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Geralt is a man of many mysteries. Very few people on the Continent can claim to truly know him, not that there’s been any shortage of people who firmly believe this to be the case. Eskel knows better, though, and while he thinks very fondly of some of Geralt’s friends (and not so fondly of others), none of them can even begin to compete with him on the topic of Geralt. Neither Dandelion, nor Yennefer, nor Triss, not even Roche can ever hope to live up to the near-century of friendship Eskel and Geralt share. They have gone through literal hell together, never one without the other, two sides of the same coin, two drops of water…
Eskel knows Geralt better than anyone, better than Vesemir himself, better than Geralt’s own mother (though, admittedly, the latter is very hard considering she left her only son on Vesemir’s doorstep without so much as a tearful goodbye). They shared more than a childhood together - they lived through the same traumatic experience that were the witcher trials, they comforted each other at night when the nightmares seemed too vivid, too real , they painted Kaer Morhen red on more than one occasion, finding solace from their brutal reality in childish pranks and harmless jokes. Geralt was Eskel’s first friend at the keep, the first boy who didn’t make fun of Eskel for his strange hillfolk accent, or his noticeable lisp, or the way Eskel stumbled over his own words when he was nervous. Geralt was Eskel’s first in many ways; his first friend, his first crush, his first kiss, his first sexual experience, the first man (and, admittedly, the only man) Eskel ever loved. Two drops of water, indeed. Old Vesemir knew from the very start that Eskel and Geralt would grow up to be inseparable.
Yet, for all of Eskel’s intrinsic knowledge about Geralt, even he can’t wrap his head around why the White Wolf is currently sitting in front of the fire knitting socks, of all things!
“Startin’ to show your old age, wolf,” Eskel teases as he steps into the mess hall, an easy smile playing on his lips, the kind of smile that only his family gets to witness these days, “knitting in front of the fire, trying to warm your old bones and stiff joints?”
“Fuck you,” Geralt retorts, though there is no heat to his voice, “don’t think I didn’t see you sewing last week.”
“That was different.” Eskel plops down next to Geralt on the rug, letting the fire warm his frozen hands and feet. “I was making Ciri a toy. I know the kid’s been struggling to sleep at night. Keep hearing her tossin’ and turnin’.”
And screaming and crying, though Eskel doesn’t think it will do Geralt any good to remind him of his child surprise’s fits and night terrors. Geralt blames himself as it is for not being able to keep the nightmares at bay.
“That rag she carries around with her is your doing?” There’s a mocking edge to Geralt’s tone, which paired with the mischievous glint flashing in his eyes can only mean one thing. He’s in a teasing mood himself. “I’m not even sure what it’s meant to represent, though Ciri maintains that you made her a dog.”
“It’s a wolf, actually,” Eskel corrects him, “y’know, cause we’re wolves? Eh, get it?”
“Looks more like an uglier version of a ghoul if you ask me.”
“Funny you say that. I had you in mind when I was sewing the parts together. I’m glad you can see a resemblance. ‘s telling of my skills as an artist.”
Geralt punches Eskel in the shoulder, but the latter doesn’t even try to dodge the assault. A warm chortle rumbles deep in Eskel’s chest and even Geralt is unable to bite back an amused smirk at their childish antics. Eskel cherishes these simple moments the most, the ones when he’s allowed to just be, and when he can drop the pretence for a short while. When he’s with Geralt, Eskel doesn’t have to be anything but himself. It’s refreshing, especially after months spent on the Path trying to seem less like himself so as to not frighten the humans he meets on the way.
“So, who are the socks for?” Eskel asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. Geralt shrugs non-committally in response.
“They’re for the Count of Mind-Your-Own-Business.”
“Never heard of ‘em before, but he must be very important to get you to knit socks for them,” Eskel plays along, never one to be deterred by smartass comments, especially not those coming from Geralt.
“Hm.”
That is clearly all the conversation Eskel is going to get out of Geralt this evening. He knows not to press him when Geralt resorts to hums, grunts or monosyllabic responses. Eskel doesn’t mind, though. He’s perfectly content leaning against Geralt for warmth, bodies pressed close as he brings his head to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. Eskel nuzzles Geralt’s hair sweetly, taking in the spicy fragrance of the other witcher’s hair oil and delighting in the content purr his actions pull from Geralt. The two of them stay like this for a while, taking comfort in the other’s presence, the soft clicks of Geralt’s knitting needles the only sound filling the empty mess hall. It doesn’t take long before Eskel doses off, lulled by the steady thud-thud of Geralt’s heartbeat as they bask in the warmth of the fire.
__________
“Melitele’s tits, it’s colder than an ice giant’s ass in here,” Lambert complains for what feels like the hundredth time in the span of the last hour. Eskel has learned over the years to ignore the youngest wolf’s whining, but admittedly this winter is much colder than the previous ones, and even Eskel struggles to cope with the harsher weather conditions this year. Lambert has always been more susceptible to the cold for some unfathomable reason - Vesemir firmly believes that Lambert’s aversion to the cold is psychological and stems from deeply-rooted childhood trauma, though Eskel never dared ask for specifics. The specifics don’t really matter, Eskel supposes, especially not when he has to deal with Lambert’s mercurial moods in the here and now.
