#young wolves

The fire flooded down from his head, from his chest, swept down his arms, and swirled around his palms. Flames lapped his flesh, singed the hairs on the back of his arms; molten dragon fire poured from his palms.

“He’s—that’s—this needs to stop—“

“No, no, wait. Wait!”

A familiar voice. The first that didn’t feel like a lash against his mind, but a familiar caress. A voice that had drawn him out of the stupor following the Trial of Dreams. A voice that had rescued him from every nightmare, every fear, every uncertainty, since Eskel had first stumbled through the tall gates of the keep, bare foot and wide-eyed, clutching his only possession to his chest; a moth-eaten bedroll. 

Two strong hands shoved against his chest, insistent, repeated. “Wait! Wait, don’t! I can get him back!” 

The shoves became harder. Eskel wanted to shout out, to tell the voice that it wasn’t safe, that something was tearing it out of him and it would consume them both. But whatever it was, whatever darkness, had secured its grip around his throat and the words faded before they had even been born. All he could do then was surrender.

But if he surrendered, the beast would get free. It would devour him and everyone in its Path. Like hellfire.

“Eskel, c’mon! C’mon, move, you big oaf! Move!”

Oaf. 

Two boys splashing in the lake, Eskel cannon-balling and creating a tidal wave, “ahh, you coulda drowned me!” said in jest, a light-hearted slap of water, “big oaf,” said with love, with warmth, with trust. Trust that Eskel would never hurt him. Could never. 

“C’mon, Eskel. Come back to me. Don’t you dare fuckin’--don’t you dare leave me, Eskel.”

A hand in his as they stared at a tall, foreboding door, their fates unknown. Those spindly fingers, callused from swords and chores, squeezed as firmly as they could. “Don’t you dare leave me,” whispered, desperate and fearful, and Eskel squeezed back, “I won’t.” 

A promise kept. 

Eskel went lax. He stumbled. His back hit a door which gave way behind him. The ground underfoot became slippery, like mineral grease on a steel blade.

A rush of cold flooded in, washing the brimstone away, water drops like pins against the searing heat of his skin. He fell. They fell. Because, just as the cold stone connected with Eskel’s rear, a heavy, warm weight fell on his front. 

The pin needles turned to rain drops.

It was raining.

Hot breath puffed over his lips, a solid pressure against his forehead, a brush against his nose.

Eskel opened his eyes. 

The faded grey light melted away, and two orbs of melted gold gazed into his. “There you are.”

Geralt.

“Don’t speak, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Eskel must have said it out loud. He leaned back and looked down. There was steam rising from his hands, hot where they rested against the slick flagstones of the courtyard. There were blurry figures standing in the doorway of the laboratory, the colours of their robes melded into one, anxious voices swimming in and out.

His body felt alien, detached. Like he was pulling it back on after someone else had worn it. “What… happened?” he managed to rasp, the words flowing from his throat like gravel.

Geralt took his face in wet fingers, tips tracing the trail of boyish stubble to the hinge of his jaw. “Nearly had a bigger storm than the mages predicted. It’s fine though. Thunder’s always followed by rain, right?” 

Geralt pressed his forehead to Eskel’s again, they shared the same deep breaths, grounded in each other, their hammering pulses slowing, quietening in the lull of comfort. 

Eskel knew then that Geralt had saved his life. If Eskel couldn’t control himself on Thunderbolt, he wouldn’t be leaving Kaer Morhen. It was too much of a risk. 

“You could have… I could have…” Eskel choked out, the vision of Geralt consumed in flames of his making flooding his mind.

“You could never,” Geralt replied, his voice a soft, the touch on Eskel’s face wandering, as if seeking reassurance that he was still intact. “Not you. Not ever.”

Eskel could see himself in Geralt’s wide eyes. Black hair plastered to his skull, the rain dripping from his wide brow and nose, his own eyes sunken with fear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “Nothin’, nothin’s wrong with you, you’re jus’ Eskel. We’ll get through this. You and me. Like always. We’ll try again, and… and you’ll get it. Then we’ll, we’ll walk out together on the Path, like we always planned, yeah?”

