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Geralt had always been different.
Nowadays, he doesn’t remember his mother, much. Had perhaps made a point to forget.
But he remembers the teasing, good natured and not, as a child in Kaer Morhen. There had been things he’d do - little enchantments and blessings and rituals for good luck, he now recognised, but that had looked odd to peasant born children and irritating to the Masters that did not like being faced with things they didn’t know or understand.
The Mages hadn’t liked it, either. Sometimes he wondered if that had been why, and not any innate aptitude of his.
Why they’d done to him what they had.
Geralt had eventually stopped with his superstitions and rituals, and had done his best to blend in. But by then, it had already been too late - the other trainees were distrustful of him, eyeing him warily and starting rumours about him, about his strange habits and even stranger strength.
Eskel had been the exception. He’d seen the red haired boy odd shapes that drew Eskel in into the sand and asked if he could teach him. Eskel’s interest in Geralt’s rituals had faded - Signs made more sense, he had told Geralt with a serious look upon his round face - but his interest in Geralt himself had remained, to Geralt utter bewilderment.
After the trials, his difference had been marked upon his skin, upon his face. Other, for humans, but also for those who were supposed to be like him. Ghostly discolored skin and even paler hair, golden eyes with slitted pupils while his brothers’ were round, senses so sharp the whole world had hurt the first time he left his room.
Eskel hadn’t left his side, even then.
***
When they went down the mountain, next spring, their first year on the Path, they did so together.
The first thing Geralt did upon stepping off the trail and into his new life was turning to kiss Eskel.
The first thing Eskel did upon stepping off the trail and into his new life was kissing Geralt back.
***
It wasn’t until his first winter after his trials, after nearly a year on the path, that the last blow of what had been taken from him, of what set him ever further apart, landed.
He hadn’t looked at himself, much, his year. Eskel had tried to move Geralt past his new appearance, but they had to separate eventually, and, left to his own devices, Geralt prefered to just ignore it.
It wasn’t just that he thought he looked bad - though he did - it was that he couldn’t reconcile the image he had of himself with what he saw reflected back at him in lakes and mirrors. Beyond his colouring, his proportions seemed wrong, with the way the trials had shifted his back muscles and grown others.
He should have understood as he made his way up the mountain. The cold - though it had barely started snowing, and he wore his thickest tunic and cloak, no to mention his leathers and thick woolen socks inside his boots - felt much worse than he remembered it. Bad enough he spent the whole trek awake, afraid what would happen if the fire should go out while he was asleep.
When he got to the keep, three days later, and Eskel embraced him and exclaimed in surprise - the bad kind - only then he began to understand.
“Did you have a hard time getting contracts after we separated?” Eskel asked, concerned, as he dragged Geralt inside, even as his hands didn’t seem able to stop checking him, roaming over Geralt’s arms and shoulders.
“No, I’ve been doing fine. Took down a couple of werewolves not a month back, and they paid in full, too.” Eskel’s confusion was clear in the furrowing of his brow.
“Why the hells haven’t you been feeding yourself, then?”
He could always count on Eskel to be straightforward.
“I have,” Geralt answered, forcing his voice to stay level, though he couldn’t help but start getting concerned. Side by side, the difference was obvious; Geralt was as he had been when he left in the spring, muscle and skin and bone, maybe some extra muscle, but nothing that had caused him to need to adjust his clothing during the year.
Eskel, however, was almost glowing - the year had been good to him, as could be seen in the extra padding about his hips and middle, unhidden by his thick woolen tunic, and the extra flesh to his cheeks. It was as a wolf witcher was built to look during winter. Prepared for the harsh cold and restful months or, if stranded from the pack, it should be enough to sustain a witcher until catch returned to the woods and contracts to the notice boards.
Eskel looked soft. Beautiful.
He hummed noncommittally, in a tone Geralt knew meant he wasn’t convinced, and took Geralt to the room he had claimed for them, to store his things.
During dinner, Geralt pretended not to notice Eskel pushing extra portions onto his plate - he wasn’t the only one giving Geralt’s sharp cheeks looks of concern, and maybe he hadn’t been taking care of himself properly. He ate much more than before the trials, nowadays, but maybe it still wasn’t enough.
