#lethskel

Hmm. Letho had not been as discreet as he'd first thought. He considered his options. A continued lie wouldn't earn much more than a dismissive snort from the wolf, further confirming Eskel's belief that Letho hid more than he shared, which meant he was untrustworthy, or he could share this one little tidbit. A tiny sliver of trust in a witcher that had walked the Path as long as he had. Eskel had his own code based on honour, neutrality and avoidance of conflict. The threat was relatively minor and, Letho reasoned, if Eskel knew, then he could taste Eskel more often. Even if only on the air around him.

"I smell things that way."

"Huh." Eskel appeared to consider the information. It would go one of two ways. He would either judge it not sufficiently interesting and continue tending to the sword across his lap or, more likely, he would want to investigate. That was one thing Eskel and Geralt had in common, by Letho's evaluation. Curiosity. But whereas Geralt's extended to politics and people, Eskel's was purely based in the natural world. Couldn't show him an odd looking mushroom without him snaffling it off for a little analysis. If pressed, Letho would admit it to be somewhat endearing. "How's that work then?"

Those deep amber eyes, so much richer in colour than Letho's own, widened a little, trained on Letho's mouth. Letho let his tongue poke out again, topping up the taste of Eskel against the roof of his mouth. "There's a vomeronasal organ in the roof of my mouth. Works through chemoreception, which is--"

"I know what chemoreception is," Eskel huffed, putting his sword aside to roll onto his knees. "Same way basilisks and slyzards smell. Never considered you'd've been given mutagens from those sources. Makes sense though, biggest vipers outside the ones in the grass, although I always figured you'd have had more wyvern, an'--" Eskel was shuffling over but hesitated when Letho raised an eyebrow. Eskel's propriety caught up with him, and he sat back on his heels with a quiet rumble, a chastened hound whose nose had wandered too close to the dinner plate, "can I look?"

Eskel looking meant he got closer, and now that Letho had conceded a little, he wanted to concede more, just to see where it led. It was a slippery slope, and he could hear Ivar's lecture about the duplicitous nature of other schools droning in the back of his head. They were a distraction from the mission, blind to the real purpose of the order. Letho packaged him away in the recesses of his memory and focused on the broadness of Eskel's face.

Hillfolk, Letho recalled. The witch had said as much during one of her many pontifications. As much of a pain in his arse as she had been, Yennefer had provided lots of intelligence on the nature of the wolf school. Letho traced Eskel's wide brow and nose with his eyes; his fingers itched to follow their path, but he kept them resolutely on his thighs as his mouth dropped open for Eskel's inspection.

"Minor warping of the palate, but not much," Eskel murmured, leaning in closer. Letho couldn't hide his body's reaction. His skin crackled like it had been touched by lightning, and the smell of Eskel's made his head light. His palm left his thigh and cupped beneath Eskel's chin to pull him away, but only far enough to meet his eyes. The deepest gold Letho had ever seen, richer than Toussaintese honey. Eskel grimaced, "Got somethin' to say?" Eskel's fingers tightened around Letho's wrist in mild warning.

It was then that Letho realised what he'd done. Lifted a wolf's head to expose his throat. But Eskel hadn't bitten back, hadn't shoved him away; his pupils were blown wide, two black suns highlighted in liquid amber. Letho tilted his own head, tongue darting briefly between his lips. Arousal. And not just his own. Eskel had intended this to happen. "You're playing a dangerous game," Letho said.

"Only play games when the odds are in my favour," Eskel replied, keeping his gaze steady. Letho tested, slipping his hand a little lower to the hinge of Eskel's jaw. He saw the flicker of appreciation even if Eskel tried to keep his gaze level. Eskel pushed against Letho's palm. "Your move."

Letho considered his options, measured the disadvantages of revealing this little crack in his facade, and pulled Eskel towards him. Letho made the wolf arch, stretching him off balance to keep the game in his favour, and brought their lips together. Eskel tasted just as Letho expected; like the divine come to earth. The scent of him washed through Letho's body like a tide, consuming his every sense, leaving quivering eagerness in its wake.

When the wolf let out a little whine, a trill of pleasure followed by a slump on his posture, Letho crowded him to the ground. He slipped a hand into that awful fucking haircut to force Eskel's head back, and licked a long stripe up his exposed throat. Eskel arched against him, strong hands gripping hard at Letho's shoulders. "If I'd known you were so eager to show me your belly, dog," Letho growled. "I'd'a offered sooner."

"Shut up and fuck me," Eskel snarled, or tried, his voice broke around the moan Letho forced from him with a sucking bite at the hinge of his jaw.

