he opened his big mouth? Things had been going so well. He could have just shut up and had everything he’d ever wanted.

‘Do you not want?’ Geralt signed, his eyebrows coming together in a worried frown.

‘No!’ Gaetan yelped immediately, without thinking. ‘Wait, yes. No. What? Fuck.’

He bit his lip against the onslaught of words and took a deep breath through his nose. If this was to be his only chance, he didn’t want to give Geralt the impression he wasn’t interested, especially when he very much was.

‘I mean,’ he said, slowing down a little to make sure the words came out right this time, ‘that I very much do want, but I thought you didn’t. I was surprised.’

Geralt huffed a short, sharp breath through his nose, indicating his amusement. He reached forward and picked up one of Gaetan’s hands, and before Gaetan had time to enjoy the feeling of Geralt holding his hand, Geralt was pressing it to his crotch. Gaetan gasped at the heat and hardness of Geralt’s cock distending the sweatpants under his palm.

‘I want,’ Geralt signed with his unoccupied hand.

‘Yeah,’ Gaetan gasped. ‘Me too.’

‘Couch?’ Geralt asked. ‘Bed?’

Gaetan’s head spun, incapable of making even this simple choice. Obviously, they couldn’t stay where they were, with Gaetan pressed against the sink. Apart from anything else, it was already starting to hurt his back and there was a not insignificant chance that any vigorous activity would remove it from the wall, heralding a watery end to their fun.

‘Couch,’ Gaetan decided eventually, on the logic that it was closer than the bed, although the quaver in his voice made it sound more like a question than the strong statement he’d intended.

Geralt swept him off his feet and into his arms, making Gaetan squeak in surprise. He wasn’t used to being lifted and he was suddenly discovering he didn’t mind it at all. Geralt made a beeline for the living room and Gaetan took advantage of the way he was being held to press kisses to Geralt’s throat. Geralt’s breathing stuttered in response and his steps sped up.

As soon as he was in the living room, he threw himself down onto the couch, leaving Gaetan sprawled across his chest and half off the couch. He wriggled around like an eel until he was straddling Geralt’s lap, their faces inches apart.

Geralt leaned forward and kissed him again. This kiss was less chaste and more of a slick, sensuous slide of lips. Gaetan’s teeth caught Geralt’s lip and he nipped gently, ripping a groan from Geralt’s chest. It was a rough, formless noise that hitched between sound and air. Gaetan had only heard it once or twice before, although previously as a response to pain rather than pleasure. As the noise escaped, Geralt pulled back, his face flushing, and hid himself in Gaetan’s neck.

Gaetan stroked one hand through Geralt’s long hair, untangling the strands from their nest and massaging lightly at his scalp. He knew Geralt was self-conscious about his voice and the few small sounds he was able to make. It was the legacy of endless doctors and speech therapists who had failed to magically cure his damaged vocal chords. It was also the remnants of the taunts of cruel children and also adults who should have known better. He knew Geralt had been bullied for how he sounded and, as always, he vowed to never add to that if he could help it.

‘I don’t mind,’ he murmured, pressing kisses to the top of Geralt’s head as punctuation. ‘I’ll never mind hearing you.’

‘Sound awful,’ Geralt signed, sticking his hands out at a ridiculously awkward angle so that he could sign without moving his head. ‘Not sexy.’

‘You don’t sound awful,’ Gaetan argued, gently tugging his hair until he looked up. ‘You just sound like you.’

Geralt wrinkled his nose and shook his head frantically.

‘I don’t mind if you don’t make noise,’ Gaetan said, softly, knowing he needed to step carefully. ‘I want you to be comfortable. But, as far as I’m concerned, if you can’t stop yourself making noise? That suggests I’m doing something right. I find that quite sexy. Do whatever makes you happy.’

Geralt ducked his head, clearly thinking over Gaetan’s words.

‘I’ll try,’ he promised.

‘As long as you tell me to stop if you’re not comfortable,’ Gaetan said. ‘All I want is for you to enjoy yourself.’

‘Means stop?’ Geralt signed and tapped Gaetan’s leg vigorously with the flat of his palm. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, not even to sting, but it was noticeable. He wouldn’t be able to accidentally ignore it, even in the throes of pleasure.

‘Yeah, that works,’ Gaetan said and dove back in for another kiss.

Now that they weren’t distracted by talking, the kisses turned slicker and deeper. Gaetan gasped and moaned into Geralt’s mouth and Geralt reciprocated with barely vocalised grunts. It was one of the sexiest things Gaetan had ever heard, knowing that Geralt trusted him enough to let go like that and react in a way that was totally natural. He could feel himself getting wetter and wetter in response to the sounds and sensations, especially when he shifted just right and Geralt’s hard cock brushed against his cunt. Even through their layers of clothes, it felt good.

Gaetan rocked down again, pressing against Geralt’s hardness, chasing the pleasure as it slid against his own cock. Geralt’s breathing got heavier and faster and his hands snuck around to cradle Gaetan’s hips, urging him to move faster and harder. Never one to disobey an instruction he liked, Gaetan wriggled with more force, pressing them together.

The pleasure built quickly in Gaetan’s core, turning him molten and desperate. He whined, rocking and circling his hips and searching for the angle that would give him everything he needed.

