Chapter Text
Eskel shifts around in his seat, trying to find a comfortable way to sit in the modern minimalist monstrosity. He fails, but it might just be the lights, and very possibly the cameras, that make him feel like he’s sitting on pins and needles instead of molded plastic.
“Tell us a little about what you’re looking for in a romantic partner,” the producer says.
“Well. I guess I’m just looking for someone who loves me for who I am,” Eskel says. He fidgets with the expensive suit coat they’ve given him. “I mean, isn’t everybody?”
The producer gestures for him to continue. They’re going to make him say it.
“I was in an accident as a teenager.” Eskel can’t help turning the scarred half of his face away from the camera. And towards the second camera they set up at that exact angle. This was a terrible idea; he’s going to kill Lambert for talking him into it. “With my face looking like this...I just want someone to see me, and not my scars. And I think the only way they’re going to be able to do that is if they can’t see me at all.”
“Perfect,” the producer says. “We’ll finish the interviews, and then the pods will be open.”
*
Geralt narrows his eyes and stares silently into the camera.
“Geralt?” the producer says. “Surely you have some thoughts or feelings about this experiment? Is love really blind, what do you think?”
He thinks he’s going to kill Jaskier. He was dropping the musician off for the show’s casting interviews when the show execs spotted him, but he’d have been immune to their efforts to recruit him if not for Jaskier. The musician appealed to a cause close to Geralt’s heart: representation. The media treats people with albinism as freakshow oddities, villains, or it doesn’t include them at all, and here was an opportunity to correct that.
He’s not here because maybe, just maybe, if someone gets to know Geralt as a person and not a genetic anomaly, the relationship will have a chance. That’s too much to hope for.
“Geralt?” the producer prompts.
“Love,” Geralt grinds out, hating the way the word rasps revealingly. “I don’t know if it’s blind or not. But I fucking hope it is, because I haven’t had much luck when people can see—” he snaps his teeth shut on the rest of that thought.
“Perfect,” the producer says. “Line up with the others, you were the last to finish.”
*
Eskel shuts the door to the ‘pod’ behind him and collapses onto the couch in the middle of the little room with a sigh. He has gone through ten of these identical, dimly lit cells now, in the world’s weirdest version of speed dating.
Whoever waits on the other side of this, the tenth wall of blue opaque glass, doesn’t speak. Eskel takes a moment to scrub his face with his hands and gather his thoughts.
He doesn’t have many to gather.
“This is fucking awkward, isn’t it?” he blurts out.
He hears a snort from the other side of the glass. It lifts his flagging spirits a little.
“Suppose we should get to it,” Eskel says eventually, when no further communication from his mystery ‘date’ is forthcoming. “The get-to-know-you stuff. Name, age, place of birth...”
“…social security number. It’s identity theft bingo.” The man’s quiet, rasping voice drips sarcasm.
Eskel can only blink for a second. Then a laugh explodes from his chest as if punched out, drowning out what sounds like the start of an apology. He slumps back onto the couch, still chuckling.
“You’re funny,” Eskel tells the stranger. Ten ‘dates’ in, and this is the first sarcastic sense of humor he’s encountered.
“Hmm,” the stranger says.
The scarred side of Eskel’s mouth tries to smile at that disbelieving sound, but he gets it under control.
“We could skip the bullshit questions,” Eskel suggests.
“And do what? Stare quietly at the tastefully boring decor for the next 10 minutes?”
Eskel can’t see the other man, obviously, and his voice is not particularly expressive. Still. Eskel might be projecting, but he sounds as tired and strained as Eskel is.
“That sounds ok to me,” Eskel says. “Still have to make it through the rest of the night, after all.”
“Ugh,” the other man says with feeling.
Eskel gets it. His half of the participants are segregated from the other half, but there are still fourteen of them, young, handsome, fit, and abrasive about all of the above. There will be gossiping, and posturing, and drinking tonight, on top of the rest of this horribly stressful day.
