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He meets Geralt on the outskirts of Eysenlaan by chance — though with the deck stacked in their favour, of course — at the start of the trail that will take Eskel to his next contract. Geralt is unhurried in his approach, thinner than he should be but not drawn, gaze easy and shoulders as relaxed as they ever get outside of Kaer Morhen.
He comes to a stop about a pace away from Eskel, a smirk on his lips that’s almost imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him well. Bone-deep relief seeps into Eskel at the confirmation that Geralt is whole, hale, and in a surprisingly good mood.
He swallows until he is sure his voice won’t betray him. There’s a ritual to this, and who is he to break with tradition?
And so he drawls, “Fancy seeing you here,” voice lazy and face even.
“Hm,” Geralt says, hands flexing at his side. “Contract in the hills.”
It’s the dry delivery that makes Eskel’s smile break through. Calling the mountains rising behind him ‘the hills’ is an understatement, and yet exactly what he’d expect from the people inhabiting the small mountain town at Geralt’s back. Of course Geralt would adopt their term for it.
“What a coincidence,” he says, “that I, too, am headed there to take care of a small issue.”
Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile.
It’s only half the truth, of course, and they both know it; they’d agreed at the end of the winter to meet up in Rivia a fortnight and a half past the solstice, so meeting him here is no true surprise. It is coincidence though that they’re on the same contract, as far as Eskel can tell. A happy coincidence, even though Geralt looks like he could use the gold.
… Who is he kidding; Eskel probably can haggle the price to twice that what Geralt would take in payment. Geralt is many things, and too soft for his own good is definitely among them. It’s kind of adorable, even though Eskel wishes he would look out for himself a little more.
“Could go together,” Geralt suggests, and then he’s grinning properly, crinkled eyes and too many teeth and all. It’s a rare treat, to get to see this, and so Eskel tucks it away with all the similar smiles he’s gotten over the years.
“It’s a date,” he says before he can lose himself in the expression.
He can’t tell who moves in first, though it doesn’t matter, in the end. They crash into each other hard enough to be felt through the armour, and something inside Eskel relaxes as buries his nose in Geralt’s neck and inhales the familiar scent of leather and horse and faint traces of potions and monster guts, and, underneath it all, something that is inherently Geralt.
For all that Geralt is a lot slimmer than Eskel would like at this point in the year, he squeezes back just as tightly.
“It is good to see you,” he tells Geralt again, all traces of jesting gone from his voice. Geralt hums in agreement and then carefully pulls back a couple of inches. This close, Eskel can’t help but notice a handful new scars littering Geralt’s face, some of them faint enough that they will have faded entirely by the time they reconvene at Kaer Morhen, but one or two deep enough that they will stay.
He gently brushes his thumb over each of them in turn with no regard to whether they are permanent or not, and is rewarded with the mildest hitch in Geralt’s breath. His eyes are dark and heated like molten gold when Eskel meets them again, and then Geralt’s gloved hand slides into Eskel’s hair and pulls him into a shockingly gentle kiss.
“Missed you, too,” Geralt rumbles, and then buries his face back in Eskel’s neck like he can’t get enough of him.
Eskel runs his hand through Geralt’s hair — which gets him a happy rumble — and presses chaste kisses into the bared skin of Geralt’s throat, of the soft place below his ear, the slope of his jaw. In his arms, Geralt trembles.
“We should take care of the contract,” Eskel murmurs with a kiss to the shell of Geralt’s ear.
Geralt hums in displeased agreement, which makes Eskel chuckle.
“We’ll have all the time we could want, afterwards, Wolf.”
This, again, is only half the truth, and Geralt’s snort tells Eskel exactly what he thinks about that.
“Well,” he amends, “enough time to have some fun before you get too guilty over not being on the Path.”
“Hm,” Geralt says. It’s neither denial nor confirmation, but he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin just above the jut of Eskel’s clavicle. Eskel draws in a hissing breath and almost, almost gives in. But they do have a contract, and even though Geralt now would postpone it without issue, Eskel knows he’d get grumpy later. And he’d rather not have a grumpy Geralt for the few days during the warmer seasons where they get to see each other.
“Come,” Eskel says as he disentangles himself from Geralt, who comes pliantly enough. “I have provisions with Scorpion; we can share a meal and then set off.”
Geralt, to his credit, doesn’t protest - it would be futile, though that doesn’t always deter him.
