[ The towel ends up in his hands out of nowhere. Geralt frowns, distracted momentarily. He wipes his hands, then drops it on one of the long benches.
His instinct is to want to be alone. But the truth is, being alone will do little to help. Nero has already seen...all that. And Geralt is not ashamed of his reaction; it isn't about that. It's more. A discomfort. The kind that comes with being seen too closely, too clearly, before he's ready. Before he's allowed it.
He huffs. Bragging rights. Not quite sure that's what he'd call it. Still, the lines of his shoulders relax a hint. He tips back the bottle and swallows several long mouthfuls. ]
Mm. It's where we're made, trained. Live. [ Not where they die, though. Not since...that night. The only piece of them that often make it back are the medallions, if that. Most of those hung—they're from the ones who perished in the massacre.
Nero, he thinks, is the first to call it warm; in a sense, he isn't surprised. They grew up similar, from what he's learned. The Order, as Nero calls it.
He hesitates. Does he wish to talk about it? No. He just. It hangs in the air, a dark shadow, leaving his fingertips cold, an uneasy prickle over his skin. So fuck. Perhaps saying something will dispel that. ]
no subject
His instinct is to want to be alone. But the truth is, being alone will do little to help. Nero has already seen...all that. And Geralt is not ashamed of his reaction; it isn't about that. It's more. A discomfort. The kind that comes with being seen too closely, too clearly, before he's ready. Before he's allowed it.
He huffs. Bragging rights. Not quite sure that's what he'd call it. Still, the lines of his shoulders relax a hint. He tips back the bottle and swallows several long mouthfuls. ]
Mm. It's where we're made, trained. Live. [ Not where they die, though. Not since...that night. The only piece of them that often make it back are the medallions, if that. Most of those hung—they're from the ones who perished in the massacre.
Nero, he thinks, is the first to call it warm; in a sense, he isn't surprised. They grew up similar, from what he's learned. The Order, as Nero calls it.
He hesitates. Does he wish to talk about it? No. He just. It hangs in the air, a dark shadow, leaving his fingertips cold, an uneasy prickle over his skin. So fuck. Perhaps saying something will dispel that. ]
That cellar, it isn't meant to be there.