The stairs leading down into this pit of a room creak horribly, so Eskel must have telegraphed his movements loudly— just not loudly enough to break through Letho’s meditation. The light has changed too, cold bright winter sunlight spilling through the open door and spreading over the rickety stairs and grimy floor. Letho promptly caves under a rush of embarrassment at how he's let this place fall to ruin since his arrival. Granted, it hadn’t been anywhere near pristine when he arrived, but he could have taken a few minutes to sweep up some of the straw and scrub the unidentifiable mire from the walls. 

He’s sure he looks terrible too; there’s a sour taste in his throat that doesn’t fade when he clears it. “Not dead,” Letho mumbles, even though he technically is. “Just relaxing.” Even though he definitely isn’t.

“Right.” Eskel’s hands tense at his side; Letho pretends not to stare too obviously. He wonders if the Wolf has stopped by to bring him up for breakfast. Then his stomach swoops uncomfortably and clenches as he wonders if it’s perhaps long past breakfast. He’s been doing a good job keeping track of the days but not the hours, and there’s a chance he missed his midday sparring. Maybe that’s why Eskel is here.

Letho wants to rise from the nest of blankets that could hardly be described as a bed and follow Eskel up into the light, but he suddenly feels impossibly heavy. He glances up at the other witcher, wishing that he could see himself through Eskel’s kind eyes. Instead his shoulders just slump. “Well… what do you need?”

“I came down here to see what you needed,” Eskel begins, and Letho scoffs before he can even finish the sentence.

It’s perhaps crueller than Eskel deserves, but he isn’t sure he knows how to be pleasant right now. It’s cold, and miserable, and he doesn’t even belong here. Letho reaches up to scratch at his neck, suddenly annoyed. “No, you came down here because you wanted something. What is it? A fight? A fuck? Don’t think I’m in the mood for either, Wolf. Are you gonna serve me my eviction notice because I skipped berry-gathering with the old man last week?”

“None of us have seen you in three days,” Eskel replies, curt but not unkind. Letho doesn’t mean to react visibly but he’s sure something flashes across his face from the way Eskel’s marred lips twitch. Has it really been that long already? Maybe he hasn’t been keeping track of time as well as he thought. The realization is more upsetting than he wants to admit.

But before he can lash out again, Eskel moves away. The Wolf stands at attention expectantly, still staring at Letho. “Come on, got something for you to do.”

“Fine,” Letho grumbles, a little surprised to have won that easily. He’s one hundred percent okay with not talking about this but he had expected some sort of a lecture from Geralt’s softie brother. He rises to his feet and slips on his boots, following Eskel up into the light.

-

After at least a minute of awkward silence, Eskel clears his throat. “... Well?”

The ceiling here is high enough that their voices and footsteps bounce up to it, Eskel’s ‘well’ echoing around the cavern. After the weeks he’s spent in hiding at Kaer Morhen, he thought he knew the place pretty damn well. But any witcher school is bound to be full of surprises. The Cats practice their needlework while perched on the roof, their legs dangling over the edge without a care. Before the fall of Kaer Seren, the Griffins had had a secret soundproofed room in their prized library for working out any frustration— according to rumours, anyway. And apparently, the Wolves have their own personal heated pool.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Letho admits, his focus caught on the tiny aquatic plants floating around a few of the springs. Some of the pools are clearly designated for washing, like the one Eskel stands beside now. Others appear to be recreational— Letho hides a smile at the thought of Vesemir in here, smoking a pipe and enjoying the hot water. “Geralt never mentioned this place.”

“Our best kept secret.” Eskel’s smile curls up at his own joke and he distractedly reaches up to run his thick fingers through his soft, pretty hair. “Go ahead, the water’s fine.”

“Fine,” Letho echoes. The Wolf turns politely away as he pulls off his armour, not bothering to make a show of it if Eskel won’t even watch. The cool air feels awful against his bare skin and Letho grimaces. If Eskel brought him here to relax, he picked the wrong activity. Then again, maybe he just stinks and the other witcher had decided he needed a bath. Maybe the Wolves all voted on it.

He steps in tentatively, moving as slowly as he can to dip his toe into the dark spring. The water ripples around his foot as heat ripples through his body, the temperature so shocking that it almost feels like he’s on fire. “Fuck,” he groans, and it is a groan. Eskel doesn’t react to his indecent noises, his head still demurely turned away. Letho finds himself immaturely wishing that Eskel would turn to look; they’re adults, after all, and both bear the same equipment. His equipment twitches where it’s hanging soft against his thigh, and Letho doesn’t waste any more time, submerging the rest of his body quickly after. “Fuck, that feels fucking incredible!”

