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Everyone has a soulmate, even the witchers. The instructors say they can’t find them, and if they do, to run fast and far in the opposite direction. Witchers aren’t allowed to settle down, to love others. After all, witchers don’t have feelings, and it would be meaningless to pursue something as trivial and hindering as love.
Geralt runs his index finger over the soulmark embedded on his wrist. A pretty, yellow dandelion stains his pale skin, and Geralt scowls at the sight of it. This symbol stands for the person Geralt is supposed to love, but he never respected fate or destiny like people claim he should. After all, fate and destiny brought him here, to Kaer Morhen, to live a childhood of torture as they forced him into someone - something - inhuman. Geralt scoffs at the mark. This life does not know him, and it does not get to choose who he loves.
Glancing up, Geralt spots his true love standing across from him, shedding his clothes as he readies himself for sleep. Amongst the scars lining the tan skin, Geralt can make out the small marigold near his left shoulder blade. Geralt’s scowl deepens. Their marks do not match, and it irritates him more than words can ever explain. He hates that some other being gets to decide who Geralt loves. Except that they don’t because Geralt has met the person who shares his soulmark. While Geralt does love Jaskier, he doesn’t love him the same way he loves the man in front of him, and he doesn’t think he ever will.
Jaskier is not Eskel.
At that moment, Eskel turns around, likely having felt Geralt’s eyes on him. He levels Geralt with a soft smile that settles deep in Geralt’s chest, warming him more than the fire burning in their room’s hearth ever could. Geralt lets his arm drop, eyes no longer lingering on the soulmark tainting his wrist. Eskel walks over to him, bare as the day he was born, but then again, Geralt is, too. Meeting Eskel’s smile with a gentle one of his own, he props up against the headboard, allowing Eskel to climb over his lap, his legs kneeling on either side of Geralt’s thighs. Eskel sits back, and Geralt lets his hands run over Eskel’s hips as his lover dips his head down, capturing Geralt’s lips in a sweet kiss.
Geralt all but melts in Eskel’s embrace, losing himself in the heat of the moment as Eskel brings his hands to cup the sides of Geralt’s jaw gently, almost reverent. Without thought, Geralt’s hands make their way up, sliding across naked skin and raised scars until he can trace the shape of the marigold he has memorized. Eskel hums into their kiss, pulling away just enough to rest his forehead against Geralt’s.
“I was wonderin’ what was botherin’ you, wolf,” Eskel murmurs into the pocket of air between them, his rough baritone voice breaking the fragile silence.
Shame blossoms in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. They’ve had this conversation a million times. It’s always the same.
“I hate soulmarks,” Geralt whispers, moving his head away from Eskel’s to rest on his lover’s shoulder.
Eskel chuckles softly, letting one hand drift upwards to card through Geralt’s hair. Geralt gives a contented purr at the tender motion, wrapping his arms more fully around Eskel’s middle and sinking against the other witcher like they could meld with each other here and now. What Geralt would give to stay by Eskel’s side forever.
“I’ve only heard it every day since we were kids, Geralt,” Eskel huffs in amusement, and Geralt can hear the smile in his tone. Geralt regrets turning away and burying his face in Eskel’s shoulder. He wants to see that smile. He wants to see it every day until they go to their graves, and even then, it’ll be the first thing Geralt searches for in the afterlife.
“Maybe one more time will drill into your mind,” Geralt grumbles, but he doesn’t mean the anger that cuts in. Well, he does, but not at Eskel. Truthfully, Geralt hates the world for putting them through this, as if they haven’t been through enough, as if they needed something else to make them suffer.
With a heavy sigh, Eskel pulls away, pushing Geralt back until they sit face to face. Amber eyes meet amber, but Geralt remembers a time where it had been hazel meeting green. Geralt hardly remembers what his own green eyes had looked like, too infatuated with the honey-like colour of Eskel’s, but Eskel claims they used to shine like emeralds in the sun. If Geralt focuses hard enough, he can pretend he’s looking into those hazel eyes again, that their bodies aren’t marked with symbols that do not match.
“This is important to you, isn’t it?” Eskel asks, but the question is so rhetorical that Geralt doesn’t bother with responding with a clear answer.
“Is it not important to you?”
Eskel replies without hesitation. “Not in the slightest. Over a century, Geralt. We’ve loved each other for that long, way before you met Jaskier and before I met Triss. The marks don’t mean a damn thing. They’re just like the other scars on us. They simply exist.” Eskel chuckles under his breath. “And if we’re being honest, I can’t stand Triss.”
That evokes a laugh from Geralt, and he can see how Eskel delights in it. His lover beams at him, softening at the sight of Geralt’s endeared smile. Eskel brushes a stray hair away from Geralt’s face and tucks it behind his ear. After a moment, Eskel clicks his tongue.
“Wait here.”
As if Geralt would go anywhere. Going elsewhere means missing out on the great view he’s blessed with as Eskel climbs off the bed, making his way to his desk unclothed and exposing himself when he bends down to open the bottom drawer. Geralt watches with half-lidded eyes, humming in appreciation at the sight. Eskel sends him a deadpan glare over his shoulder, but Geralt can recognize the fondness in Eskel’s expression. When he stands up again, Geralt notices the several ink jars and brushes in his hands. Each jar of ink is a different colour and the brushes vary in size. Geralt frowns. How Eskel can afford coloured ink is beyond him, but he doesn’t question it.
