A/N: So I imagine this happens wayyy back when before Geralt has even met Yennefer. Around when the short stories start.

Geralt wakes to a heavy weight on his chest. His first instincts tell him to push it away, reach a swift hand for the sword laying nearby and quickly cut down whatever had dared get so close to him in his sleep, but the familiar scent in his nose and a surprisingly quick recollection of the previous night halts the urge.

Much as he may wish the warm, solid weight is that of a girl he'd brought to bed a few hours before, it's only Dandelion. The attic room, the only vacant and affordable one in the village, offers not enough space to even stand fully upright and precisely one bed: a narrow cot barely big enough for one pushed up against the wall.

Geralt had been more than content to take the floor, but Dandelion, in his misguided optimism, had been insistent that they could both fit. And so, after a halfhearted protest and a few brief minutes of awkward discomfort perching on their own halves, Dandelion decided to do away with foolish notions of personal space and flung out his limbs on top of Geralt, wrapped the ratty blankets tight around both of them, tucked his head into the witcher's chest, and passed out.

Hours later, he's still there. Only now, awake.

"Remarkable," Geralt can hear him muttering. "Oh, that is magnificent. Melodious like harp strings being struck by a hammer…"

"Dandelion…" Geralt says gruffly, shifting his weight though without making an effort to shove him off. "What are you talking about?"

The bard tilts his head, looks up at the witcher from somewhere underneath his chin. "Your heart, Geralt. You never told me you were carrying round such an instrument of beauty in your chest."

Frowning in annoyance, Geralt at last raises his hands to push him away. "It's my heart, Dandelion. You've got your own," he says irritably, extending his arms until the poet is forced to kneel upright with one knee still uncomfortably pressing on Geralt's hip.

Dandelion flattens a hand over his own chest and huffs. "And as proud of it as I am, it's certainly none so melodic and enchanting as yours. That's positively music, Geralt."

Geralt grits his teeth. He certainly doesn't feel well rested yet and he has no idea how Dandelion apparently does. Unless this is all just sleep deprived and still-drunk rambling. "Not how I'd describe it."

"Oh, and I suppose you've heard it, have you?"

"Middle of a fight with the beast of the day, I've heard it plenty."

"Pah. You've heard the blood rushing in your ears. You've never placed your head upon your own chest, or if you have, it's certainly a feat I'd like to see. A shame, really. Whatever else those mutations did to you, they've certainly made your heart a remarkable instrument. Were I more prone to panic than I am, I'd have feared you'd passed away in the night your heartbeat is so slow, but as it is I'm not the type to be melodramatic. Instead, I counted. It keeps perfect four-four time to the tune of a single beat per bar, and the tone is rich and lyrical. I couldn't reproduce it with a drum if I tried."

Geralt looks at him, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Thanks for that observation. Are you finished?"

"Finished? Music like that deserves to be transformed into song. A ballad of The Witcher with a Heart."

Geralt shoves Dandelion off of him, rolls his eyes, and closes them. "Well, while you figure out how to do that, I'm going back to sleep," he says, shifting his weight again and folding his arms so that Dandelion can't settle back into the same position as before.

"Come now, Geralt. You're taking up all the space on the bed."

"I said I'd take the floor. Offer's passed."

"Geralt…" He actually sounds a little hurt. "Don't sulk. How have I offended you?"

The witcher cracks open an eye, feeling a little guilty. "You haven't," he answers sheepishly. He's self-conscious, but Dandelion's unusual attempt at a compliment appears utterly sincere and without agenda. It had caught him off guard.

"Then don't be like that. It's draughty in this dump and I'm sure the floor's crawling with rats and cockroaches and other things. I'd rather stay here where we can at least both be warm."

Geralt pretends to consider. "Fine," he eventually says faux-irritably, uncrossing his arms and shuffling to allow Dandelion to lie down again. "Just don't start rambling about my heart again while I'm trying to sleep."

Relieved, Dandelion settles himself back down and finds a comfortable spot on Geralt's chest before pulling up the blankets. He's right. The room is cold, and Geralt finds he's actually grateful for the additional body heat warming him through his shirt.

"I'm sorry," Dandelion mumbles to Geralt's surprise. "I just...I really do wish I had a way to preserve it. In song, or with music somehow. I like what it means."

"What does it mean?"

"That you're alive."

Geralt is silent. His heart reacts though, giving two beats at twice its normal pace, and he knows Dandelion hears it.

"Centuries from now, I'll be long gone," the poet continues. "I suspect we both will. But just maybe, people will still be playing my songs, and they'll hear it and know: you lived. You were a witcher with a heart sometimes far too big for your own good, and this was how it sounded."

Geralt still doesn't say a word. That what you think of me? he wonders. Heart too big for my own good?

Though, here he is, lying uncomfortably on a bed far too small with his friend curled up on his chest because Geralt couldn't bear to let him sleep alone on the floor. Maybe Dandelion has a point.

A short while later, when Dandelion begins to hum quietly as if composing a lullaby to the rhythm of Geralt's sleep-steady heart, he doesn't even complain. The witcher smiles softly, drinks in the warmth and the peacefulness of the melody and Dandelion's own heart he can feel thumping against his side, and lets it lull him to sleep.