Half a century of dead ends

[deerna]

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt, Eskel/Geralt
Tags: Trans Male Character, Relationship Negotiation, Polyamory, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Trauma, Miscommunication, Conflict Resolution, Scents & Smells, Awkward Conversations
Wordcount: 3277
Notes: Partecipa alla seconda settimana del COWT di landedifandom, per la missione #2. Prompt: Banana Yoshimoto, "Memoria di un vicolo cieco".

Summary:
Eskel finds Geralt in Jaskier's company in the last inn before the path to Kaer Morhen. He comes in for a good-natured session of teasing, he stays for a difficult conversation. After fifty years of dead ends, they finally find an exit route.

Excerpt:

Geralt scraped the bottom of his plate with his spoon and sighed. “What did I tell you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier smiled. “Not to bring up the sex thing with Eskel.” He touched the inside of Geralt’s wrist with a finger, dipping slightly under the sleeve. “And what did I tell you, Geralt?”

“That you were going to do it anyway. You could’ve waited after dinner.”

Eskel shook his head, using his sleeve to mop up the ale that dribbled from his mouth. “That’s not the kind of embarrassing story about our childhoods I hoped to reminisce about.”

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It was almost too late in the season when Eskel finally arrived at the Four Paths. The first snow hadn’t fallen yet and the air had yet to take that frosty and dangerous smell that signaled the beginning of deep winter, but he knew it would’ve been a matter of days. He would’ve normally hurried along to Kaer Morhen, not bothering to even look at the sign hanging over the door, if he hadn’t spotted a familiar chestnut mare in the stables.

Eskel smirked, shook his head and dismounted. If the White Wolf felt like he could afford to stop a night at the tavern before going up the slippery mountain path—well, so could Eskel. He stabled Scorpion, tipped the stablehand and made his way into the tavern.

It was dark and noisy inside, despite it being only mid-afternoon. A bard decked in colorful silks was making up the ruckus all by himself, in a valiant attempt at warming up the sleepy crowd, who seemed more interested in keeping warm huddled next to the braziers scattered around and the main hearth at the deep end of the room rather than listen to whatever ballad the kid was singing.

Still, Eskel blinked at the strange sight; he’d never met a bard so deep in the mountains.

He kept looking around and there was Geralt at his usual table, doing his very best to disappear in the darkest corner but as always betrayed by his silver-pale hair and yellow eyes. He was half-wrapped in a cloak with a fur collar that Eskel didn’t recognize, gloved hands around a mug of ale, the long leather bag containing his swords leaning on the wall at his side, and he seemed entranced by the bard’s performance, a small smile widening on his face. He hadn’t turned his head when the door had opened and he didn’t appear to have sensed Eskel, which struck him as odd.

Only when Eskel sat on the bench across from him at the table he startled slightly, eyes snapping to his face and pupils contracting in alarm briefly, before he took him in and relaxed back in his seat.

“I didn’t know you liked this sort of tuneless grovel,” Eskel teased him, in a way of greeting.

Geralt’s smile grew wider and more noticeable, then a complicated twitch ran over his features. He licked his lips, and glanced back at the bard, shrugging with just one shoulder. “Yeah, well. This is not Jaskier’s best work, I’ll give you that. It’s based on a true story for a change, though.”

Oh. That explained so many things. “So that’s the bard.”

“That’s the bard.” Geralt took a sip of ale. His eyes were unfocused, avoidant.

Eskel rolled his eyes, stole the mug for himself and drank a long sip, before turning to look at Geralt’s bard. The man had to be at least thirty, even if the cheerful demeanor and that round, smooth face of his made him look much younger, like he hadn’t finished growing up yet; he was taller than he looked at first glance, but with the way he stood and moved he somehow managed to look small and friendly and larger than life at the same time. His fingers were quick on the lute, which he held like an extension of his body, like a witcher handled a silver sword, and his voice effortlessly glided from one note to the other. Eskel liked music well enough to know a trained musician when he heard one.

“You asked the old man if you could bring him? What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Geralt answered, but he seemed uncertain. “Jaskier isn’t coming.”

“Why not? You could ask him, I’m sure Vesemir would appreciate some real entertainment.”

