[ and that. that noise. that is something that sam has found he chases after. that he looks for in the conversations. the amusement as well as the exasperation. the proof that whatever this is - sam laughing, geralt giving away stories, the way the two of them continue to circle around each other, this bond - is something from equal sides. because yes, geralt does say some fucked up shit. and sam knows that it's fucked up enough that he should be more hung up on it. but he's also learned, over the course of these months, that nothing gets done if he does. that it's not what geralt wants, whether or not he needs it.

sam's not his therapist. sam doesn't want to be. but he does want to be the sort of friend that geralt shows off his home and tells dumb stories to and one where they can sit in this home and laugh. ]

I'll hold you to that. Even if you already owe me drinks. I might as well start making the shit myself with how many empty bottles I have at the apartment.

[ it's a casual statement, comfortable and joking, despite the nature behind it. despite the fact the only reason sam's even going through that much alcohol had been what they'd all gone through. jaskier, first - then geralt. then ciri finding out about alina. sam was not a huge drinker, not unless the social situation called for it, but lately...well. let's just say the bottles of liquor had been drank. and used. and drank again.

sam pauses for a moment, thinking about that. about how geralt had found a spot for himself in that room, even after he'd healed. how easily the two of them had fallen into step together. how nice the last few weeks (weeks? months? god, sam's gotta get better at keeping up with time) had felt. now sam just holds onto the smile, shakes his head a little. ]

And how big do they get? If you'd actually kept it.