Eskel makes a small noise of assent but doesn’t move to immediately drop trou, head still turned. Letho realizes that he’s been staring at a wall of shelves the entire time, and abruptly feels like a fucking idiot for assuming that Eskel wouldn’t want to look at him stripping. This is hardly a blushing virgin, after all; the other witcher has been more open than most about his desires. Finally the Wolf selects the small bottle of oil he wants and the right bar of soap, and he turns back to the pool. Letho quickly pretends he hadn’t been staring, snapping around to stare down into the water.

The other witcher pours a small amount of the gauzy, fragrant oil over the surface of the water, and the pleasant scent clouds Letho’s mind. He rolls his head back and groans again as the hot water pulls away his troubles. “This is… really nice, actually. How’d you know?”

Instead of getting into the spring Eskel dips his hands into the water, lathering up the soap until he’s covered in bubbles. He explains, “Sometimes when I’m stressed, my scars itch. And Coën’s got the same thing, but all over— so bathing helps. I thought it might be just what you needed.”

“Thank you,” Letho murmurs, eyelids sliding shut. They shoot open wildly a second later though, as Eskel’s soapy hands start massaging the grime and sweat off of Letho’s skin. His fingertips dig into the Viper’s shoulders without hesitation or warning, and Letho’s heart rate spikes. He’s flirted with Eskel a bit since arriving but none of it has been reciprocated so far, and he just assumed he’d been barking up the wrong tree. But unless the Wolves have a radically different idea of intimacy, this is definitely not a platonic friendship activity.

Eskel’s knuckles dig into his sore muscles and Letho holds back a sound of contentment that would surely echo through the cavern like everything else. Bubbles drip over his collarbone and down his chest, and a moment later the witcher’s deft hands follow their trail, smoothing down over Letho’s pectorals. Letho grips his knees so tightly they ache to avoid reaching for his cock, and Eskel laughs, pausing with his palms covering Letho’s chest. Against Letho’s ear, he breathes, amused, “You’re even tense here!”

“Not usually, no,” Letho tries to say, except the ‘no’ turns into a sigh as Eskel massages there too, as if his chest is just as dirty as the rest of him. He can’t remember the last time anyone ever spent this much time lavishing care and attention to his body. Maybe it’s never happened before. “Get in the water,” he half-begs.

But the Wolf just kisses the shell of his ear and then draws back, hands gliding back up to his shoulders. As if nothing is going on and they aren’t both acutely aware of Letho’s arousal, Eskel insists, “This isn’t about me, I want you to relax! Just soak in the warmth and I’ll wash you. It’s nice, right?”

“Be a lot nicer if I got to participate,” Letho grumbles. Eskel cradles his palms around the back of Letho’s neck and drums his fingers against the front of his throat. Letho doesn’t breathe but he leans into his touch like a moth to a flame, revelling in the heat from the water and from Eskel’s talented hands. “Don’t spend too long on my hair, alright?”

“Geralt never told me you were such a smart-ass,” Eskel says, sounding affectionate. Letho wouldn’t confess it with a crossbow pointed at his prick, but he honest to fuck blushes at that. “He hasn’t shared very much at all, actually. I know he trusts you, and that you’re a friend of his. Meaning you’re a friend of mine, too.”

“Never done this with Geralt,” Letho mutters.

The other witcher digs his knuckles into Letho’s skin again. “Me neither,” he says, and then finally pulls his hands away. Letho mourns the loss for only a few seconds before he hears the sound of fabric rustling, then he whips his head around to try to sneak a peek at Eskel changing. The Wolf huffs, amused again, but as he carefully removes his smallclothes and sets them aside he doesn’t make any effort to hide his body. 

Letho drinks in the sight with unexpected eagerness, gaze roaming freely over not just Eskel’s thick length but the meat of his thighs and calves, the curve of his stomach and hips, and his absolutely glorious ass. Letho’s mouth goes dry. He wants to sink his teeth into that, immediately. “I think I just found the real best kept secret of Kaer Morhen.”

Eskel sighs but his pulse nearly skips a beat on its way to catch up to Letho’s, and the Viper grins. When Eskel swings his (fucking perfect) legs over the ledge of the spring and slides down into the water Letho expects that he’ll be able to take the upper hand. Except then Eskel reclines against the rock shelf behind them and moans as his body adjusts to the hot spring, and Letho’s arousal pulses yet again, the familiar knot of desire growing low in his hips. 