The song came to an end. There was scattered, unenthusiastic applause around the room, but Jaskier bowed and smiled, bringing his hands to his chest like in front of a standing ovation, picking up the meager tips as if they were priceless prizes, then started walking towards their table.

Geralt looked tense, and Eskel snorted. “What, are you afraid we’re gonna tell him embarrassing stories about our shared childhood?” He didn’t say anything, but Eskel had spent long enough learning his micro-expression to know that he’d hit the nail right on the head.

He cackled loudly, enjoying Geralt’s unimpressed jaw-twitch, just as Jaskier reached them. “Well, well, well, who do we have here? Hello,” Jaskier said, sitting on the table just next to Eskel’s elbow rather than on the bench, punctuating the greeting with a jaunty chord on his lute.

“Hello, I’m Eskel,” he introduced himself, trying not to smile too widely now that they had company. Geralt was used to it, but he was aware that regular people tended to find his scars unsettling. “You must be Jaskier. Geralt told me a lot about you.”

“Only the nasty bits, I hope,” the bard quipped with a wink, smiling with the tip of his tongue between his teeth. His voice dripped with innuendo, but he smelled clean and bright, quietly pleased, over a note of winter that was all Geralt and a hint of unfamiliar buttery spice that was probably the bard’s own scent. “Geralt also told me a lot about you, too.”

“My goodness. He talks?” Eskel quipped back with an exaggerated gasp, laughing when it got him a vicious kick from under the table. “Ow, stop that, you bitch. Always said that horse is piss poor influence on you.”

“Fuck off. Don’t get Roach into this.”

Eskel turned fully towards Jaskier, gesturing at him to lean closer. “Does he bite, too?” he stage-whispered, ignoring Geralt’s thunderous glare.

Jaskier’s smile was full of teeth. “Only when I ask nicely.”

“I hate you both,” Geralt muttered, morosely staring at the empty bottom of his mug.

“Aww, come on, don’t be offended, we were only playing.” Jaskier chuckled.

He slid off the table and tossed the lute over the table; Geralt caught it without even looking, and put it under the bench, out of the way, in a practiced gesture.

“Can I get you something to drink, Eskel?” Jaskier asked, all smiles, showing him the scant amount of coin he was holding in his palm. “We’ll have to pay for dinner out of our purses, but this is enough for a couple of drinks, I think.”

Eskel grinned back. It was contagious. “Why not? Since I’m here, I might as well enjoy myself.”

“Absolutely marvelous. I’ll be right back. Need a refill, love?” Jaskier said, turning to Geralt, who stiffened at the endearment, mortified for the briefest instant, before shaking his head.

When the bard walked out of hearing range, Eskel hummed. “So there have been… developments, between the two of you.” Geralt gave him a half-shrug again, but now that the cat was out of the bag he seemed relieved, a little pleased. “Got yourself a little spitfire, huh?”

“A spitfire and a headache rolled in one,” Geralt agreed, with a dry chuckle. “Please do not get him started.”

Eskel grinned. “He’s probably going to get started all by himself, and frankly I look forward to it.”

Geralt tried to take a sip from the empty mug again, and frowned. “Careful about what you wish for.”

*

“So, Geralt tells me you used to fuck when you were trainees in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier said as soon as they were finished with their bowls of stew a few hours later, apparently timing the statement exactly so Eskel could choke on the last of his ale.

Geralt scraped the bottom of his plate with his spoon and sighed. “What did I tell you, Jaskier?”

Jaskier smiled. “Not to bring up the sex thing with Eskel.” He touched the inside of Geralt’s wrist with a finger, dipping slightly under the sleeve. “And what did I tell you, Geralt?”

“That you were going to do it anyway. You could’ve waited after dinner.”

Eskel shook his head, using his sleeve to mop up the ale that dribbled from his mouth. “That’s not the kind of embarrassing story about our childhoods I hoped to reminisce about.”

“Sorry,” Geralt muttered.

“Oh, I’m definitely interested in those, too!” Jaskier cheerfully pointed out, talking over him. “But I brought up that particular tidbit of history because I knew that Geralt was never going to do it himself, and you two definitely need to talk about it. I know, I know, boundaries! Not my business! But I happen to care a lot about Geralt here, and Geralt happens to care a lot about you, so.” His tone was light, but his eyes were serious and intense. They looked almost wet in the dim light. “So please talk to each other.”