Eskel had planned to stock up on his provisions a little more before meeting up with Geralt, well aware that Geralt doesn’t take contracts because they pay well. It’s part of the reason he pushed so hard, in the beginning, to have the two of them meet up at least once outside of Kaer Morhen. It had taken some convincing; if he’d known then how easily Geralt could be enticed with the promise of sex and cuddles with Eskel, it probably would have been much easier.
They fall into step side by side as they make their way back into Eysenlaan proper where Eskel left Scorpion tied to a post when he set off towards the mountains. The trail looks deceptively easy, but the townspeople had warned him against attempting the trek with a mount.
Geralt keeps glancing at him from time to time like he’s had an idea and is trying to gauge Eskel’s interest without actually speaking out loud. Last Eskel checked, Geralt hadn’t yet mastered mind reading, so he’s curious how long it will take Geralt to just come out and ask.
The answer, it turns out, is until they get to the horses, because of course Geralt has tied Roach adjacent to Scorpion.
“The apothecary said the hills have a stunning lake that’s worth a visit,” he finally says, fussing with Roach’s saddle even though it’s already neater than Scorpion’s. He sneaks a glance at Eskel, the hint of a smile written in the curve of his lips. “Might be nice to have lunch there.”
Eskel looks at him consideringly and quickly does the maths in his head. “I’ll do you one better,” he says, “lunch’s on me, and we’ll do supper by the lake.”
Geralt’s nostrils flare. “Fine. Next one’s on me.” The smile is definitely lurking now.
Eskel raises his eyebrow at him. “With the gold from a contract that should have been mine?”
Geralt tilts his head at him before he turns towards the stink of food and ale and piss — a familiar if unpleasant combination of smells that works better than any sort of signpost. “Still yours,” he says. “My contract’s for a single griffin, but from the descriptions and cries…” He trails off and shrugs meaningfully.
“Probably a mated pair,” Eskel agrees. He hadn’t been looking forward to taking them on on his own, which was why he’d stopped at the foot of the mountains as soon as he’d gotten the whiff of Witcher on the breeze. He’d been relieved even before Geralt had come closer enough for his unique scent to become recognisable.
Geralt inclines his head and pulls open the door to the tavern, gesturing for Eskel to enter before him.
“What a gentleman,” Eskel says, low enough that only Witcher ears can pick up on it.
He hears Geralt shift behind him. Without looking, Eskel knows that the backs of his ears must be flaming red.
The taproom is mostly empty; an older man already deep in his cups sits near the entrance and a young couple by one of the windows. They choose a table near the back with a good line of sight towards the entrance, sitting side by side so they can both keep an eye on it. Old habits, and such.
Lunch goes by without issue, which is always a pleasant surprise. It probably shouldn’t be, in this case; the town is a miner’s town, and the dwarven population is accordingly higher than in most cities on the Continent.
After lunch, they split up briefly. Geralt takes the horses to a stable since they almost certainly won’t be back by nightfall, while Eskel picks up a couple of things he’d rather not miss. The reconvene at the edge of the town with the sun still shy of its zenith, shuffle belongings until they both have packs roughly even in size, and then set off into the mountains.
It’s an easy journey, for the most part, spent in companionable quiet. There will be time to share stories from the Path later, to compare scars and trade warnings of towns that have turned even more hostile since they last visited. But that is for after their contract.
Mated griffins — nesting ones, if they’re unlucky, though it’s early enough in their mating season that they might not yet be — can be aggressive, and so they both keep an ear pricked for signs of an approaching attack.
It’s a good thing they do. They’ve just reached a little pass, littered with smoothed stones that speak of torrents of melting water, when there’s a cry overhead, close enough to raise the hairs on Eskel’s neck.
As one, they set down their packs and reach for their potions, not yet uncapping them but keeping them ready. It’s not an ideal location, this pass, but Eskel can’t see a better one within easy reach, so they’ll have to make do. He’s fought in worse places, both with and without Geralt. It’ll work.
Another cry, and their eyes meet. Eskel nods, picks the appropriate concoctions, and throws them back in quick succession. Some of it still lands on the back of his tongue and he grimaces.
They settle in his stomach heavily for a moment before they kick in and he feels them spreading outwards in a tingle. His whole world narrows down to his opponent with barely a tendril spared for Geralt, and then the beast flies within reach of his Aard and the fight is on.
With two Witchers, and especially ones as in-tune as Geralt and Eskel are, a mated pair of griffins isn’t the biggest challenge. Eskel wouldn’t call it easy — no fight is easy, and even thinking such is dangerous, because underestimating your opponent is a surefire way to cutting your life short — but it’s quick, and before long they’re harvesting proof of kill.