‘Please,’ he gasped, voice wrecked. ‘Please, need you.’

He could feel Geralt’s cock twitching beneath him and knew that what they were doing wasn’t enough for either of them. He slid backwards until he was hovering over Geralt’s knees and ran his hands down Geralt’s strong chest to the waistband of his joggers.

‘Can I?’ he asked.

Geralt nodded, frantic and needy as he brought his own hand round to the front of Gaetan’s own joggers. Since his other hand was clutching Gaetan’s lower back and helping him to balance, he didn’t have a free hand to sign. He paused, his fingertips just skimming the top of the fabric and raised an eyebrow, the question clear.

‘Yes,’ Gaetan gasped, suddenly desperate to have Geralt’s hands on him, exactly where he’d always wanted him. ‘Please. No more than two fingers.’

Geralt slipped his hand into Gaetan’s trousers and wriggled under the waistband of his boxers. Immediately, he began to explore with curious, gentle touches. It was so much. It was exactly what he’d always wanted. Gaetan could barely breathe with the overwhelming knowledge that this was Geralt touching him, making him feel this good. Geralt, that he’d been pining over for over a decade. Objectively, the touches weren’t anything special as Geralt tried to work out what Gaetan enjoyed, but the fact that it was Geralt touching him was everything.

To distract himself from the sudden swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him, Gaetan focused on stroking Geralt’s cock. Geralt helped by lifting his hips enough for Gaetan to pull his trousers and boxers down and tuck them under his balls. With them safely out of the way, Geralt went back to his thorough exploration of Gaetan’s body while Gaetan reciprocated the attention.

The cock in his hand was soft but sturdy. It was, perhaps, a strange thing to think, but it was the first word that sprang to Gaetan’s mind as he closed his hand around it. It wasn’t overly long or thick, but it had a solidity to it that left Gaetan more sure than he had been at any other point during this encounter that it was actually happening. He wasn’t dreaming. He moved his hand in a tight, twisting stroke that he had been reliably informed felt good. Sure enough, Geralt huffed out a deep breath of air that contained the edge of a grunt. Gaetan felt it over his neck where their faces were pressed together. Taking that as a good sign, Gaetan set up a slow rhythm, entranced by Geralt’s foreskin sliding backwards and forwards, alternately revealing and covering the flushed head of his cock.

Geralt’s breath was hot and wet against his neck, driving his own pleasure higher as Geralt started to narrow down what worked for him and had his hips hitching. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s temple, the closest place he could reach with Geralt’s forehead pressed into the crook of his neck gasping into Geralt’s hair as sharp pleasure sparked through him.

‘There,’ he groaned, ‘right there, please.’

Geralt mouthed at his neck, sending shivers coursing through him and did as he was told, continuing the same movement that had sent his hips rocking in sudden pleasure. It was too much and not enough all at once and Gaetan couldn’t stay still. He sped the strokes of his own hand, trying to bring Geralt the same pleasure that he was feeling.

Between the horniness that hangovers always engendered and the years of pent-up tension between them, neither of them lasted long. Geralt fell over the edge first, grunting as he painted his t-shirt with stripes of spend. Gaetan followed quickly after, especially once Geralt’s whole attention was on making him come, rather than split with chasing his own pleasure.

Lightning arced through him and he threw his head back, gasping and panting for air. He didn’t scream or moan, being relatively quiet in bed both by long habit of shared flats and proclivity. He was sure it was still clear in the shaking of his thighs and the tensing of his muscles how much he was enjoying himself. Geralt held him firmly with the hand in the small of his back until the shaking had subsided and he could support himself again.

Once they’d both come down from their highs, Geralt wiped Gaetan’s hand off on his already soiled t-shirt, then stripped it off, balled it up and dropped it on the floor. Gaetan took the provided opportunity to snuggle up against the newly revealed and very warm skin of Geralt’s chest. He wriggled down until he was between Geralt’s thighs, pulling his trousers up on the way, and curled on his side, with his head on Geralt’s shoulder, looking out at the room.

Geralt brought his hands round to where Gaetan could see them. ‘Good?’ he signed.

‘Fucking amazing,’ Gaetan agreed. ‘You… We…’ He took a deep breath and tried again. ‘This isn’t just a one time thing is it?’ he asked. His voice was smaller than he wanted it to be, giving away exactly how much he wanted this and letting Geralt know how much power he held.

Geralt levelled him with his best glare, the one he usually reserved for editors who were being particularly stupid.

‘No.’

The sign was emphatic and completely impossible to misread. Geralt wanted this as much as he did. Gaetan felt the last of his tension flow out of him.

‘Good,’ he sighed.

‘Hush. Nap now,’ Geralt signed.

Gaetan laughed, well used to Geralt’s ability to lose consciousness at the drop of a hat when he was hungover. Clearly the addition of an orgasm did nothing to change that. He helped catch the blanket with his foot, pulling it up over both of them until they were in a warm little snuggly cocoon and then reached for the controller. He might as well continue the strange shooter game while Geralt snoozed. The background noise would help him sleep anyway. Firing up the game, he couldn’t help but grin. Sometimes hangovers weren’t the worst thing in the world.