When the other man doesn’t add anything, Eskel doesn’t break the silence. It perhaps should be awkward, sitting with a silent stranger in another room for company, but it isn’t. He finds himself slipping into a doze, the day’s turmoil receding.
The chime that indicates their time is up comes all too soon.
“Pleasure sitting silently with you,” Eskel says as he stands up. He hopes the stranger can tell he means it.
“Likewise,” the other man says. “Really.”
Eskel smiles as he exits the pod.
Later, tossing back shots with the others around a pool table, he listens as they compare notes. He doesn’t have much to add, especially when they unanimously agree that pod 10 was the worst.
“What kind of name is ‘Geralt’, anyway?” one of them, a short, hairy man named Valdo asks. “And what the fuck is he doing here? I mean, he came on a show where you fall in love by talking, and then doesn’t talk.”
“He’s just shy,” Yennefer says, tossing her mane over her shoulder. “The quiet ones are always the kinkiest.”
Lambert scoffs. “Shy? He seemed emotionally constipated. You couldn’t pay me to be with that guy. Probably be like fucking a brick wall.”
Eskel elbows him hard in the ribs because Lambert is his stepbrother and also an asshole, and it’s his responsibility to keep him at least a little in check. “Don’t be mean.”
Later, Eskel falls to sleep to the sound of another round of shots happening in the living room. Lambert has somehow smuggled in some of his own pepper vodka, and Eskel knows better than to touch that stuff. As he listens to the others gagging and Lambert cackling, he turns the quiet stranger’s name over in his mind.
Geralt.
It’s stupid to have a crush based on one sarcastic remark and a kinda strange name. That doesn’t stop Eskel from doing it.
*
The next day Geralt tries, with varying degrees of success, not to be rude to the participants on the other side of the glass. He came on this show to represent people with albinism, and at this rate he’s in danger of convincing the world that being an asshole is a comorbidity with pale skin and bad eyesight.
His tenth suitor, the only one who hadn’t made Geralt want to pull out his hair yesterday, finally arrives.
Geralt releases a huge breath in relief. It’s probably too much to ask that he’ll want to just sit quietly again, but Geralt’s still hopeful. Talking, or rather not talking, to this man is the only part of this whole horrible experience he has enjoyed. It may or may not be the only reason he hasn’t just left already.
“Hello?” the man says. “I’m your silent lurker from yesterday.”
“Thank God,” Geralt says fervently. He shoves himself off the couch and begins to pace, tearing off the restrictive suit jacket they’ve got him in.
“You okay?”
Geralt growls in response, then forces himself to be verbal. “Half of them want to talk about feelings, the other half are trying with absolutely no subtlety to get me to describe myself.”
“Not sure if it helps, but it’s pretty much the same thing from this side of the wall. Except for this one guy, he mostly talks about music. Barely stops to breathe. Not sure if it’s a nervous tick or what.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes. “No, he’s always like that.”
“You know him?”
“Met on the set of a music video a couple of years ago.” Geralt waves his hand to dismiss the musician, then winces when he realizes the other man can’t see him. He had no idea so much of his communication was non-verbal until this stupid ‘love experiment’.
“Are you a musician too?”
“Stunt coordinator.” Geralt realizes he has practically snarled that out. Which isn’t fair, it’s not this guy’s fault he’s answered that question at least 20 times in two days. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m not going to be a brilliant conversationalist today. Or ever. But definitely not here, like this.”
“Yeah,” the other man says. “I know I signed up for this, but it feels kind of exploitative.”
Geralt hums in agreement.
“And manipulative,” the man adds. “I mean, it’s not like I’m actually going to get away with this whole ‘love is blind’ thing. I have to tell people what I look like—”
“No,” Geralt says. “You don’t.”
“You don’t think it matters? What if two people get along, but aren’t attracted to each other? What if one of them is…really ugly?”
Geralt frowns, bothered by the implication that the other man thinks of himself that way. “Attraction is important. But it’s more than—than skin level stuff.” Geralt looks down at his pale forearms. Like most of his exposed skin, his arms are covered in an archipelago of freckles so thick they’re coming together into landmasses. “I’m not going to tell you what I look like.”
