I return briefly with a small dedication to @journeythroughunknownlands for their beautiful Gerskel bathing art. Warnings: Dom/sub undertones; mentions of sex.
Eskel returns every winter tightly wound, his thoughts all tangled up like old tack dumped on the stable floor. He hides it pretty well, or at least he thinks he does, applying his focus and remaining strength to the long list of chores that Vesemir hasn't managed to get to that year.
It isn't that Eskel is self-sabotaging. He just struggles to let go of the mish-mash of coping strategies that keep him safe on the Path, physically and mentally. On the surface, he's his usual jovial self, laughing and joking with Lambert. One afternoon, he shoves said young wolf into a snow drift after a particularly brutal insult about Eskel's face being scary enough to spook all the wyvern away early. Eskel laughs raucously through the resulting brawl and they drink themselves into a stupor that evening.
But Vesemir can see it. And Geralt can too. That shivering tension beneath Eskel's skin, the skittish way he turns at any loud sound, reaching hand closing on air above his shoulder; the fastidious organisation of his belongings and his militant application to warming up in the courtyard. Eskel doesn't feel safe. He needs reminding that there's nothing up here anymore. Nothing worth the time of the zealots and thugs that levelled his home. There is no burden for him to shoulder. He doesn't need to. No more than any of them.
There's no point pushing it in the first few weeks. Eskel will clam up and shrug it off. That big, booming laugh as he jokes his way out with a dry riposte shattering any hope of progress. Geralt bides his time. The comfortable bed and lack of action to keep Eskel occupied will wear him down enough to start faltering, to start dabbing at his scars, looking lost. A crack in the hardened armour. And only then does Geralt elbow him in the armoury one morning, "Bath tonight?"
It's not a normal bath. They bathe every night. Vesemir insists because it doesn't take long for the communal areas to start smelling like wet dog and stale sweat if they don't. But the routine is a quick and cursory scrub in a shallow tub before the cold gets to their nethers. This bath will be different.
Geralt spends the afternoon filling the largest basin with water. The communal one that used to be maintained by bastion boys and long rusted pipes. He hauls ass 'til the water is deep, and then he tips in salts and a few faint perfumes that he picked up from Ban Ard on his way up.
Geralt stokes the two big fires high, careful to replace all the firewood he's used from the yard to avoid Vesemir's bellyaching. By the time everything's ready, he stinks worse than Lambert after stable duty and has to peel his clothes off before climbing jnto the water, reheating it with a quick pop of igni. He lounges back, enjoys the lap of the water over his skin, the way sensitive scars prickle and muscles loosen. He almost misses Eskel's arrival in the doorway, but he can always feel Eskel's presence in the world around him. It's like a gods-damned earthly magnetism.
Geralt opens his eyes and watches Eskel hesitate in the doorway. Eskel's gaze flickers from the fires, to the tub, to the salts still propped up on a side table. He fiddles with his fingers and the hem of his shirt. One last step, one tiny hurdle. "Gonna get in or admire me all night?" Geralt asks softly, careful to maintain the jokey lilt of their standard exchange. For now.
Eskel's eyebrows twitch up, and then he grins. There's no witty clapback but it has the desired effect. Eskel strips off, folding his clothes on a wonky old stool. Geralt's cock twitches to life at the mere sight of Eskel standing at the edge of the room, bronze skin highlighted in a flickering halo of candle and firelight. The thick pelt of dark hair, the pink scars criss-crossing over his arms, his chest, his plush belly. Those amber eyes that flash in the shadows as Eskel turns back to the bath. Eyes that were usually framed by crow's feet, smile lines, now worried, unsure.
"C'mon, Eskel," Geralt says, lifting his hands from the water to beckon Eskel towards him. One more step. One more decision. And then he would be safe. This was their way of turning the lock on the Path; Eskel's way to let the walls fall and his heart free. He had to let Geralt hold him. Had to pass the control over to someone he trusted if he was to let it go.
Eskel's legs barely cooperate as he negotiates the lip of the tub, and he stumbles through the water until he eventually drops to his knees. Geralt's legs flop open, and he gestures again, insistent. C'mon, just a little further, wolf.
Eskel crawls forward and finally, finally, melts against Geralt's chest. Geralt hears the first shuddering sigh as one of his mental anchors falls loose; feels the flutter of Eskel's eyelashes against the side of his neck as his eyes struggle to stay open.
Geralt encircles his broad shoulders and holds him close. The steam from the water has already dampened Eskel's hair, but Geralt buries his nose in it anyway. Eskel shivers, once, twice, until he is shaking gently in Geralt's arms; a year's worth of tension and pain unspooling into the water with each subtle tremor. Geralt feels something loosen in his own chest. He knows that this is as important for him as it is for Eskel. The tentative opening of his heart to care for a loved one, comfortable in the knowledge that he will not be rebuffed or scorned. Kaer Morhen is the one place now where it is safe for witchers to have feelings.
Geralt cups Eskel's jaw and tilts his head up. He searches for Eskel's mouth, kisses beside his eye, the scars on his cheek, and then his lips with deliberate care, worshipping each part. He can feel Eskel's heartbeat hitch, his breath catch in his throat.
Eskel struggles with kisses still, even after all this time. If he overstretches it hurts his face, so Geralt sets the pace and winds a wet hand through Eskel's hair. He can feel grasping fingers, a coiling tension return; Eskel's desperate to please, to earn his place in Geralt's heart. Like he earns his keep at Kaer Morhen, bearing the weight of the roof and the legacy on his broad shoulders. Their time together isn't about that. Geralt tugs Eskel away, brushes their noses together, and urges Eskel onto his back.
Eskel turns without a fuss, but it takes a little coaxing for him to lean back. As tentative about letting Geralt bear his physical weight as he is about the emotional. "Easy," Geralt whispers, as gently as he would to Roach when the roads are uneven. He and Eskel walk this particular road together every year, and even if Eskel still struggles with the potholes and rocky debris left behind by every contract, Geralt feels surefooted. He knows how to see Eskel safely home. His heart feels light with the glorious purpose of it; the responsibility of caring for someone so strong.
Eskel leans back, eyes flickering closed as Geralt's fingers brush up the arch of his throat. His own hands hover uneasily, searching for something to do, a use. Or perhaps just an anchor. Geralt reaches up and winds their fingers together, bringing Eskel's hand down to rest on his own thigh. "I've got you, Wolf."
Geralt feels rooted, settled, in a way he hasn't all year. He cradles Eskel against him and basks in the glow of trust, of love, as Eskel's body eases. Fitfully at first of course, each shuddering breath yielding a little more tension, until Eskel is blissfully heavy. Geralt traces the arch of his throat, the bottom of those scars; terrain more familiar to him than the uneven flagstones of the grand hall.
Eskel's body warms, responding to Geralt's scent and heat with arousal. It ebbs and flows in the peacefulness, neither of them too concerned with finding a peak, an end. They have all winter for that. This is about being, about existing together in precious quiet. No expectations, no weight to bear but to trust and be trusted. Such a thing was as easy for them now as breathing, with Eskel relinquishing the last of his unease into the water and Geralt gladly holding them both. Geralt knows Eskel's floating, can feel every change of pulse, every twitch, every sigh. His entire world is the man in his arms and he revels in it, high on the precious burden that is his to carry. A burden he dreams of all year that no one else trusts him to carry; Eskel would call it a burden, after all, but Geralt sees it as a gift.
They doze, they drift together...
Later, they'll make love in Eskel's bed, with teeth and laughter and furious passion, joking and teasing as ruthlessly as they did in the training yard. But for now, they are content to bask in the peace and sanctity of each other.
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