Letho shifts where he’s sitting and raises his hands up from the water to flex and crack his knuckles. Eskel takes advantage without warning, sliding in to nose at Letho’s newly clean neck and reach between his legs. Letho thrusts up against his touch without even meaning to, his body contorting as he jerks both against Eskel’s mouth and his fingers. The witcher doesn’t afford him an inch of satisfaction, just gently holding him in hand and pressing open-mouthed kisses to his throat without even the slightest hint of teeth.

“Relax,” Eskel insists yet again, holding Letho’s cock without moving as it fills with blood and gets even fatter in his hand. He kisses him once more with the same near-reverence, as though Letho were something to be treasured and not a retired killer. An empty shell. 

As Letho thinks grimly about Eskel knowing the extent of his history and what else Geralt might have kept from him, some part of him must tense. “Stop thinking so much,” the Wolf growls. His hand starts to move and Letho resists the impulse to fuck his fist, lying back and receiving the care just like Eskel wants him to. Eskel’s thumb smears over the head of his cock and it dribbles, dissipating harmlessly into the spring. He thinks, nonsensically, that Eskel will need to wash him again after this, and the thought makes his cock leak again.

“That’s good,” Eskel tells him, and Letho isn’t really sure what he’s doing differently but he tries to keep doing it, desperate for more praise. He reaches to grab for the other witcher’s jaw so their next kiss is a real one, and Eskel’s mouth on his is a revelation. Letho pulls him in closer and Eskel tightens his grip just a little. The message is clear: take it easy. Relax.

He tries his best, breathing heavily between kisses as the Wolf strokes him. Embarrassingly soon after they began, it becomes too good to resist coming, and Eskel pulls his release out of him without hesitation. The pool smells not just of soaps and floral oils now but of sweat and salt and sex. It smells really, really fucking good— Letho thinks he could stay here for another hour easily. Hells, he could stay here for the rest of his life.

Eskel kisses him through all the aftershocks, palm still cradling the weight of him. Letho, spent and satisfied, finally finds himself relaxing into the Wolf’s grip. Eskel pulls away only enough to breathe, and his lips still brush against the Viper’s when he asks, “Feeling better?”

Letho nods, too content to even consider hiding the truth. He nips at the Wolf’s lower lip and then begins to return the favour.

Craving emerges as a tender tugging in the insides of his thighs, as soon as Eskel spots the sign. A pink neon tube flickers in an unsteady rhythm, seemingly interrupted by the increasing rain beginning to pound on it.

It's a bar, he thinks, just a bar. I'll have a beer, that's all.

But it’s not just a bar.

Eskel wipes a damp strand from his face and looks at the sign, suddenly hesitant.

It's a meeting place, they said. Get connected. A quick hookup if you want. It doesn't matter what you look like.

If that's true, this must be a mystical place because everything seems to revolve around looks. Eskel had enough experience with everyone acting as if they didn't mind, while furtively glancing at him from the side. In the end, it seemed like a perpetual circle: he got used to not looking people in the eye so they wouldn't have to.

However, it’s hard getting to know someone. He has begun to come to terms with the fact that his life consists of missing. He misses the feeling of bare skin on his, of fingers stroking his flushed face, of hands exploring all the parts of him that aren't so… disfigured.

He won't find that here, that much is clear. And yet: desire is a spiral that leads to nothing, and if he at least manages to interrupt it with a short, quick fuck, that might be enough. It has to be enough.

The rain is getting heavier, and Eskel doesn’t want to worsen his impression by walking around like a wet cat. He takes a deep breath, exhaling the air slowly and intermittently, as he had been taught to do in therapy, and then pushes the door open with determination.

The greyness of the sidewalk, the pouring rain disappear with a single step. The inside is bright and noisy, and for a moment Eskel stands undecided at the door, soaking up the atmosphere, wondering if he should turn back.

Yellow-washed walls, littered with fairy lights and pithy slogans in neon letters, don’t seem at all fitting for a bar. There’s constant chatter, a quite usual noise for a place like this, and in the background, an old-fashioned jukebox is playing; the kind you throw a coin into to play some long-forgotten record.

There’s some space around the jukebox, and two older men are dancing, snuggled up close to each other. Closer to the door, there are a few tables, many of them taken. It’s a busy place, but it’s a Friday night. On the left side is a long, wooden counter, wildly painted in rainbow colors and crowded; but at the end, Eskel spots a vacant stool. No one really seems to be paying attention to him, and that eases the tense feeling in his stomach a bit, so he moves ahead and sits down at the bar.

"What'll it be, dear?"