“What’s your opinion on griffin meat for dinner?” Eskel asks and starts on gutting the animal without waiting for Geralt’s answer.
Geralt grunts. “Would be a waste to leave it like this.”
They still pick the choicest bits only. Two grown griffins would be enough to feed the entirety of Kaer Morhen for at least two meals, never mind Geralt and Eskel by themselves, even if they take some of the meat to cure and smoke over night. Their pack space isn’t endless, and it’s not like it will actually go to waste; there’s at least one wolf pack in these mountains judging by the noises he heard while camping at the foot the day before, and the heavy flapping of wings in the distance suggests that the first scavengers are already in-bound.
With their bags much heavier, they start the descent from the pass into a lush valley, crowded with trees. The air smells green, for lack of a better description, the further down they get, like pine and tree sap and rotting leaves. Fainter, there’s also a smell that must be the lake, fresh and clean. Well, as clean as mostly standing waters ever really get. The number of herbs by the side of the trail also increase, and they spend a while picking up ingredients that are plentiful here and would cost them a pretty oren in a city.
It doesn’t take long for them to hear the promised lake, too. It must be spring fed, judging by the sounds, though probably on the far side. There’s a look of yearning on Geralt’s face, the expression more open than he lets himself be while they’re still near humans.
He shakes himself and heaves a heavy sigh. “Camp site first,” he says, voice laced with his lack of enthusiasm.
“And potions,” Eskel adds. The ingredients would probably keep a little longer, but the fresher they are, the better. Or so Lambert says, and both Eskel and Geralt can imagine his disappointed look too well to be sloppy with their brews.
“And potions,” Geralt agrees.
They find the lake proper before they find a good campsite. It really is stunning, a perfectly still surface that mirrors the trees growing right to the edge on the other side, stretching wide to either side of them.
“Don’t mistake the stars with their reflection in the pond,” Geralt says, tone contemplative and cadence suggesting he’s quoting something — or someone.
Eskel makes an inquiring noise. It seems to shake Geralt out of the weird mood he’s fallen into, and two blinks later, the hint of a smile is back on Geralt’s face. It doesn’t look happy, this time.
“Something I was told by… someone,” he says, and his tone makes it clear that it’s not something he wants to talk about.
Eskel could push. Could prod and ask and guess until Geralt shares what the quote means to him, who told him. He could, and Geralt would probably tell him, but… it’s not his business, and if Geralt doesn’t want to share, then Eskel can respect that.
He lets the silence sit for another minute or two. The scene is tranquil, the sort that makes you almost hesitant to break the quiet, but their packs are heavy and he would really like to replace the far-away look on Geralt’s face with something happier. Or hornier. He isn’t picky.
There’s a spot a little further along the shore that looks like it could work as a campsite, and once Geralt seems like he’s ready to move on, Eskel points it out.
It’s not directly by the shore but a good thirty or fourth paces back, which is good; there’s nothing on the air but weeks old smoke, nothing that suggests drowners or necrophages, but precautions never hurt. The forest tapers off towards it, meaning that anyone coming closer will be visible well ahead of time.
The spot has also clearly been used as a camp site before, with a fire pit lined with stone on one side and a latrine dug off at an almost acceptable distance to Witcher noses. There are also stakes driven into the ground to erect something like a tent if they had a tarp, which they don’t. Might be worth keeping in mind for the next time, though, idyllic as this spot is.
They put their packs down on a soft patch of grass and split off without a word. Eskel watches Geralt walk off to gather kindling and firewood and any herbs they can use, and then settles down next to the empty fire pit and gets started on preparing the ingredients for their potions.
He sinks into the familiar motions, paying just enough attention that Lambert wouldn’t disown him were he to watch, and is mostly done by the time Geralt reappears with his arm full of wood and smelling like a herb garden.
“Successful?” he asks and smiles.
Geralt hums in agreement as he drops the wood off on the other side of the fire pit and gets a fire started, and then comes over to kiss Eskel briefly.
“Wasn’t sure what you were short on,” he says and lays out his spoils.
Eskel glances over his findings. Geralt has brought back the most important herbs and plants, the ones no witcher should be without: white myrtle and hellebore, a pile of berbercane fruit and a handful of puffballs, celandine and wolfs bane.
Geralt drapes himself over Eskel’s back while Eskel considers what he will need. “Mint?” he asks.
Geralt hums. “Saw some further in,” he confirms. “Trying to make your potions taste better?”
Eskel huffs a laugh and picks up the white myrtle to get started on preserving the delicate ingredient the way Lambert taught them. “To chew on. Used up my last bit the other day and couldn’t find any wild growth yet.”