“Okay. You don’t have to.”
Geralt runs his hands over his hair, trying to corral the bits that have come loose from his ponytail. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for. I guess that’s sorta the point, yeah? To fall in love without the physical stuff? Just gotta trust the process, maybe.”
“Yeah.” Swallowing hard, Geralt sits down again. He tries to find some words for the other man, who is handling his completely unprovoked freak out with more grace than Geralt ever has ever had, and comes up empty.
“My name is Eskel,” the man volunteers. “And you’re Geralt.”
“Yeah,” Geralt says, snorting at himself. Poor Eskel even has to do both parts of the introduction. “I’m sorry, Eskel. Wish I was better at this.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Eskel says. “You don’t have to talk. Do you want me to be quiet too?”
Geralt considers. The man has a nice voice, and hasn’t asked for much, really, from Geralt. It might be nice to hear him talk.
“No, you don’t have to be quiet,” he finally says, and it feels like a confession. “You also don’t have to talk.”
Geralt’s pretty sure he can hear a smile in Eskel’s voice when he answers “Thanks. Want to hear about my goats?”
The startled affirmative noise Geralt produces is enough for Eskel, who launches into the rambling story of how he came to be the proud owner of a dozen rescue goats. He stays for a while after the chime since they are lucky enough to be each other’s last dates of the day.
After Eskel says goodbye, Geralt has to force himself to leave the pod and go back to the drama of the shared living spaces. In the end, it’s the bizarre urge to shower and clean up before the next time he ‘sees’ Eskel that gets him moving.
*
Trusting the process is harder than Eskel thought it would be. The producers set him up on two dates later that night, when they’ve all showered and changed to yet another forgettable wardrobe, this one all gray-toned lounge wear. At least it’s more comfortable than the suit.
But all the participants have noticed that sometimes these dates are less about compatibility and more about drama, so it’s hard to truly relax. He’s supposed to talk to Jaskier and Geralt, which is troubling, mostly because those are the two people he has actually gotten along with.
The date with Jaskier goes well, which makes Eskel even more nervous. The musician talks his ear off, his voice moving around on the other side of the wall as he paces. Eskel doesn’t get a word in edgewise, and doesn’t try, but the man is nice enough. He’s the sort of guy Eskel would probably hang out with, someone with a big distracting personality to take the attention off Eskel.
He’s not the kind of guy Eskel would date.
But his ‘date’ with Jaskier did go well, so does that mean he’s done something to offend Geralt? Are the producers trying to set up some sort of awful love triangle?
“Hey,” Eskel says, sitting on the floor in front of the couch.
Geralt’s voice answers immediately from the other side of the glass. “Hey.”
“Listen, sorry about all the goat stories. My brother says I talk about goats an unhealthy amount. But they’re like my family, which sounds pretty weird too now that I’ve said it out loud. I shouldn’t have said that.” Eskel bites his lip and picks at his scars, then remembers the cameras and stops.
“It’s ok. My horse is my family too,” Geralt says.
Eskel’s cheek twinges painfully as his scars contort. He realizes he’s smiling, not just his usual cautious half smile, but a real one that stretches across his whole face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Geralt says. “Her name is Roach, like the fish.”
“Is she gray?”
“No, she’s a bay. Common as muck, but feisty as hell.”
“I’ve got a couple of rescue horses myself,” Eskel says. “Where’d you get her?”
And that’s all it takes. Geralt, it turns out, can talk about horses and his family’s ranch with the same enthusiasm that Eskel has for goats. They talk for over an hour that feels like a few minutes, the conversation naturally segueing into stories about riding bareback through streams, and Lambert’s experiments with distillery, and their shared propensity for rescuing animals.
Eskel yawns mid-sentence. He’s tired, but it’s a warm tired, like laying in a hammock in the sun after a full meal.
“I’d like to see you again,” Geralt says.
“You’ve never seen me,” Eskel reminds him, not quite keeping the sadness out his voice.
