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“A cockatrice? Really, wolf?” Eskel asks, smirking as he gently dabs away the blood seeping down Geralt’s cheek.
Geralt scowls. “Like you don’t have your fair share of embarrassing stories. I know about the one on your ass.”
Eskel gives a mocking flinch, using his free hand to brush Geralt’s hair away as he wipes the upper half of the scar. “We agreed to never mention that again, Ger,” he chastises lightly.
He only gets a huff in response.
A smile crosses over Eskel’s face. He sets down the bloodied rag, looking over the new injury. The bleeding has started to slow, but it still stands bright red, a stark contrast to Geralt’s pale face. Otherwise, the slash is thin, only one line going down the left side of Geralt’s face. It curls, heading back towards Geralt’s hairline, but overall, the cut isn’t so bad. It would likely be healed over by tomorrow night.
“It’s gonna scar, isn’t it?” Geralt sighs quietly, watching as Eskel picks up a small tin of salve.
Eskel hums, dipping his fingers into the tin and scooping out just enough to cover Geralt’s injury with a light layer. Geralt doesn’t flinch, keeping steady even though Eskel knows his touch isn’t as gentle as he would like it to be. Eskel removes his hand when he finishes, looking Geralt in the eye.
“Gonna make you look roguishly handsome,” he finally answers, grinning cheekily.
Geralt snorts, mouth curling into his own smile. “Don’t quote my words back at me.”
A small chuckle rumbles from Eskel’s chest. He brings a hand to Geralt’s jaw, gently brushing his thumb over the marred cheek and carefully avoiding the irritated wound. Softening his gaze, he leans forward, placing a chaste kiss on Geralt’s lips. When he pulls away, he catches Geralt chasing after him, seeking another one. Eskel obliges, but he plants this one beside the upper half of the wound, on his forehead and just out of reach from where the salve covers the gash.
“Still look beautiful to me,” Eskel murmurs, bringing his forehead to rest against Geralt’s and closing his eyes.
Geralt huffs a breath of laughter, closing his eyes as well and raising his own hand. His arm rests against Eskel’s, crossing as they hold each other tenderly. In a world where all they know is a cruel hand, they do their damndest to cradle one another like they’re the most precious thing they’ve ever laid eyes on. And to them, they are.
Eskel can’t name a single person, place, or thing that will ever compare to the beauty he sees in Geralt’s eyes. From the way the man speaks to the way he simply breathes, Eskel’s heart aches with the desire to hold Geralt close, to shelter him from the storm outside.
It only took over a century, but Eskel finally knows that Geralt feels the same way about him, too.
Geralt’s callouses snag on the ragged scars cutting into the right side of Eskel’s face, but his touch remains gentle enough, almost reverent, that the pain Eskel expects doesn’t come. Instead, Geralt continues to brush over those deep wounds, healed in every way but emotionally. He touches them without fear, without revulsion or disappointment. He strokes them like they are just as precious as Eskel is, like they are just as deserving of respect.
“You’re gorgeous, too, you know,” Geralt whispers.
Eskel swallows thickly, his free hand searching out for Geralt’s. He doesn’t know if Geralt heard his hand move, or if they know each other that well, but Geralt’s hand clasps around his with ease, despite their closed eyes. They hold onto each other, Eskel’s hand larger than Geralt’s and grip awkward. They slot together perfectly.
“I’m starting to believe it,” Eskel says, his voice cracking with tears he refuses to shed.
After so long, after so many years, he’s starting to see what Geralt sees when his lover looks at him. Eskel sees it all too well in Geralt’s face. He knows Geralt’s beauty better than he knows the stories of the scars marking his own skin. The new scar that will mar Geralt’s face for the rest of time doesn’t make him look any less beautiful in Eskel’s eyes, and he’s starting to understand, starting to realize, that maybe Geralt feels the same way about him.
A giddy smile crosses Eskel’s face as he pulls away slightly, opening his eyes to meet Geralt’s. Amber irises reflect back at him, but Eskel remembers a time when they were a bright, emerald green. It’s okay, though, because even in the midst of everything they’ve been through, Eskel can still look into those unnatural eyes and see the man he loves - the one he has loved for over a hundred years - staring back at him.
“I might need further convincing, though,” Eskel points out, trying to smother his smile into something more serious.
Geralt narrows his eyes playfully, the salve numbing the injury enough that it doesn’t hurt when he moves. “Aren’t I the injured one here?”
Eskel laughs, bringing his thumb to brush lightly over Geralt’s lips. “You injured your eye. You’ve proven that mouth of yours still works.”
Geralt has half a mind to bite Eskel’s thumb at the audacity of his lover. He doesn’t, choosing to squeeze Eskel’s hand that’s still wrapped around his. With the other, he brings Eskel closer. Eskel’s hand moves back to cup Geralt’s injured cheek. They meet in the middle, lips locking together. Geralt can feel the odd sensation from the notch in Eskel’s upper lip where the scar cuts through, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a part of Eskel, a unique characteristic that he attributes to the most important man in his life. Disfigured, but absolutely stunning.
They sink into the embrace, losing themselves in each other. It’s a rare pleasure to partake in, but they allow this moment of indulgence. They don’t get a break often, and if Eskel could choose anywhere to rest, it would be here, in Geralt’s arms. He knows, deep down, that Geralt feels the same.
In a witcher’s world, they learn to find beauty in the imperfections of life. They have to. And in a world of imperfections, Eskel can’t help but think that between the two of them, in the midst of the bond they share, he and Geralt are the most beautiful of them all.