Eskel could hear the hope in Geralt’s voice, but he could see the fear in his eyes–fear of losing Eskel, fear of going it all alone, fear that he wouldn’t be strong enough to get them through–and Eskel knew he couldn’t fail.

Additional warnings: mention of sex and alcohol use

The last winter before setting off on their Paths is brutal for journeymen witchers, but despite the strain and stress, it is also an exciting time. The training is harder than it has ever been in their lives, and the thought of the dangers and solitude of the Path weighs heavy on every witchers’ mind. Geralt and Eskel are exhausted and on edge, and they fight with both fists and words, more than they ever have before. But they are also so, so close to what they have been preparing for their entire lives that they can’t help but to feel excited, eager to stretch their wings and have a taste of freedom.

Geralt isn’t sure he has ever felt as satisfied as he does that winter, despite everything. Witcher training is a series of milestones that mostly serve just to remind novices and journeymen that they’re not full witchers yet, every achievement overshadowed by the perpetual feeling of “not quite there yet”. Except, now he is. He has learnt to brew all the witcher potions, memorized the formulas, he has mastered the signs - no matter what Eskel says - and he has proven himself in battle. He and Eskel get fitted for their new sets of armor: a short, studded jacket of sturdy leather and trousers to match, in the Wolf School style, as much an emblem of their guild as their medallions. Eskel studs the shoulders of his jacket with tiny, unnecessary, impractical metal spikes, and Geralt mocks him for it relentlessly. Later, he fucks Eskel in his armor, and the front of his jacket will likely carry the stain forever.

Spring has not even settled in properly, only enough that the mountain passes are navigable on foot, when the time comes. Eskel, as he predicted, is the first to be sent off. Witchers don’t like to stand on ceremony, but the first journeyman setting off on his Path each spring always carries a momentous air. Mentors and peers gather to see him off, and novices cluster around, with admiration and hope in their eyes. They will get tired, when the weeks go on, and every sending off is as uneventful as the one before. The next witcher will leave three days after Eskel, but Geralt knows it will not be him.

Eskel stands before the gates, the rising sun glinting off his still-unscathed armor and the hilts of his sword, and Geralt’s heart turns over. He kisses Eskel, desperately, savagely, while everyone is looking, and he can hear a few small gasps and murmurs from the gathered novices, but he is beyond caring. He grips Eskel stronger, kisses harder, and it is both a promise and a demand.

Geralt grows more and more restless as the weeks go by, until Witcher Tomas grabs a bottle of rye and finds him, isolated and anxious in his and Eskel’s room. Tomas sits him down and they talk long into the night, and Tomas proceeds to tell him everything about himself and Georgei: how they came together, how anxious he was their first year and how everything worked out, in the end. Geralt breathes a little easier, after that. Tomas and Georgei both come see him off when he leaves three weeks later—the last one to go.

Vesemir is there too, and he claps Geralt on the shoulder as a goodbye, but Geralt turns to hug him. When they part, Vesemir smiles a rare, proud smile, and Geralt grins back in response.

The rising sun blinds him momentarily, when he emerges from the shadows of the keep, but he keeps moving forward. His feet will take him to Alesby village.

The village, when he arrives four days later, is unchanged. He visited there on his first hunt — a swarm of drowners, and three young witchers to kill them, supervised by Master Aurus. It had gone well. He’d been the only one not to get even scratched, and had gotten to carry a lost peasant boy with a broken ankle back to his family. The boy had been close to his age, and nearly as tall, but Geralt still bore his weight valiantly, and was surprised when he received a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek as a thanks. He unconsciously rubs his cheek, the memory feeling odd and detached, like it was a lifetime ago. Geralt wonders if the boy has grown to a man, like he has, or if the drowners managed to get him some other time.

The walls of the inn were painted with bright floral patterns, Geralt remembers, so he makes his way to the only painted building in the village. He halts for a moment outside the door, paralyzed by possibility. As soon as he enters, Eskel will either be inside, waiting for him with a smile and an embrace, or he will not. He does not know why both possibilities terrify him. He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Geralt’s medallion trembles, minutely. The inside of the building is dark and warm, and empty save for two patrons and the innkeep. The innkeep takes one look at Geralt, notices his swords on his back, and turns away, rolling her eyes. Geralt catches her muttering about ’another wolf’, and cannot help but smile, lowering his head. The other patron, a middle-aged woman, is slouched over her table, desperately clinging to her tankard. She is of no interest to him, but taking stock of his surroundings is second nature at this point.