Likewise, when Eskel drew him into his arms, hugging Geralt close to his chest while saying he would keep him warm during the night, he knew better than to complain.
***
No matter how much Geralt ate and was told to rest that winter - a worrisome suggestion to hear in a keep full of witchers, specially when it came from the suchs like Varin - his weight stayed the same. Soon, Eskel’s offer became a necessity; even with the ever burning fireplaces and thermal water running through the walls in the main halls, without that healthy layer of fat the keep is nearly dangerously cold at night, specially with the slower heartbeat of sleep.
They don’t talk about it beyond Eskel’s urging of him to eat more and barely disguised looks of concern, but Geralt doesn’t need to think much to know what happened.
It’s unsurprising that the same process that had taken the last shred of his idealism - or so he liked to think - had also taken any outward softness not polished away by training. After all, the softness that came with downtime and rest and good food, or, ideally, with a particularly good year, was good. Was as close as a witcher's life came to a signifier of something akin to happiness. Of course Geralt was denied it.
Though, he mentally amended, his nose burrowing deeper into the warm place where Eskel’s neck and shoulder met, the trials had also allowed him this.
Eskel’s arms tightened around Geralt for a moment, then returned to their lose hold, even as Eskel continued to sleep on.
The unconscious reaction, which usually caused a warm feeling in his stomach, instead soured his confort. Surviving the trials had allowed him this, but had saddled Eskel with a defective companion. The same warmth and plush embrace he revelled so much in was denied Eskel by virtue of Geralt’s continued survival. Eskel was, after all, the opposite of Geralt - good and warm and loving in a way that Geralt himself felt incapable of, his beautiful interior reflected upon his handsome face.
Geralt, meanwhile, carried his soul upon his unappealing face. Had he been a better person, he knew, he’d end things with Eskel for Eskel’s sake.
He was not, however. Geralt had dreamed of being a knight, one, but now he knew. He was barely above a monster, and unable to hide; why should he pretend to be a better man than he was?
***
Despite his bravato, Geralt doesn’t stop feeling torn for forcing Eskel to stand him and care for him. He’s not strong enough to stay away from Eskel.
When Fate gives Eskel the scars that marr his handsome face - no less handsome, never less handsome, but feared, now - Geralt curses it out from the wilderness near the keep, his extremities quickly turning blue despite how hot and fast the rage has his blood pumping in his veins.
Of all of them, Eskel never deserved this. He deserved so much better.
***
Years later, Geralt meets Jaskier, and he thinks he has finally found what Eskel deserves.
Jaskier is softness. His clothes, his looks, his words. He has hidden edges, sharp enough to cut, but that's not what he chooses to make of himself, how he chooses to present himself. Jaskier chooses to be light and fun and even seemingly air headed and unthreatening, while also capable of intelligent conversation and deep reflection, of the type of poetic language Geralt hates and can barely parse and Eskel has been trying to teach him for decades.
Geralt is afraid, in the beginning. Of letting Jaskier close, letting Jaskier in - he barely deserves Eskel as is, and though what they have would never be treated or cheapened by Geralt taking another partner, Geralt is wary of too much happiness. It is not how his life has been, not the hand Fate has dealt him.
It takes them years, but Jaskier doesn’t leave, never leaves, not until Geralt told him he should and meant it - only to regret it, later, regret it so much, and then Jaskier had accepted him and stayed, again.
After that and Ciri is safe and the wish is broken and Nilfgaard no longer, Geralt takes him to Kaer Morhen.
Takes Jaskier to Eskel.
He does this knowing how this will go. Knowing he is likely giving two very important parts of his happiness to themselves, in an equation that would probably result in him by himself. But he loved them both - and he wanted them to have what they deserved.
And they deserved better than him.
***
Despite the pain in his chest, he couldn’t stop his smile as he watched Eskel and Jaskier chatting animatedly away, a ways away, closer to the hall’s large fireplace. They had been getting on as well as Geralt had expected since they arrived, discussing music, poetric, composition, history and many other subjects in such excited and fast paced conversation that Geralt had a hard time keeping track at times.
With a last swig of his beer and dropping one last card on the table - Commander’s Horn, the game was his - Geralt ignored Lambert’s inventive cursing and started to make his way back to his rooms. Eskel hadn’t been offended to hear Geralt wasn’t sharing with him this winter, though he had looked surprised when he realised Geralt wasn’t sharing with Jaskier either.