“Wear warmer clothes, then,” Eskel suggests in all his wisdom. His advice earns him a pointed eye-roll from Lambert.
“Damn, why didn’t I think of that earlier?” Lambert drawls sarcastically in response. “I can’t. I told you, I was ambushed by bandits at the bottom of this godsforsaken mountain. They took everything including my horse. It’s shit! I liked that horse.”
“High praise.”
“Fuck you. All my clothes, my potions, my coin , all gone! Just like that.”
Lambert aggressively stabs a potato with his fork, acting like it’s personally responsible for all his misery. Eskel learned a long time ago that an ‘I told you so’ aimed at Lambert is a sure way of ending up at the receiving end of a vengeful prank. Still, that doesn’t stop Eskel from thinking that Lambert would have heard the bandits coming had he been a little bit more attentive to his surroundings. Admittedly, being attentive to one’s surroundings is not as easy as it seems when one is currently busy fornicating with a certain Cat witcher as a last parting gift before heading up the mountain for winter. Eskel wonders when Lambert will drop the act and finally invite Aiden to stay at Kaer Morhen. It might just be the way to brighten Lambert’s mood on those cold winter nights.
Not that Eskel will risk suggesting that to the prickly wolf. That, too, is something Eskel doesn’t dare bring up for the sake of keeping the peace. The list of topics he won’t mention around Lambert is growing longer by the day.
“I’ve got clothes you can borrow,” Eskel offers helpfully, “and I’ve had a good year. I can lend you enough coin to last you a few weeks when the snow thaws in spring.”
“I won’t accept a loan from you,” Lambert declares, offended that Eskel would even suggest such a charitable gesture, “if anything, I’ll bleed you dry playing Gwent. Win my coin fair and square. I’ll accept the clothes, though. You somehow always end up with the warmest clothes even though you’re a literal furnace!”
“That’s what to do,” Eskel looks up at Lambert, a teasing grin tugging at his lips, “let me freeze t’ death so you can rob me of my coin.”
“Coin won’t be much use to you if you’re dead!”
“Whatever makes you sleep better at night, pup.”
They leave the conversation at that, each witcher returning to their own chores for the rest of the day. When Eskel is done cleaning out the armoury, he heads back to his and Geralt’s room. They’ve been sharing a room for years now. It’s more practical than having Vesemir make up two beds every year to accommodate them, especially considering that one of them would always ends up in the other’s bed anyway.
As Eskel steps into their shared bedroom, the soft clicking of knitting needles reaches his ears. He finds Geralt sitting cross-legged on the bed, a deep frown etched on his face as he stares at his work in progress like it's the bane of his entire existence. Eskel can't help the small chuckle that falls from his lips.
"Something wrong, wolf?"
"I lost a stitch a couple of rows back," Geralt mutters moodily, "now one side is all crooked."
"You've been working on that for days now. Maybe your eyes need a break."
"Hm." Geralt undoes ten rows worth of stitches like it's nothing, but the sight makes Eskel's heart clench at how much work and time have gone to waste. Geralt was always a perfectionist, always so hard on himself and not tolerating even the slightest mistake. "There's a snowstorm incoming. These need to be ready by then."
Eskel sits down next to Geralt and takes a closer look at the socks. They're too large to be intended for Ciri, unless Geralt grossly overestimated the size of the child's feet. Considering the amount of concentration and care Geralt has demonstrated while working on this project, it seems unlikely that he would get something as trivial as measurements wrong. The socks look large enough to fit a grown man - or indeed, a grown witcher's - feet.
"Are these for you?"
"No."
Eskel leans against Geralt and places a greeting kiss on his cheek. Geralt acknowledges it by briefly pressing their foreheads together in a tender gesture, before returning his attention back to his knitting.
"Who are they for?"
"You're like a dog with a bone, aren't you?" Geralt grouses half-heartedly.
"I'm curious. If they're not for you, and they're clearly not for Ciri-"
"Why clearly not for her?" Geralt interjects easily as a way to deflect from the topic of conversation. "You're not the only one who can use their artistic skills to give my daughter gifts."
"She's the wolf cub of Kaer Morhen. She's a daughter to all of us, of sorts." Eskel presses another series of featherlight kisses down the length of Geralt's neck, trying to distract him from his task and shower Eskel with the attention he so craves. "Besides, unless the princess has flippers for feet, these socks will be far too big for her."
"Hm. Observant."
"Don't you know it? Know something else I observed?" Eskel buries his face in the crook of Geralt's neck, biting down on the sensitive skin where throat and clavicle meet. The action pulls a breathless gasp from Geralt.
"What's that?"