Geralt hums and goes boneless against his back, content to watch Eskel brew. It’s not his quickest work; Geralt’s weight, while reassuring, isn’t exactly helpful. He doesn’t have the heart to shift him, though, unable or perhaps unwilling to deny himself the pleasure of Geralt so close.
Once he has put away all the herbs — split in a way that leaves them both with even amounts of ingredients — he stands, somehow without dislodging Geralt.
“You’ll have to let me go, Wolf,” Eskel says, fond and amused.
Geralt makes a displeased sound and doesn’t budge.
“Trust me, you don’t want to jump into the lake still in your leathers. At least I don’t want to. So, c’mon, let’s get undressed.”
Geralt grumbles again but the promise of less clothes seems enticement enough to get him to move. Eskel shamelessly watches him strip. It’s not all pure enjoyment of Geralt’s body, of course. He does enjoy the view, pleasure spreading slow and languid through his veins just from watching his beloved undress. He just also uses the opportunity to catalogue all the new scars and nicks that get revealed with every piece of armour that falls away, souvenirs from half a season on the Path. He knows Geralt does the same to him, feels his gaze burning hot on his skin.
The lake, when they finally jump in, is blessedly cool in comparison.
They splash around for a while until ‘cool’ becomes ‘chilly’ even with Witcher resistance to cold, and then chase each other in a play fight just because they can. Geralt wins, because of course he does, but being bested by him it doesn’t feel like losing.
How could it, when it ends with Geralt pulling him into his arms with a pleased hum that resonates all throughout Eskel’s body where they’re pressed against each other?
“Gotcha,” Geralt rumbles, lips brushing the shell of Eskel’s ear and sending a shiver through him.
He kisses his way along Eskel’s jaw until he reaches his lips, each press of his mouth searing hot against Eskel’s water-chilled skin, and when Geralt finally kisses him properly, it feels like he’s burning up from the inside.
“We have a perfectly good set of bedrolls,” Eskel murmurs against Geralt’s lips once not even the kisses are enough to keep the shivers at bay.
“Hm,” Geralt says. It’s an undecided hum that tells Eskel that if he waits for Geralt to actually get out, Eskel will long have turned into an icicle. Damn him and his twice-grassed body.
But Eskel would like to not freeze his prick off, thank you very much, and so he slips from Geralt’s loose circle of arms and wades back towards their camp. Geralt could keep him, if he wanted, and they both know it. Of course he doesn’t; he’s Geralt. Instead, his gaze is heavy on Eskel, Geralt content to give him a headstart before he follows.
It’s just enough that Eskel can turn around on the shore and watch the water sluice off Geralt as he emerges from the lake.
And what a sight it is! Eskel is tempted to just have him then and there, but he did mean the thing about the bedrolls, and knows from experience that a pebbled lake shore isn’t the most ideal of places to ravish their lover.
So he contents himself with watching and being watched in return, trying to preserve this moment in his memory. A smile lurks on Geralt’s lips when he steps close to brush a kiss against Eskel’s lips, and it only widens when Eskel tries to chase his lips.
“Perfectly good bedroll,” Geralt reminds him. He doesn’t make for their packs though, instead stopping by the fire to add another log.
Eskel is tempted to just watch him crouch down indecently. He could; Geralt very much enjoys Eskel looking. Or he could spread out their bedrolls. It’s not an easy decision, but the bedrolls win. They’ll both thank him later, he knows. And nobody said he couldn’t take a peek every once in a while, of course, while Geralt has the foresight to prepare their dinner.
They don’t bother drying off — by the time the fire is back to roaring and the haunch of one of the griffins pitted and placed over it, the late afternoon sun has chased away both the water and the chill clinging to their skin.
Geralt prowls over to him, naked as the day as he was born, and Eskel looks up at him and smiles.
It’s borrowed time that they’re sharing here, and they both know it. It fuels the urgency they’d held in check since laying eyes on each other for the first time, makes it burn bright and hot through Eskel’s veins, a fire that is stoked with every searing kiss Geralt presses into his skin.
Eskel loves the Geralt he gets in Kaer Morhen during the winter, soft and easy and relaxed. But this? This is distilled hunger, energy that’s been building for months, a forest fire that sweeps Eskel along and leaves him breathless. It’s touch that’s frantic, searing Eskel’s skin in the best ways.
It’s amazing, is what it is, and it doesn’t make it worth it to be apart the majority of the year — because how could it, how could anything make not seeing Geralt worth it? — but it makes it… bearable.
And that’s the last coherent thought Eskel has for a while.