The woman behind the bar seems at least twice his age, she looks at him kindly, although he makes an effort to look past her. Finally, he orders a beer, and he holds onto it as if it were a lifeline.

Behind the counter, on the wall with the alcohol, is a mirror. The view is slightly distorted by all the shelves in front of it, and somehow Eskel doesn't mind looking at himself there. His therapist says that his view of himself is distorted anyway, and so far he has always thought that’s nonsense. Because there is this scar, it’s very real. It can't be denied, it can't be made up and it can't be beautified.

He sips his beer and looks at the world behind him through the mirror. The dancers kiss each other. At one table, two obviously drunk women are laughing too loudly, but the jukebox is now playing an old hit, and their laughter is lost in the melody.

In the mirror he sees someone approaching him from the side, but there is so much to see that Eskel is only startled when he is approached.

"I've never seen you here before."

It's a pathetic pickup line, but it doesn't matter. The fact that he's being approached at all causes a certain tingle in his abdomen. It will probably pass in a moment if he turns around. So he doesn't. He toasts the man next to him in the mirror, holding up the bottle, and replies quite seriously, "First time here."

The man leans against the bar, there is no more room, and offers a low "Hmm."

Eskel suddenly feels sorry for the other. His therapist has often pointed out to him that it might be as difficult for other people to approach him as it is for him to approach them. Of course, he then always thinks, Look at me, it's scary. Maybe it's just better to get it over with. Sorting out the situation is like ripping off a Band-Aid. Eskel turns to the man and asks, "And you?“

The man doesn't pull a face, he has to hand that to him. Instead, he replies, "Of course, I only come for the beer."

This actually makes Eskel laugh, and he's surprised to find that it's a hearty laugh, the first in a long time. The other doesn't look at him curiously or repulsed; instead, he just smiles, like someone pleased that his joke has hit home.

Instead, Eskel has to control himself not to stare at the other man the way he always feels stared at. The man is huge, certainly a head taller than Eskel, and beefy, in an attractive sort of way. A bodybuilder, it flashes through his mind, and yes, the man has such charisma.

He is bald, which somehow gives him a sinister look, especially since there is a tattooed spot on his head. Eskel tries not to look, but it is fascinating. It almost looks like the other guy got a tattoo around a scar.

For a second, this thought seems completely wild and exciting to him. Could he do that? Could he get a crazy tattoo, right in the face? However, Eskel is not the type for such a thing. The tattoo would attract the stares even more, and he realizes – again, just a blink of an idea he'll have to pursue eventually – that maybe he's not such a deterrent. Not like the other one, though... on Eskel, he does not seem daunting, quite the opposite. He has never met anyone like this man, would never have talked to him in his former life. The life without this scar. The thought seems unfair to him, unfair to the other man.

"Letho," the latter suddenly says and clinches his bottle against Eskel's, a sort of greeting.

"Eskel."

Both of them take a sip as they watch each other, warily, a little assessingly maybe.

Letho, it seems, is not a man of many words.

"What are you looking for, Eskel?"

Eskel almost chokes on his beer. If that's what the other guy means by flirting, he's a little rusty.

"I don't know exactly," he admits, "all of this is new to me."

"All of it?"

Eskel shrugs.

"Well, part of it, it's... a long story. I've been told that in this bar, it doesn't matter what you look like. And I thought, maybe that's a good idea. Maybe that's what I want."

Letho furrows his brows as if he is thinking hard. Then he grins.

"Oh, because of your scar? That's what's new, now I've got it. Sorry. I thought maybe you were a virgin or something."

Now Eskel actually almost spits out his beer, and he laughs. He laughs so loud that he chokes and gurgles and laughs some more.

"Nah, I'm not," he finally replies.

"Okay, so you're a funny not-virgin who hasn't been out for a while," Letho says, and Eskel just nods. That pretty much sums it up.

"All right," says Letho. "So you want to get back in the saddle, huh? This isn't the worst place for it."

"What about you?" asks Eskel, looking at his beer bottle.

Condensation runs down it, a drop wetting his hand, but it doesn't dispel the warmth that has gripped him.

"Hmm," Letho says, lifting his massive shoulders as he grins, "I'm not the worst person for it."

Eskel gives him a look and thinks, yeah, you’re not. In a place where looks are not important, you are not the worst person. In fact, you may be the best.

The bottle is empty, but the barmaid is busy. Letho reaches for Eskel's hand, which willingly detaches itself from the bottle, and strokes the tense veins with surprisingly gentle movements.

"Tell me what you like, and maybe I'll do you a favor," he says.

"A favor," scoffs Eskel.