"You, not paying attention to me." Eskel gently moves the fabric of Geralt's shirt aside to reveal a muscular shoulder. Scarred lips continue to explore every inch of skin Eskel uncovers like it's the first time he's discovering Geralt's body.
“Woe is you.” Geralt tilts his head slightly to one side, giving Eskel access to the expanse of skin. “What shall I do with you, hm?”
“Stop knitting socks for your imaginary friend and join me in the hot springs,” Eskel suggests in his sultry baritone, knowing full well that this register could get Geralt to drop everything in a heartbeat to follow Eskel to the ends of the world. “Lambert’s stolen all my warm clothes and I need someone to keep me warm tonight.”
“Lambert stole your clothes?” Geralt asks, his frown returning with a force. “Why?”
“His got lost on the way up,” Eskel punctuates each word with a kiss to Geralt’s neck, then his jaw, then his cheek and nose, “so I told him he could have mine so I didn’t have to hear him whining about it for the next decade or two.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You get cold in winter, too!” Geralt states matter-of-factly, concern lacing the otherwise monotonous tone. Eskel offers a fond smile in response before leaning in to capture Geralt’s lips in a tender kiss.
“I’ve got you, wolf. You’ll keep me warm, I’m sure.”
Geralt huffs, reluctantly surrendering to Eskel’s soft ministrations and finally putting his knitting away. Eskel takes this as an invitation to deepen their kiss and fall back onto the soft mattress, pulling Geralt with him until the other witcher is resting on top of Eskel. Eager hands travel down the length of Geralt’s spine, the touch featherlight, pulling a pleasant shiver from Geralt. Eskel smirks into the kiss.
“See? I feel warm already.”
“Hm.”
“And I haven’t heard Lambert complain about the cold, so I assume he helped himself to my clothes.”
“Or to your hooch,” Geralt jokes, earning himself a pointed eyeroll from Eskel.
“So long ‘s he’s got the decency not to sneak some of it to Ciri.” A warm chuckle tumbles past Eskel’s lips when Geralt’s eyes widen in sheer terror. “It’s a joke, wolf. Lambert would never share his hooch with anyone.”
“He’s a menace.”
“Pot, kettle?” Eskel laughs when Geralt slaps his shoulder in reprimand. “What? You’re just as bad as he is.”
“The gall you have! And to think that I’ve spent nearly two weeks knitting you those stupid socks, and that’s how you repay me?”
Geralt realises his mistake too late. A big, fat grin appears on Eskel’s lips as he takes in the sight of Geralt, blushing and averting his eyes, ashamed at the thought of being exposed as the biggest sap in history. Eskel has half a mind to mention this to Dandelion the next time he meets the bard. Dandelion would pay a pretty penny for that kind of exclusive information. Eskel can picture the title of his next song already: The White Wolf Turned Lapdog has a certain ring to it.
“I know that look!” Geralt declares, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “And I don’t care for it. Get that thought out of your head, whatever it is you’re planning to do!”
“What if I was planning to nail you to the mattress?” Eskel raises a challenging eyebrow, but the effect is lost on Geralt when Eskel is unable to bite back his giddy smile.
“This isn’t your ‘I’m about to nail you to the mattress’ face. This is your ‘I have a plan and I’m up to no good’ face.”
“So paranoid!” Eskel remarks, puckering his lips in a silent demand for another kiss, which Geralt cruelly denies him. Eskel pouts in retaliation, his eyes widening pleadingly when Geralt refuses to grant him his wish. “Mean!”
“I swear to any god who happens to be listening. If you breathe a word of this to Dandelion-”
“Now, why would I be doing that?”
“To spite me!” Geralt sounds so convinced that Eskel is capable of such a hateful deed, it almost hurts. Almost hurts… after all, that’s exactly what Eskel had planned until Geralt guessed his intentions with childlike ease. Perhaps Eskel is a tad more predictable than he cares to admit.
“You’re no fun!”
“I knew it!”
“That you’re no fun?”
“That you were planning something, you rat!” Geralt heaves a long-suffering sigh as he fondly shakes his head at Eskel’s expense. “What to do with you, what to do…”
“I can think of a few things,” Eskel thrusts his hips upward for emphasis, pulling a startled yelp from Geralt, “all of which involve me showing my gratitude for trying to keep me warm by knitting me socks.”
“Oh yeah? How would you do that?”
Eskel’s grin grows bigger, more feral, as he pulls Geralt closer to him and whispers all the dirty things he wants to do to him during the course of one evening, conscious of innocent hears (and not so innocent ones) potentially overhearing their private conversation. Over the course of that winter, Eskel is seen in a wide variety of knitted wear, ranging from socks to mittens, to scarves and woolly hats. When spring comes, Eskel hides Geralt’s creations in a trunk at the foot of their bed, a place where he knows they won’t get damaged or stolen. And if the following winter Eskel returns to the keep with ample supplies of wool and knitting needles to gift Geralt in the hope that he will knit Eskel a jumper, then that’s no one’s business but his own.