Geralt knew how the season was likely to turn out - hell, given the way they’d looked tonight, he’d give it a week - and he planned to make it easy for everyone.
He was shaken from his musings as two pair of hands - one silky and one rough, he knew, but both ever so warm - grabbed his arms, holding him in place. Lambert and Vesemir didn’t seem to have followed them out into the corridor, thankfully.
“Got you,” Jaskier exclaimed, cheerfully, like his loose hold on Geralt’s biceps was the force restraining Geralt. “Sneaking away without saying good night is not very nice, you know.”
“Tired,” Geralt grunted, for some reason unable to meet Jaskier’s - or Eskel’s, for that matter - eyes for some reason.
“Oh really,” said Eskel, his tone teasing but not unkind. “Because we have a theory here, you see.”
“Now that sounds scary,” Geralt deadpanned. “You two thinking, that is.”
“Ha ha, Geralt, ha ha. But first, if I may suggest we move this to my room? This corridor is horridly drafty.” Geralt, who had been feeling the chill, and, due to Eskel’s much firmed hold, didn’t really have much choice in the matter. The silence as they climbed the stairs was awkward, but, thankfully, their trek was over quickly, as Geralt was soon getting gently shoved inside Jaskier’s room, the door of which was pointedly closed by Eskel - who, only then, the prepared sod, let go of Geralt.
He was starting to think he wasn’t about to enjoy this.
“Now,” Jaskier said, quite cheerfully, rubbing his hands together in front of the fireplace, as Eskel - quite a home, Geralt noticed - crossed the room and sat on Jaskier’s bed. Geralt wondered if they’d give chase if he tried to run now. “Eskel here has a very interesting theory, Geralt, would you care to hear it?”
Who was he kidding. Even if he managed to escape Eskel’s Yrden, Jaskier would probably scream at Lambert to intercept Geralt, and the fucker would be happy to comply, if the frankly terrifying friendship they seemed to have struck was any sign.
“Do I have a choice?” he grumbled, which received a smirk from Eskel and an eyeroll from Jaskier.
“Nope,” he replied, in the same cheerful tone, bright smile unwavering. “Now, my dear friend, I know you hate flowery language and beating about the bush, and that this is already going to be hard enough for you, so I will just come out and say it.”
Geralt felt his heart stutter in his chest. He didn’t think it would have happened quite this quick, nor that they would want to talk to him about it - though he should have known, of course, they were good, of course they would feel bad about realising they had something better than Geralt-
“Eskel seems to think you are holding some stupid notion we will both fall in love and abandon you. Now, I thought he was mad at first - but then I remember just quite how stupid you can be.” Geralt blinked in shock at Jaskier, speechless.
“And I know that stupid quite well. And don’t get me wrong, Wolf - you have good taste, and I certainly want to get to know you little bardling here better - but you are stupider than even I thought if you think the biggest thing we have in common isn’t how much we love your big, dumb ass.”
“Such a marvelous ass,” Jaskier said, with a theatrical sigh, and Geralt realised the bard had moved to stand right in front of him, and was unable to do anything but follow dumbly as he tugged him towards the bed, whereas Eskel had made himself comfortable against the headboard leaving, Geralt realised, enough room for both of them.
He went easily as Jaskier pushed him onto the bed, and Eskel pulled Geralt with his back to his chest.
Despite his startlement, Geralt couldn’t help the warm contentment that flooded his chest as Jaskier moved onto the bed too, settling into the cradle of Geralt’s arms.
Jaskier had always been lush, is the best way Geralt could put it, even as a youth. His legs are strong and shapely from walking but, for all the strength in his forearms from playing, he had never had any real upper body strength to speak of, and " liked it that way", which Geralt could hardly disagree with. With age, and the restfulness of winter, the luxurious layer of fat had grown even plusher, and sandwiched as he was between the two of them, he felt engulfed in warmth and comfort.
And love.
“Do you get it now, Wolf?” Eskel asked, tone light and fond, close to his ear, and nipped his earlobe.
Despite himself, Geralt nodded, burying his nose into Jaskier’s sweet smelling hair.
In his arms, Jaskier’s laughter rang, clear and high and delighted.