Letho contorts his face and immediately adds, "Not because no one else would, for heaven's sake. Look, you came here hoping to pull a fast one, didn't you? And yes, maybe I am a bit notorious for chatting up new people right away. Maybe I also like a quick hookup. With someone new.“

Eskel senses the sincerity behind these words. Letho does not seem to be a man who can pretend. He is anything but inconspicuous, so why should he pretend to anyone. And Eskel can't deny that this warmth in his abdomen comes from a curiosity that may mean a better start in this new life.

"I've never done that before," he admits as if honesty is the order of the day. "Just like that, with a stranger."

"I'm not a stranger. I'm Letho. Come on, I'll show you something."

Letho just pulls him along, the grip of his hand is strong and warm and firm, and Eskel jumps off his stool and follows. Nobody pays attention to them. It really is a mystical place, Eskel thinks. The dancers are making out so wildly now that they would have been kicked out in any other bar. Someone has already thrown money into the jukebox again, but the music is suddenly only muffled: Letho has opened a door, and now they are standing outside.

They are standing in a backyard. It has stopped raining, yet there’s still a small puddle that shines on the asphalt pavement. On the left, a few trash containers lean against the wall of the building, and a narrow wall leads around the area. An old, faded but still working string of lights lits the back door, and there are cigarette butts in front of a bush. No, it's more like the remains of joints.

"A lot of people have a quick smoke here," Letho says when he notices Eskel's gaze. "And a quick fuck.“

Letho looks at Eskel carefully, and it seems clear what he is looking for.

"I don't know if that's what I want," Eskel says, holding his gaze.

Letho nods.

"Shall we find out?"

He does not wait; if he expects confirmation, he has already discovered it in Eskel's eyes. He takes his hand, and a moment later Eskel is leaning against the wall, somewhere between the garbage cans and the bushes.

It's weird to kiss a complete stranger. It is weird that this one kisses him, pressing his lips on Eskel's, both hands placed on the wall to the left and right of his body. The kiss is soft and light and playful, and after a brief moment, Eskel's muscles relax. He can feel himself getting lighter inside. There's still that voice inside him, deep down, telling him that no one could possibly kiss those lips. But that's exactly what's happening, and even if it's a stranger's kiss, it's a kiss, and it feels good. Even when Letho runs very lightly over the tiny crevice left by the scar. And even more so when he slips his tongue between his lips.

Eskel closes his eyes, although above him the first stars appear in the sky, because inside him there are many more of them, and they are far more interesting. They are as light as he feels, and they tingle in his stomach. Of course, it’s not the stars causing these feelings, but the idea is beautiful, just like the kiss, only less real.

What is real are fingers that suddenly slip between his own. When has he ever held someone else's hand while kissing? When was the last time he even kissed? The thoughts come and go, and that's to Letho's credit.

For such a big, bulky man, he is incredibly gentle. He begins, without ever releasing his lips, to explore Eskel's body with his hands. Somehow, he knows exactly which buttons to push. He knows where a gentle stroke with his index finger is enough (from the neck down to the collarbone), and where he has to squeeze (at the hips).

In all of this, he is so yielding, so gentle, and yet somewhere in those touches there is also the certainty that things could be different if only Eskel said so. When Letho releases his lips, Eskel notices that he has been holding his breath, and when he lets it out, it sounds like a sigh. Letho laughs softly, an amazingly melodic sound, albeit deep; as if someone were playing the lowest scale on a very exciting piano.

"Tell me what you like," he demands softly.

Thoughts rise in Eskel, bubbles of desires, suppressed for so long, not lived out for so long. For a moment it's all too much, the desire inside him almost painful, and he gives only a suppressed gasp and holds out his hands. Letho understands him, however he does it, maybe he is a magician; Eskel’s thoughts become more confused.

Letho lets himself fall into the outstretched arms as if in a real embrace, but in reality, he presses Eskel against the wall with his body.

"He's shy, he's playful, he likes it slow," he murmurs against Eskel's ear, a warm breath, and the tug between Eskel's thighs grows stronger.

Eskel is not shy, he is wounded. He is not playful, he is suspicious. Whether he likes it slow, he does not know, he only knows that he has longed for touches like this like a fish out of water.

Letho's hands seem to be everywhere now, all over him. At the same time, he begins to slowly rub his groin against Eskel's. He's big, he's heavy, he pushes Eskel against the wall, and now it’s clear to Eskel. This is exactly what he wants. He's tired of being strong every day because of something he can't do anything about. Of pretending that he doesn't notice the stares. Of making it easier for others instead of himself.

