Eskel/geralt - Tumblr Posts

Eskel has always liked books. Any kind of book, fact or fiction, he devours with insatiable hunger. If there was one positive aspect to being taken by witchers as a child, it would be gaining access to their massive library. He’s free to borrow what he wishes to read during the small amount of rest time he’s allowed per day. Witchers appreciate education, it seems.

Not all of the boys can read.

Eskel becomes a commodity within their dormitory, staying up late to read aloud to his fellow trainees. Sometimes their sword instructor, Vesemir, soft hearted witcher that he is, will visit them and tell his own stories. The boys always enjoy those nights and Eskel appreciates the break.

He isn’t sure if Geralt can read. The boy is quiet and tends to keep to himself. He’s been present at every story time since he arrived but never makes requests. He’s been warming up to Eskel, receptive to his smiles and kind words, but he still doesn’t speak much and Eskel still can’t tell exactly what’s going on in his head under all those auburn curls.

One night, Eskel feels a tug at his blanket and turns over to find Geralt staring at him intently, a leather bound book clutched in his hands. Eskel scoots over and Geralt climbs into bed next to him, as if he belongs there. The book contains children’s tales. Dragons and quests and princesses and knights in shining armor. Geralt flips through the pages until they come across a story about Sir Eric, complete with full page illustration.

Geralt looks at Eskel expectantly.

It’s very late. They both have chores and training in the morning. But Eskel brings the book closer so that he can see it better in the darkness and Geralt immediately cuddles up to his side and lays his head on Eskel’s shoulder.

Eskel reads in an even whisper until he feels the little puffs of breath against him that mean Geralt has fallen asleep. He closes the book and sets it aside, careful not to wake the sleeping boy at his side. He considers how to get Geralt back to his own bed but dismisses the thought.

Two small boys can share one bunk easily enough.

Just for tonight.

Geralt’s favourite place to kiss Eskel is on the back of the neck. It’s a vulnerable spot that no one else gets to touch, always covered by the collar of his gambeson or his thick mop of hair. Gentle, pale lips touch bronze skin whenever Eskel’s bent over a task, focused and distant. Geralt takes a deep breath of warm scent; clean sweat, woodsmoke, leather and something deeper. Eskel.  

 It’s easy to get Eskel to tilt into it; Geralt cradles his broad jaw in the palm of his hand, thumb stroking over the rough ridges of his scars. He noses black hair aside, and kisses slowly, passionately, until Eskel melts against him with a contented rumble, amber eyes lidded. His skin prickles with delight, and Geralt can feel the soft sighs of bliss puff over his fingers.

 It’s their secret. A phrase in the private language they’ve shared for decades. Yet another way to say, “I love you.”