A hunched over shape is sitting at a table in the farthest corner, with his back to the wall. Spiked studs point up from the shoulders of his leather jacket, and as Geralt steps closer, he also eyes a familiar stain on it. Two swords lean against the table, on clear display, both to drunkards looking for a fight, and to anyone looking to hire a witcher.

He knows Eskel has heard him, sensed him from even before he stepped in the door, but he only raises his head when Geralt comes to a halt right next to him and puts a stilling hand onto the mug Eskel was turning over in his hands. He lifts his head, and looks from under his brows with a crooked smile. Geralt’s medallion vibrates, more strongly now, an irregular, urgent rhythm against his sternum, and his heart beats in time with it.

(CW: mild canon-typical homophobia, feelings)

Anyone visiting a wintering witcher keep would find it full of the same sort of warm bustle as the most welcoming tavern. Kaer Morhen at wintertime is filled to the brim with camaraderie, laughter, shouting, fighting, drinking, off-key singing, gambling, and sex. The main hall may even look like the hall of a feasting lord’s castle, when staff gets hired from surrounding villages to keep the School of the Wolf fed and clean for the winter, and ordinary folk mingle with the witchers.

Winter has always been the most exciting time of the year for young witchers. Eskel didn’t especially enjoy training in snow and ice, but witchers coming home from the Path was enough to have him, too, looking forward to wintertime every year. When they were all younger, it was the time for tales, warm hearths, and staying up past their bedtime, but as they grew older, a keep full of rowdy witchers mixing with ordinary folk was exciting for slightly different reasons.

As different as witchers are from ordinary youth, there are still certain things that are universal to all young people in that strange age between childhood and adulthood. Witchers are taught to be curious, and when that turns around on their teachers and elders, it quickly goes from inquisitive to meddlesome. Some – Master Aurus, perhaps; Vesemir, for sure – would say that sneaking around and spying on their elders in moments of intimacy was not an appropriate way to test their enhanced agility and stealth, but the young witchers certainly found it amusing.

When Geralt, Eskel, Karim and Mirov get caught peeping in the doorway of witcher Georgei’s room by Master Aurus, they all bolted off down the hallway, yelling and snickering all the way. They hear the two interrupted witchers scramble to cover themselves, and when the fleeing boys come to a breathless stop around a corner, and Master Aurus’s voice carries over, scolding Georgei and Tomas, for not noticing ‘the nosy pups at their door’.

“I thought they were best friends!” Karim whispers, when the young witchers gather at his and Mirov’s shared room, bursting with energy and gossip.

Geralt scoffs. “Please, don’t tell me you think that happens only between lovers?”

“No,” Karim shoots back, a little too quick not to be defensive, “but they seemed to be going at it like, uh, like lovers.”

“Witchers don’t have lovers, you twit,” Mirov says with a mocking smile and a shove, and Geralt notices Eskel flinching out of the corner of his eye.

“Shut your stupid mouth, Mirov,” Geralt cuts in, “I’ve heard the others talking about women they visit every year on the Path, like Witcher Eugen and his sorceress. What are they, then, if not lovers?” It is a feeble argument, and Geralt must know it, but he still sets his jaw firmly.

Mirov rolls his eyes. “Those are women. Warm beds and whores to visit when on the Path. No one in their right mind would choose a man for a lover, much less a witcher. Not when it can get you chased out of town or beat half to death out there.”

”Maybe they didn’t choose. Maybe it just happened,” Eskel cuts in, with a tone he hopes does not betray emotion. The group around him falls silent, and Geralt shoots him a grateful look.

Karim opens his mouth again and, oblivious to Eskel’s glare, goes right back into it. ”Still, why a witcher? I know they don’t travel the Path together, so they get to see each other once a year, wintering here, if they’re lucky.”