“Still.”
“Me too.”
*
Time passes strangely in this weird alternate reality. Geralt spends much of his time lounging around in common areas listening with half an ear to the truly epic amount of gossip Jaskier can spread, and the rest of it in ‘dates’.
Some are complete disasters.
Eskel talks about his brother Lambert with deep affection, but he must be an acquired taste. One Geralt never intends to acquire.
They pair him with Yennefer fairly often at first, probably because Geralt can’t help but be a little attracted to her blunt confidence, but Geralt makes his preference for Eskel clear. Yennefer is the type of woman he’s been dating, and getting dumped by, his whole life. He’s ready to try something different.
He and Eskel talk about everything.
Well. Eskel talks about everything. Geralt, to his surprise, talks too, but Eskel does the heavy lifting in their conversations. Eskel makes it easy for Geralt to relax, to sprawl out on the floor in front of the couch and hum and laugh at Eskel’s misadventures with all the animals he has rescued. He makes it easy for Geralt to talk, too, when he wants to, mostly about the stars and starlets he’s tried to teach how to wield a sword for entertainment purposes. Every now and then, something sadder and more real slips in, about how hard it is to do everything alone in a world built for two, how empty his little LA flat feels. And Eskel listens, and Geralt thinks he might even get it.
Their talks eventually turn to real relationship stuff, and Geralt realizes for the first time that they’re doing this. He’s dating a man he’s never seen, through a wall, on camera. And it has been so damn easy.
It’s almost enough to stun him into silence.
But not quite. Eskel is waiting for a response. About how many kids Geralt wants, because yeah, that’s what they’re fucking talking about now.
“Didn’t have the best childhood,” is all Geralt can get out. “Bounced around to a bunch of foster homes until I found a place that would put up with me.”
“I don’t believe that’s exactly how it happened, but that sucks.”
“Yeah. Think I’d like to have a family someday, but I’d want to adopt.”
“I love that,” Eskel says. “My parents divorced when I was twelve, but honestly, they should have divorced way before that. It was…it was bad. Don’t know if my model for long term relationships is worth a shit, honestly.”
“Same. We could maybe…” Geralt trails off. This is a lot. He’s known Eskel for four days, it’s not nearly enough time to form the sort of lasting attachment that good marriages are founded on. But what does Geralt know about good marriages? Eskel talks when Geralt can’t, and listens when Geralt can, and Geralt wants to try. “Maybe we could figure it out.”
Eskel is silent for so long, something in Geralt withers. “Maybe we could,” Eskel finally says. “I would like it if we could. But you won’t let me tell you what I look like.”
What they look like is the only topic Geralt has put a moratorium on. Because if Eskel extends that trust to him, Geralt will have to return it. He’ll have to describe his skin, which is translucent in the places it isn’t mottled with freckles, and his eyes, which twitch back and forth. It doesn’t bother him, he’s lived with mild nystagmus since birth, but he’s been told since he was a child how unnerving it is for others.
“I don’t care what you look like,” Geralt says.
“That’s easy to say now. You haven’t seen me.”
“And you haven’t seen me,” he practically snarls back.
There’s another pause, briefer. “Sounds like there’s a lot for both of us to unpack there.”
“Ugh, feelings,” Geralt says.
Eskel chuckles at him. “Feelings are the worst. I’m having a lot of them these days.”
“Me too,” Geralt says. “Me too.”
They go their separate ways for the night not long after that, wishing each other pleasant dreams, and then Geralt wishing Eskel dirty dreams just to startle a laugh out of the other man. Whatever is on Geralt’s face when he walks into the living room makes Jaskier squeal and clap his hands as he scrambles over the back of the couch to slam into Geralt in a messy hug.
“Details, darling, I require details!” Jaskier says, as he lets go.
“I think I could love him,” Geralt says. “And it’s fucking terrifying.”
“Isn’t it always?” Jaskier muses as he tows Geralt over to the bar. “I don’t know if love is blind or not, but it is definitely terrifying.”