Letho ruts against him, and now two boners rub through the clothes.

"Stop it, or I'll come in my pants like a teenager," Eskel groans, and there's that hoarse, deep laugh again.

"I don't think you want me to stop," Letho growls in the same tone, already tampering with Eskel's zipper.

It's getting dark out here, and for a woeful moment Eskel is aware that he's standing with a stranger in the backyard of a bar, among trash cans and a bush full of fags. But then the cool night air, still carrying a hint of the past rain, brushes over his exposed hard-on. His pants hang only on his thighs, and Letho licks his lips and looks at him.

"Do you still want me to stop?" he asks.

"I never wanted you to," Eskel asserts with a chuckling little sigh.

As huge as he is, Letho gives a strange pearly giggle, as if Eskel had said something particularly funny. But then his look changes and the playfulness disappears. He pulls down his own pants, and yes, his cock is long and thick, as huge as the whole man, the purest cliché; and yet Eskel's dick loses a drop of precum at the sheer sight.

The thought of this huge thing impaling him causes discomfort in Eskel for a heartbeat, but Letho seems to have already sensed it. Maybe he's used to it, maybe he just wants to give Eskel a soft re-entry. He has certainly noticed how touch-starved Eskel is.

Letho has to get down on his knees a little to grind against Eskel. He supports himself against the wall with one hand, then guides his hard-on next to Eskel's. The feeling is electrifying, hot wet skin on his tip, a glans that seems to almost kiss his. For a while, Letho just strokes Eskel's with his cock, rubbing their hardnesses against each other, flesh against flesh, as if to give Eskel time to enjoy the sensation. His breath strokes Eskel's neck, and unerringly he finds a spot just above the carotid artery and starts sucking on it.

Eskel realizes that he has pressed his palms on the wall. How tense he is, and what a pity that is, because he wants to stretch out this moment, to savor it. He lets go and reaches for Letho, grabbing his shirt, clawing at his shoulders.

"You like that," Letho purrs, and it's not a question, nor does he have to answer.

Instead, Eskel begins to reach out toward the touch. Letho now has one of his massive hands around both of their cocks, and as they move in rhythm – almost like the dancers earlier in the bar – they gasp together into the motion.

Now they dance too, a dance all their own, and the music is only in their heads, is only their own heartbeat. It doesn't take long, far too short actually, and Eskel barely has time to issue a warning.

"I..." he begins, and immediately Letho starts moving even faster, pressing himself even closer to him.

"Yes," is all he says, in a tone so low that both their bodies seem to vibrate.

The stars in the sky are back in Eskel's head, and they are exploding now. He squirts all over Letho's hand, his cock, and his own shoes; and the feeling is so liberating that he wants to scream. He doesn't scream, it's more like a funny little whimper. Then Letho comes, just two or three violent thrusts later. After that, he presses himself once more very tightly against Eskel, a small taste of restrained strength, and lets out a deep sigh.

"Advanced teenagers," he says, and they look at each other and grin.

Later, they sit at the bar for a while, drink, tell each other stories. Eskel looks at the other man and thinks, no, that's not a stranger, that's Letho. A guy in a bar, I squirted all over his hand. The thought is kind of funny and also kind of sad.

And yet, that's not the kind of sadness you have when you know you're losing something. Maybe he will never see Letho again, it doesn't matter. Deep inside, something has reawakened, thanks to him. Eskel has not lost nor will he lose anything, instead, he has received something. And as they toast each other and smile and the music swells again, he keeps this thought in his heart.

"Last I heard they were heading for the barn. Cahir was going to see whether the new pony is ready to be worked yet." Somehow Geralt sounded resigned and they all knew that while the trio might have looked at the gelding, they were most definitely going to be making out or more in one of the empty stalls.

Rolling his eyes, Eskel nodded. "I'm not risking that. Tell them I said goodbye and that Lambert still owes me a drink next week, will you?" He clicked his tongue and watched as Lil Bleater blatantly ignored him in favour of hopping over puddles. Just because she was having too much fun and still full of energy despite a whole day of charging around didn't mean she got to keep going. Resigned to his fate of chasing his goat in order to get her home, Eskel lumbered off, trying to look like he wasn't approaching her with intent. Needless to say, it didn't work. With expert ease Lil Bleater avoided him, bounding just out of reach. Even worse, he brothers were watching and Eskel wanted to growl at them that they might as well help if they were going to watch. Thankfully he managed to grab his wayward goat, only for her to protest in the worst possible way, she threw herself onto the ground. Normally Eskel wouldn't mind but she chose to roll in a puddle, her white fur soaking in the muddy water and staining it.