“And why a witcher like Georgei, of all people? Couldn’t Tomas have just about anyone prettier or softer than Georgei?” Mirov says.

Geralt shoves him off the bed. Witcher Georgei has lived a life that’s been rough even by witcher standards, and it shows on his scarred face.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt snarls. His mouth is twisted in a grimace and he looks ready to punch Mirov, but his eyes have a distressed, confused look in them, like he doesn’t understand why he’s reacting this way himself.

Mirov scoffs a laugh as soon as he gets back upright on the floor. “What, you think someone malformed and mutated is a real catch, then?”

Geralt snarls again, then whips around and storms out. Eskel gets up and goes after him without even sparing a glance at the other two left in the room.

He finds Geralt in front of the door to their shared room, gripping the handle, but not opening it. He moves closer and gets Geralt to turn around with a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t meet Eskel’s eyes. Geralt’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, and Eskel knows the distant look in his eyes. He is getting caught up in his head, same way he used to right after the experiments, when everything was raw and fragile and frightening. Eskel puts his hands on the back of Geralt’s head, weaves his fingers through the silver-white strands, and brings their foreheads together in a familiar gesture of comfort. Geralt’s hands come up to grasp at his collar.

After a few silent moments, Geralt seems to find his footing again, and he huffs a short breath.

“Mirov is an idiot. He–” Eskel starts, but Geralt cuts him off.

“It’s not him. It’s not just him.”

Geralt opens his eyes, but doesn’t move to separate them. Eskel can tell his thoughts are running away from him again, but he’s doing his best to catch them. Eskel grips his neck a little harder.

“Is that another thing we’re just supposed to do? Keep your head down, obey orders, don’t feel fear or pain. Don’t feel anything at all. Better not to have distractions.” Geralt speaks in stops and starts, trying to untangle his thoughts as he goes, and only half-succeeding in it. He leans his back against the door, and Eskel’s hands slide to rest on his shoulders, reluctant to break the contact. ”Is that why we try to make everyone believe we don’t feel emotion? Because a life on the path makes relationships hard?”

“I think it’s easier to pretend that, and not even try,” Eskel says, “but I don’t think it works.”

He wants to say more. He’s biting at his tongue and holding it in, and he knows Geralt can see the hesitation on his face, and he hopes he doesn’t take it the wrong way. He wants to start unfurling the mess that’s been building in his head for what feels like years, as his and Geralt’s lives have wound themselves tighter and tighter together, until one can barely exist without the other. He wants to know if Geralt has been walking the same sort of precarious edge as he has been. But he doesn’t know, he can’t know for sure. Don’t go into a fight before you have all the information. It’s been drilled into him, so he waits, until Geralt opens his mouth again.

“Why don’t they tell us what it’s like on the path, other than the hunts, or the disrespect, or the hate. Does everyone just forget about friends and lovers when the path forces them to move on?” Geralt’s voice is hollow, and a small, wounded noise escapes Eskel’s throat.

CW: general angst and guilt :(

Witcher training relies entirely on the resilience of young people. Vesemir has watched children go through the Trials for decades, centuries, even, and sometimes, privately, he wonders when even the strongest novices will be pushed too far.

Vesemir and the other instructors are mentors, parental figures and protectors for the novices from day one, as well as their teachers, but they are not the ones who decide the fates of young witchers-to-be. Instead, they are the ones who pick up the pieces of what’s left of the apprentices after the Trials. Getting attached is dangerous and heartbreaking, and Vesemir always considered himself distanced enough, hardened enough. The mutations were necessary for the witcher caste to exist, and the strongest would persevere.

Then, when Master Prothero decided that seven promising boys, a year after surviving the Trial of the Grasses, should be given another round of new, experimental mutagens, Vesemir realized he had not been as successful at distancing himself as he had thought. Geralt, who’d been abandoned at the keep in infancy, who’d always been in the way, at his feet growing up, who Vesemir had helped name, was one of the promising young witchers chosen. He was shocked and numb when he heard. Geralt had taken the news silently, staring at the floor with wide eyes, but accepting his fate without a fight. Eskel, unexpectedly, had screamed his protest.

