Young Wolves, part 7 is here! On AO3 here! we’re getting kinda close to the end now, frie

Young Wolves, part 7 is here! On AO3 here! we’re getting kinda close to the end now, friends! exciting!! (as usual, blessed be @asparrowsfall for the beta <3)fic and warnings under the cut, as usualadditional 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.“Huh.” Eskel turns to face him, a grin splitting his face in two, half-mocking and half-affectionate. “Sounds familiar.” -- source link

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