He grabbed his lute from under the bench, climbed up and over the table, and he was off to entertain the room, chords pouring off his instrument and his voice raising to call the attention of the patrons.

Eskel stared at him for a moment, unable to form coherent thought for a moment. “What the fuck was that?” he muttered, a little helpless.

He was mostly talking to himself, but Geralt answered anyway. “That was Jaskier.”

Eskel rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the scars under his fingers. “Does he know—?”

Geralt fidgeted with the spoon. “That we fuck during the winter? Yes. He doesn’t care.”

Having Geralt of all people say it so clearly made Eskel feel like he’d gotten punched in the face. As a general rule, they didn’t talk about the things they did — they just helped each other when needed, hands and mouths and sometimes thighs, while the keep slept. Geralt always looked torn about it afterwards, his bright winter smell soured by sizzling, bitter notes, and he was gone before the sun was up. Eskel would’ve hardly called it fucking, as perfunctory as it felt.

And now that bard— “Is he serious?”

“Like a wyvern’s bite.”

Eskel tilted his head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Geralt didn’t answer for a moment, his eyes still turned to his empty bowl. Not for the first time, Eskel marvelled at the strong features of his face, such a contrast with the soft wave of his white hair. He was so pale he always seemed to glow in the dark, like there was some unknown variety of chaos pouring out of his pores, and Eskel had loved looking at him since he survived the second set of Trials. He’d been afraid at first, afraid that his friend had been choked to death behind that ethereal unnaturalness—but it had been still Geralt inside that pale corpse, speaking with that cracked voice, carrying those hidden pains. And Eskel had always tried to help, but maybe he’d just made everything worse, and worse, and worse.

“No,” Geralt admitted, finally. He adjusted the fur collar around his neck. “But I promised.”

He nodded towards the staircase, and got up, grabbing his bag as he went. Eskel followed him, slinking near the wall and up the steps, nearly silent even on the creaky wood—the hard habit of light feet difficult to lose even when there was nothing more dangerous than a starving rat under the boards.

They were still halfway up the flight of stairs, the darkest and longest of Eskel’s life, when he suddenly had to say something. He’d liked Jaskier, but — “Why?” he asked, fearing the answer.

The step under Geralt’s boot almost made a noise. “Jacek.”

“What about Jacek?” He frowned. “Oof, I hadn’t heard that name in years.”

Skinny kid, flighty, skittish. The Trials had fucked him up something bad, but he’d survived, he was put through the training like everyone else—and then that old witcher had messed him up worse. Eskel remembered his wiry body—even more wiry than Geralt’s had been—go rigid and then limp as he was pulled to seat in the old fuck’s lap, as quiet as a mouse, pupils wide and round and unfocused. No one had noticed, beside Eskel—because he’d watched Geralt’s eyes do the same a hundred times, before pushing his fingers inside him to make him moan. The Sign had worn off and Jacek had cried, curled up on his side. Vesemir had been so calm, as he explained to the trainees the many inappropriate ways Axii could be used, the silver sword at this side still dripping with blood.

“I told Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice almost startled him. “Because— I offered to Axii him.”

“You—” Eskel almost stumbled on the next step. A witcher doesn’t use Axii for sex, Vesemir said, the blood dripping deafeningly on the floor. Ever. “What the fuck, Geralt?”

“Because I liked it.” Geralt’s voice creaked louder than the step he was putting his weight on.

Eskel was going to be sick. “Did you fuck him while he was—”

“No! No, fuck, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t risk it, you know my Signs aren’t good enough for that.”

Eskel wiped at his mouth; his jaw felt tight, his scars were getting pulled by the stiffening muscles and he was having a hard time not to slur. Geralt wasn’t making a lick of sense. It was starting to get on his nerves. “I don’t understand.”

Geralt grunted, a noise of frustration deep in his throat. He glanced down the stairs at Eskel, the shiny layer behind his pupils briefly reflecting the light from the tavern at the bottom in a flash of green, before disappearing around the corner down the hallway where the rooms to rent were.

Blood flooding his ears as loud as a death sentence, Eskel followed him down the dark corridor until they reached the last door. Geralt stopped, staring at the door like he wanted to wish it open with his mind.

Eskel stepped in his space, putting a hand on his shoulder and jostling him a little. “What’s going on? Start over. You’re thinking too many things at once.”