Vesemir knows he does not, and cannot have a say in it: the hierarchy in place at Kaer Morhen is military, and necessary for keeping a force like the School of the Wolf functioning. But it is also cruel. Instead, he focuses his attentions on his remaining trainees, and drives them even harder, faster, and demands perfection.

He knows at least one of them will take the strain and exhaustion of added training as a welcome distraction.

Eskel is faced off against Karim, a slender, fast fighter, who under normal circumstances is no match for him in strength, but Eskel is off-balance, distracted. Karim’s strike staggers him, and when they lock swords, he is overpowered and knocked back, his blade knocked out of his hands. Karim swings, and doesn’t pull his strike in time, when he notices Eskel’s not moving to dodge, and hits him across the shoulder, hard. Eskel crumples in the dirt.

Vesemir has seen a lot in his life. He has seen sickness, death, and injury. He has seen the camaraderie of men brought together in harsh circumstances. He knows the sort of bonds witchers form, especially ones such as Geralt and Eskel, latching onto each other through the harshest years of their life. He knows devotion when he sees it. He also knows utter terror when he sees it.

Eskel’s hands shake when he tries, and fails, to pick up his sword, and he cannot raise his eyes from the ground. Vesemir can smell his fear in the air, can hear his erratic heartbeats thundering over the roar of the training grounds. Eskel, as Vesemir has known him, has always been a steady, reliable boy, sincere at heart and thorough with his duties. His extreme reaction to Geralt’s life being at risk once again is in such contrast to his nature, that it’s all the more clear how deeply rattled he is.

Vesemir is just as unsettled, but better at hiding it. The group of boys chosen for the additional regimen of mutagens were taken away that morning, and Vesemir had felt sick just passing by the stairwell to the laboratory and dungeons. He knew he was imagining screams where there were none, and his mind kept producing vivid images of what he knew was happening. It made him sick, and he saw a similar expression of nausea on Eskel’s face.

additional warnings: feelings 

“Do you ever wonder what you would’ve become if you hadn’t been brought here?”

Geralt whispers the words to the quiet room. At eighteen, technically men grown, who are supposed to have left childish things behind, they still push their cots together on nights like this, when the world feels like too much, and find comfort in the closeness. The habit began after Geralt’s additional mutations, when the comfort of a friend’s touch and words were more important than shame, or showing weakness, or a night’s sleep. It was easier to shut the world out than to deal with the enormity of the changes in their lives, so the two of them huddled under their blankets, breathing the same air until it got so stuffy they choked, forgetting where one boy ended and the other began. Vesemir caught on to their arrangement early on, but never said anything, even when Geralt was prepared to stand up to his mentor. The young witchers were allowed to keep their privacy, and their little room became a refuge from the hard world of witchers and monsters. For that, Geralt is grateful.

Eskel doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes on the ceiling. Geralt can see the slight furrow of his brows and the pursing of his lips, which means he doesn’t like the question, but not quite enough to protest, so he just shrugs.

“My mother was a sorceress, or so Vesemir says,” Geralt continues. Eskel knows this. He was there, when Geralt asked Vesemir what the woman who abandoned him was like. It was years ago, when he was still too hurt to pretend he didn’t care. Geralt knows that Eskel knows. “Do you think I might’ve become a sorcerer, then?”

Eskel huffs out a laugh. ”When you still can’t hold Quen for longer than twenty seconds? I doubt it.”

Geralt kicks him in the shin, but doesn’t say anything. Eskel sighs, and turns to face him. “Honestly, I don’t know. A farmer. A hunter. A goatherd. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter to me.” Eskel’s look is knowing, and Geralt knows he has seen through him, like he has done a thousand times before. ”But it matters to you, obviously. So tell me. Or better yet, tell me what’s really on your mind.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, for a long time, just keeps staring Eskel in the eyes, with something akin to defiance. Even though Eskel knows him better than anyone, even though the two of them have no secrets, there are things that a witcher isn’t supposed to admit. Eventually, he whispers, “My life— My life has never been mine. I didn’t have a choice in becoming a witcher — I know none us did — and I was experimented on, and now I’m expected to just keep my head down and obey orders.” He breaks eye contact, rolling onto his back, and continues, gaining volume and anger as he goes on. “And then, I’m expected to go out there, and walk the path - alone. Risk my life for a couple of coppers, get spat at for everything that I am, plough a whore if I’m lonely, and then repeat that until some monster breaks my neck in some wood, and no one here will notice until I don’t show up for three winters. I don’t want to fucking do it.”