"Well shit."

Dripping goat firmly leashed, Eskel stared at her. She watched him unrepentantly for a moment before trying to nibble at her leash. Eskel had learned the hard way that he needed a metal chain leash for her, nothing else survived her incessant chomping. There was no way he could take her home like that, and hosing her down wasn't going to be much good as she's just drip more water in the car and make it smell even more of wet goat.

Thankfully he always had a towel or two in the boot so Eskel could pat her mildly dry but the puddle hadn't been simple mud and water, only heightening the stench. Thinking about his poor tub, Eskel knew he wouldn't be able to give Bleats a bath. The one time he had tried, he'd needed to buy a new shower curtain and invest in some repairs to the tub. Little goat hooves were not compatible with his bathroom. Stashing her in her travel crate, Eskel pulled his phone out and searched for possible solutions. The most sensible was a pet groomer, alas the three numbers he tried all refused to deal with a goat. Some days Eskel cursed himself for not having a more traditional pet.

"You trying to get a groomer?" Cahir sidled up to him, eyes glinting with the promise of mischief.

"Yeah, but it's not like anyone wants to bathe a goat." Not that Eskel was bitter. He didn't expect Cahir to laugh.

"You just haven't asked the right one. Come on, I'll introduce you to someone who'll help. Just follow my bike."

It was easier said than done. While Eskel had heard stories from Lambert about the strange love affair Cahir had with his bike, it was a whole different thing to see it. Having witnessed it, Eskel had to wonder whether there were four in that relationship rather than three as he'd originally thought.

Hair of the Dog looked like a bit of a shithole if Eskel was honest. It was out in a small industrial park near a village, wooden cladding faded and looking in desperate need of a paint. Helmet under his arm, Cahir barged in without a care for the sign that declared the place closed.

"Scales!" He hollered, impatiently holding the door open for Eskel. "Got you a client."

Not quite knowing what to expect, Eskel's eyes widened when a man larger than him appeared, scowling at Cahir.

"What did I tell you about my opening hours? And fucking hell what is that stench?"

Cahir leaned against the wall with a shit eating grin and gestured towards Eskel and Lil Bleater knowingly.

"That's a goat." It was possibly the dumbest thing anyone could have said.

"No, I'm a human called Eskel," Eskel shot back, a little irked.

The laugh was warm and genuine as the owner of the grooming parlour caught on. "Letho. Who's your stinky companion?"

Somehow Eskel found himself charmed by the fact Letho didn't baulk at the fact he was being presented with a goat. He even invited Eskel to stay and watch the whole process of washing and drying his pet. What struck Eskel was how gentle he was through it all, talking to Bleats as much as he talked to Eskel.

"Wouldn't have clocked you as a dog groomer," Eskel admitted while Lil Bleater was enjoying her second rinse.

"Didn't peg you as a goat owner."

"Touche. You like dogs?" Which was a ridiculous thing to ask, given that Letho's work involved a lot of dogs and possibly a few cats. However, Letho shook his head.

"They're alright. But I wouldn't own one."

"Cats?"

"Guess again."

Eskel squinted at Letho. "I can't really say I can picture you with a parrot."

Another laugh and Eskel found himself quite fond of the raw honesty in it. He waited patiently for an answer though.

"Tell you what-" Letho suggested, "-let me finish up with my last client and then I can show you, if you're interested. It's a snake."

"I only inspect trouser snakes on third date," Eskel said, peering around. "If I had known you'd had other clients, I would have happily waited."

The spray of water was playfully turned on him, barely missing him. "It's you, you numpty. I'm closed on Tuesdays, that's admin day." A soft flush spread across Eskel's cheeks at that and Letho continued, "If I put Gully down my trousers, I don't think she'd ever forgive me. And I don't think she'd fit. She's a reticulated python."

"As long as she doesn't eat Bleats, I think we're good." Eskel had no idea about snakes but, given the size of Letho, he could imagine him with a large snake, no pun intended.

In the silence that fell on them, Eskel looked around again with a frown. "Did Cahir go?"

That had Letho looking up too. He left Lil Bleater to dry, quite thrilled at the prospect of having a fluffy goat stepping out of the dryer soon, and wandered out into the reception area. On the desk was a note.

"You owe me a drink. Maybe two. We told you you'll like him."

Groaning, Letho threw the note away but not before Eskel saw.

"That sounded ominous."

"The Three Fucketeers have been trying to set me up for a while. I resisted. Guess they win."

Grinning, Eskel shrugged. "They don't have to know that, do they?"