The silence stretched between them, only the jaunty strumming of the lute in the distance coming through the floor. Geralt tensed his jaw and swallowed thickly, his pupils going from too thin to a more normal size for the scarce amount of light they needed to take in as he tried to focus.

“You remember how I was. After the Trials. The other ones,” Geralt rasped out.

Eskel wished he didn’t, but he’d been the one helping him mop up the vomit in the middle of the night while Geralt gritted his teeth through his migraines; he’d been the one rubbing Geralt’s joints when they burned as they kept mutating for weeks after the Trials were done; he’d been the one stroking Geralt’s back as he whimpered because he couldn’t stand the noise of the others breathing while they slept. He nodded.

“And you remember how you fixed me. With Axii.”

He flinched. He’d noticed that Geralt got worse whenever he tensed up, and they’d been learning the Signs at the time, and he’d picked them up more quickly than anyone else. He’d been the one suggesting to use Axii to make him relax; using that bit of magic to help his friend feel better had seemed a good solution at the time—and it worked. Finally Geralt could get full nights of sleep, didn’t get migraines, didn’t put any strain on his aching joints as they healed, and when Geralt had tensed up during sex—well. Flexing his fingers in the right shape to call up the spark of magic had been pure reflex. One little cantrip, and Geralt would turn so pliant he didn’t care about the things that used to overwhelm him before, his wintery smell going bright and woozy like the toasty warmth of a woolen blanket.

“Listen, Geralt, if this is about—I’m sorr—”

“No, you listen,” Geralt interrupted him, lips curling in a snarl. “Your Axii is the best thing that ever happened to me. I would’ve died without it. I liked when you—I liked it, Eskel. I wanted it.”

“Bullshit,” Eskel snarled back. “We were stupid kids, doing dangerous stupid kid things because we didn’t know any better. You weren’t even—you were under all the time, I’m fucking surprised you even remember anything about that—”

“I was in agony for hours every day for months and then suddenly I wasn’t. Of course I fucking remember!” The leather of Geralt’s gloves creaked as he clenched his fist in the fold of his cloak. “And then you stopped, and it was agony again. I remember, Eskel.”

Eskel couldn’t breathe, the sound of Geralt’s broken snark stabbing him in the lungs like a pitchfork. He’d stopped because he hadn’t wanted to hurt him—hadn’t wanted Geralt to have Jacek’s scared eyes—and he’d fucked it up worse, instead. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he protested out loud, weakly.

“I know. It’s my fault too, I should’ve said something instead of just—rolling over and thinking of what could’ve been,” Geralt murmured, and the longing in his voice was sharp like a shard of ice. “I was afraid you were going to leave.”

Eskel stepped closer and raised his hand slowly, the urge to touch Geralt suddenly unbearable; Geralt met him halfway, pressing his face against his hand, leaning forward until they were touching, forehead against forehead. Eskel closed his eyes and breathed out, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck as he pulled him closer. “I’m sorry.”

Things left unsaid crowded them, together with too many questions left unasked, but Geralt’s eyes shone in the dark, golden and bright, and a watery smile was spreading on his face. “Me too,” he said, and then kissed the corner of Eskel’s mouth, gentle and forgiving and strangely hesitant. He smelled like freshly fallen snow and the spicy tea they drank in the middle of winter, all sweetness and warmth, a scent that spoke of all the things they hadn’t known how to talk about.

Eskel had missed him so fucking much.

They separated reluctantly when they heard steps on the stairs, but it was only Jaskier, coming to the room after the evening set. Both witchers turned to watch him, not bothering to hide that they were still tightly wrapped into each other; Jaskier grinned at them, radiant enough that the lit candle in his left hand felt superfluous.

“Were you starting without me?” he teased them. “I’m taking it went well?” he added then, sounding less smug and more tender than Eskel expected, a soft look in his eyes while he glanced between them.

Geralt huffed a laughter, hiding his face in Eskel’s shoulder. The fur from his collar tickled his neck. “If you’re expecting me to tell you that you were right, you’re sorely mistaken,” he grunted, embarrassed and stubborn.

Jaskier smiled, wide and a little menacing. “Oh, don’t worry, darling. I’ll be content to tell you that I told you so.”

Eskel surprised himself by laughing at that.