Eskel looks back at him for a long time, expression almost unreadable, if Geralt didn’t know exactly how to read him. He’s trying to keep from being too hopeful, but a spark of it still rings in his voice. “What do you want, then?”

“I want to walk the Path with you.”

The answer is immediate: “Then do.”

Neither one of them moves or says anything for a very, very long time. Geralt can hear both of their heartbeats echo in the silence, one chasing the other, half a beat behind. His hand twitches against the sheets, and both their eyes momentarily, instinctively, dart to the movement. The room feels too full. The uncertainty that’s been whirling around inside him is solidifying, pressing on his chest and leaving him breathless. He has felt this before, the near-overwhelming urge to do something dangerous — throw a rock at a sleeping wolf, run his hand across a freshly sharpened blade, or jump off a ledge, without knowing what awaits at the bottom. That feeling is a witcher’s constant companion, but never before has he been as certain that he will jump.

Eskel reaches his hand out, and Geralt tracks its movement the whole way, for what seems like an eternity. Eskel touches Geralt’s temple, runs an escaped strand of hair — full silver, now — between his fingers, and the look on his face is one of awe and adoration. Geralt realizes that he has seen the same expression countless of times, directed at him across the training yard, or over crossed swords. He feels like his world should spin with the revelation, but it feels more like adjusting his grip on his sword, finding the right balance, and suddenly the steps he’s been struggling with fall into place, and the strikes hit fast and true. It is still just Eskel.

Geralt runs his thumb across Eskel’s jaw, then his lips. They part with Eskel’s quick intake of breath, and Geralt moves to kiss him. The sparse whiskers of his youth have turned thick and coarse, and they rasp against Geralt’s face. The kiss isn’t life-changing, or even particularly good. Geralt kissed a few of the kitchen girls last winter, and those kisses where soft and sweet and honey-scented, even if he did get whacked on the head with a spoon by the cook for distracting their work. Kissing Eskel is just wet and breathy, and when Geralt’s teeth catch on his lip, he flinches. When he leans back though, Eskel is grinning, and brings his hand to Geralt’s jaw, and pushes against his lip with his thumb, until a sharp canine tooth peeks out. Something in the experimental mutagens given to him made them grow in much more prominent than most witchers, but Eskel’s eyes are on fire, barely focused, so Geralt supposes they are another thing about his strange mutated body that Eskel doesn’t mind.

He would be more comfortable, throwing himself into this, whatever it was, without thinking too hard, without putting words to it. His instinct is to move fast and rough, to grab and shove, like he has done all his life, when emotions have been too strong or too big to cope with. But there is something about this that makes him slow down. It feels like this has been building for years, and it is far too precious to disturb with sudden movements, so they go slow.

“D’you know, I talked to witcher Tomas,” Geralt says, afterwards. His voice is quiet, like the moment demands reverence. Eskel chuckles, because Geralt is predictable.

“Oh yeah?”

Eskel’s hair sticks up in all directions, like a bird’s nest on top of his head, and Geralt resists the urge to to run his hands through it, then realizes he doesn’t have to resist anymore, and reaches out. Eskel makes a little noise in the back of his throat when Geralt’s fingers catch on the tangles.

“Yeah. He told me him and Georgei grew up together. Went through the trials together. That for years, they travelled the Path together.“ Eskel hums noncommittally in answer, but a knowing smile is slowly creeping onto his face.

“He told me that he’s always worried sick, when they’re separate on the Path. But that he trusts his skill enough, to know he will be fine,” Geralt continues, his grip tightening on Eskel’s hair. “He can’t always know who he’ll meet, or resent him for seeking other people when they’re apart, since he’ll do the same. But he’ll always have his back, no matter who or what happens. And they’ll always come back together, here, at home.” At some point, Geralt has stopped talking about Tomas and Georgei, and Eskel knows it too.

