Chapter Text
Eskel did not belong in a home for troubled teenaged boys. His social worker told him so in no uncertain terms.
Geralt was being moved to the troubled boys’ home, after an incident (not the first, Eskel had gathered) which had led their current foster parents to request he be removed from their house, “for the safety of the other children.”
That part was bullshit.
Eskel had only known Geralt for a few months, but he knew the younger boy wasn’t dangerous. Geralt had a good heart, but he pushed his emotions down until he couldn’t contain them anymore, and when that happened it wasn’t pretty.
But it wasn’t dangerous for anybody but him. He might break something. He might hurt himself, but he would never hurt someone else, especially one of the other foster kids. He needed help, not to be relocated again.
Just like all of the other things Eskel had tried to convey to their foster parents on Geralt’s behalf, it made no difference. They were tired of dealing with him. He was too high maintenance. So it was onto the next foster home.
Except this time, Geralt said they were sending him to a home for troubled boys.
As soon as Eskel heard that, he bothered his social worker relentlessly until he agreed to meet with him. During their last few months together in this foster family, Eskel had gotten close with Geralt. It had started out as just standing up for him when their foster parents were being unfair, but as the weeks passed, Eskel had grown to like the strange, quiet boy more and more. He wasn’t going to just let this happen.
“I want to go to the boys' home with Geralt.” Eskel didn’t beat around the bush.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not a troubled boy,” the social worker replied.
“Neither is Geralt but you’re sending him.”
Already he looked exasperated. Eskel didn’t care.
“Geralt can be,” he hesitated, no doubt trying to find a kind way to put it. “Difficult for some foster parents to deal with. At Seventh Street, the people there are trained to deal with the kinds of problems Geralt has. It will be better for everyone to have him living there.”
Eskel disagreed with that wholeheartedly. Geralt was big for his age, yes, and he had breakdowns sometimes, but he was certain the way that the people at Seventh Street would “deal with him,” would just make everything worse. Just like how their current foster parents’ insistence that he learn “manners” had been a lot of the reasons why Geralt was getting so upset.
Already Eskel could tell Geralt was a hurting and subdued version of himself. The few times Eskel had seen him happy had been downright magical. He knew Seventh Street would stomp that out of him, and Eskel wanted to be there to at least try and shield him from the worst of it, and to remind him that he could be happy, and he would be again someday, no matter how much their current situations sucked.
He was terrified of what might happen if Geralt had to suffer through that alone.
“Fine,” Eskel conceded, “but I want to live there with him.”
The social worker sighed, as if Eskel just wasn’t getting it.
“Your foster parents like you,” he continued. “There’s a good chance they’ll keep you until you age out of the system. Why would you throw that all away just to follow a kid you’ve only known for a handful of weeks?”
He didn’t have a good answer, other than he’d grown to really care about Geralt, and he knew a lot of the world didn’t treat him very well. He deserved to have someone around him who would treat him well. Eskel had the feeling he might’ve been the first in a long time. He didn’t want Geralt to lose that.
“I’m going with him to Seventh Street,” he insisted.
“No, it’s a home for troubled boys. There are only a certain amount of spots available, and you are not a troubled boy.”
At this Eskel just grinned. “Do you want me to be troubled then?” He asked. “Because I can definitely be troubled.”
***
They were moved at the end of the week. If Eskel had any questions or regrets about the decision he’d made, the second he stepped into the Seventh Street boys home they all disappeared.
They arrived on Saturday afternoon, during what looked like free time. A handful of boys sat around a TV playing some sort of first person shooter. They were loud and raucous. Eskel could tell the noise put Geralt even more on edge. He was white knuckling the strap of his duffel bag with an unfocused faraway look in his eye.
Eskel was glad when Alex, one of the adults overseeing the home, herded them upstairs to the room where they’d be staying.
He was even more glad when he saw they had a room just the two of them, a tiny closet of a bedroom with bunk beds up against the wall. Having a space where Geralt didn’t have to deal with the other boys would help, Eskel knew. He had faith he could help make this place livable for the two of them.
“Do you want top bunk or bottom?” Eskel asked, putting a smile on his face, pretending like everything was okay.
Geralt responded by putting his bag down on the bottom bunk.
“Cool.” Eskel climbed up the ladder to survey his new bed. Someone had carved a crude drawing into the rail. “Nice we don’t have to share with the other guys.”
“Hmm.”
Eskel let the room fall into silence, wishing he could know more about how Geralt was feeling. He just wanted him to be okay.
***
Geralt did not want to eat dinner.
He hated being relocated. He felt nervous, and upset, and the last thing he wanted to do was go downstairs and eat a meal with a half dozen strangers. He wasn’t sure he could even stomach anything right now, and he’d rather not have to find out the hard way if he couldn’t.
Following Eskel back downstairs, he felt his whole body tensing up, his stomach flipping. Already he could hear the other boys, and he wasn’t excited to meet them. If he had it his way, he’d go to bed right now, and put off the rest of his introductions until the next morning.
Nothing went his way nowadays though—it never had—so he resigned himself to an empty seat at the table, and tried not to look too displeased by the plate of food in front of him.
It didn’t look like a bad meal. Chicken, peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes. He’d been scared the food would be stuff he didn’t like (admittedly a sort of long list) but under normal circumstances (if such a thing existed) Geralt would take no issue with this meal. But tonight even thinking about eating made his nausea worse, and the one tentative bite of mashed potatoes he tried felt like glue in his mouth.
So instead of eating, he decided to observe the other boys, his eyes often flicking back to Eskel, eating voraciously beside him, to remind himself that he was still here. That he wasn’t alone.
Apart from Eskel, the other boys seemed a lot bigger than him. Geralt may be taller than a few of them, but this was technically a home for troubled teens, and he wouldn’t even be twelve for another month. Eskel wasn’t quite thirteen yet either, but he could fit in anywhere. The rest of the boys looked at least fourteen, and they terrified him. Definitely did nothing to encourage his appetite.
“You’re not eating, Geralt,” Alex said from his spot at the head of the table.
“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled. The other boys were finishing their first helpings now, and getting seconds.
“The purpose of this place is to teach you boys how to be good, upstanding members of society,” the leader chided. “Part of that is appreciating the things we’re given, and not letting them go to waste. That food needs to be eaten.”
Geralt took another small bite, fighting to swallow it. He did his best to get some more food down, but by the time the other boys were finished and leaving the table, most of Geralt’s meal still remained.
Alex got up and walked around to his side of the table, putting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
Immediately Geralt’s whole body tensed and reflexively he said, “don’t touch me.”
The leader let go, but not before giving his shoulder a squeeze.
“Why don’t we go have a chat.”