Eskel must see the question anyway because he says, “Bought these a while back when I came into a lot of coin. Never ended up usin’ them ‘cause I thought they looked too nice. Didn’t wanna waste it on somethin’ trivial.”
Geralt snorts. “So what was the point?”
“To be able to use them now.”
Eskel slips back onto the bed, dumping the jars and brushes onto the mattress. He looks over them for a moment, then picks up a thin brush and a jar of yellow ink. Holding both in one hand, Eskel uses the other to lift Geralt’s wrist, turning it over until he can see the cursed dandelion engraved in Geralt’s skin.
“Obviously we can’t use just any colour because it’ll peek through, but I can come up with somethin’,” Eskel muses, but his volume makes it sound like he’s talking more to himself than Geralt.
Furrowing his eyebrows, Geralt asks, “What are you talking about?”
Eskel doesn’t answer the question, humming softly and letting go of Geralt’s wrist. “Hold your arm up for me. And don’t move.”
Geralt complies without another word, too curious in Eskel’s plan to consider disobeying. He knows he won’t get a straight answer from Eskel yet, so he settles against the headboard, closes his eyes, and lets his lover do as he so pleases. Eskel removes the lid of the jar, and Geralt can make out the sounds of him dipping the brush into the ink. Not long after, a cold and wet sensation runs down Geralt’s wrist, and if it weren’t for the telltale noises and years of self-control, Geralt probably would have jumped out of his skin. Instead, he cracks them open and watches as Eskel draws a yellow circle that completely envelops the dandelion. The yellow ink nearly matches the same colour as Geralt’s mark, so he can just barely make out the original design. Transfixed, Geralt’s eyes follow Eskel’s movements as the other witcher fills in the circle and then starts to make odd wave-like shapes on the outskirts of the circle.
“What are you making?” Geralt murmurs. With every stroke of the paintbrush, more and more of Geralt’s mark disappears, almost to the point of invisibility. For once, Geralt can look at his wrist and no longer see the symbol of his hatred towards fate. His heart lightens, lungs constricting as he realizes Eskel’s intention.
He’s marking Geralt.
“A sun,” Eskel answers simply, too focused on the task at hand. He must have figured Geralt understands the purpose behind his actions because he doesn’t explain. Rather, he says, “You remind me of it.”
“Some would say the moon.”
“Some don’t understand that you’re much brighter than the moon. Some people are shallow like that.”
Geralt purses his lips, and a part of him feels almost disappointed when Eskel finishes his drawing. Eskel lifts the brush away and sets it on their bedside table, careful not to stain the wood with ink. Leaning back, Eskel admires his work for a moment, smiling to himself before lowering his head to place a kiss above the new mark, right on Geralt’s palm.
“There,” he whispers. “That better?”
Swallowing thickly, Geralt nods. “Much,” he murmurs. He so badly wants to run his fingers over the mark, to feel it there and how it melds with his skin, but he knows this isn’t permanent. It won’t last forever, probably won’t even last the night, but Geralt allows himself to hope just this once that this mark is real.
Eskel places a hand on Geralt’s bare thigh, his palm so much warmer than Geralt’s skin. He squeezes gently. “I know someone in Velen. They specialize in permanent inking. And, well...they hate soulmarks just as much as we do.”
Geralt looks up, his eyes searching Eskel’s. For as much as he allows himself to hope, it’s possible to have too much of a good thing, and what Eskel is implying sounds far too good to be true. “What are you saying?”
With a shrug, Eskel rubs his thumb over the inside of Geralt’s thigh and offers, “If you want, we can travel down to their shop. It’s a little on the illegal side, but in some places, so are we.” Eskel gives a wry grin before continuing, “Why don’t we go? We can get this-” Eskel gestures to the sun on Geralt’s wrist - “permanently stained over your mark. Their ink is much better than mine. You can barely see the mark now; I bet you won’t be able to see it at all after they’re done.”
That sounds better than Geralt can ever put into words. He bites his lip, looking at the bright yellow sun covering the dreaded dandelion. He likes Jaskier - truly, he is a good friend - but he is not Eskel, and he wants Eskel’s symbol to mark him for the rest of his life.
“What about yours?” Geralt points out, the image of Eskel’s marigold sitting in the forefront of his mind.
Eskel huffs a breath of laughter. “That’s what these jars of ink are for.” He waves his hand over the several colours on the bed. “You can paint whatever you want, get a feel for the mark you want to put on me. Doesn’t have to be a sun. We don’t have to match like other soulmates do. Just something to remind us of who we truly belong to.”
Geralt can’t say he’s heard of a better plan than that. He wants it. He wants it more than his lungs crave air, more than his heart needs blood. He wants to cross that line, to defy everyone’s expectations of soulmates and move on with the love of his own choosing. He wants to make Eskel his like how he belongs to Eskel. That’s all Geralt has ever wanted, and now he can have it.
“I want to,” Geralt whispers. “I really want to.”
Eskel nods. “Then we’ll go. Right after the snow melts. We’ll head straight to Velen.” Eskel brings his hand from Geralt’s thigh and gently cradles Geralt’s jaw. He brushes a thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone and places a soft kiss on Geralt’s lips. “I don’t give a damn if our marks match, Geralt. I don’t love Triss. I love you, and a mark isn’t going to change that.”
“I know,” Geralt admits, keeping his voice quiet, “but I still want to share this with you.”
“I get that, so we will. We’ll get our marks changed. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”