CW: very mild description of dysphoria

Sweat and sparks fly, when Geralt swings his sword in a high arc, and it collides with the Quen shield Eskel throws into place at the last second. Eskel raises his head and opens his mouth, about correct Geralt on his incorrect technique before Vesemir gets the chance to, no doubt, but Geralt turns and swings again, taking advantage of Eskel’s distraction to get him off balance. He strikes twice more, Eskel admirably still holding his guard, but his feet are taking too long to catch up, and when Geralt casts Aard, he goes flying.

Geralt smirks. It’s always satisfying to knock Eskel down with signs, to beat him at his own game.

Eskel sits up, his brows furrowed and his hair dusty. “You prick. I was trying to correct your posture. If you keep swinging your sword like a club, Vesemir is going to have your hide.”

“What, you think anyone is going to give a shit about technique when you’re face to face with a Slyzard? Use every advantage you can.”

Eskel frowns, but then shakes his head and doesn’t press it. This is a familiar argument, and will likely go nowhere. Geralt, still smug, offers him a hand, and drags his friend up from the dust. Their hands slide against each other, slippery with sweat.

Summer in the Kaedweni mountains is not often hot, but on these rare, stiflingly warm days, when the sun bakes down on the training grounds from a cloudless sky, Kaer Morhen turns into one heaving mass of muscle, sweat and scars. Every witcher trains in minimum gear, most going only in trousers and boots. Some wear shirts, to protect fresh injuries or fair skin, and some, like Geralt, wear undergarments to bind down their chests.

At fourteen summers old, the young witchers’ bodies are growing ever more rapidly, nearing their adult heights and filling out. In Geralt’s case, this means that the growing breast tissue refuses to hide amongst the muscle mass on his chest any longer. He has only recently started to wear the compressing breastband, more out of comfort, rather than any misguided sense of decency.

Things like shame or embarrassment about nudity are things witcher children learn out of very quickly in a keep full of people. Not to mention that witchers exist outside social norms in all aspects, views on gender included - just because Geralt has a little more breast tissue than most witchers doesn’t mean that he needs to cover himself up. He chooses to bind his chest down, but not everyone does. Master Wilfrid, for example, goes nude and hairy from the waist up on these hot summer days, same as everyone. Witcher Reuben, when he was at the keep last winter, told Geralt that he had gotten his hands on a skilled surgeon in Oxenfurt, and had his breasts removed. Geralt stowed that bit of information deep in his mind, making plans for the future.

Eskel wipes his hands on his trousers and glances at Geralt, no doubt noting the way he’s breathing much harder than his opponent. “I still can’t believe you can train in that. And beat half of us to the ground while you’re at it. It’s impressive.”

Geralt frowns. ”I don’t wear it to impress anyone.”

”I know.” Eskel says, and rubs his chin and the sparse hairs sticking out of it, as well as his upper lip, like spiders’ legs. Then he smiles. ”Doesn’t stop me from being impressed, though.”

Geralt swats at him, a boyish reaction to a compliment, but he is smiling as well.

The years since their Trials have been hard, but they have served to bring him and Eskel even closer. Geralt’s recovery from the experiments was rough and long, and as the sole survivor, his entire existence since then has been uncharted territory. Eskel has been right there next to him from the start. Both of them were desperate for any sense of normalcy in their lives, trying to beat back the trauma and horror with jokes and pranks and fights, the rough sort of closeness witcher children are known for. But they also found a new, fragile vulnerability in each other, with their cots pushed together in their shared room, talking long into the night. Under the covers tented over their heads, there wasn’t a topic too big, too frightening or too trivial to talk about: their pasts before Kaer Morhen, or their futures after it. Experiments, Trials, or friends long dead. Awkward affections, confused feelings, or the changes in their bodies, both with age and with mutations.

Geralt’s hair started to grow in white after the experiments, and has been a constant source of ribbing from Eskel, half-serious and affectionate. Now it shines half-silver and half-copper in the sun.