Work Text:
Geralt watched as Eskel packed up his bags. His own were already done, and in the morning all of the newly minted Witchers would be sent out onto the Path, scattering at the base of the mountain and heading to their generally assigned territories. Eskel had the southern end of the Mahakam mountains, while Geralt was being sent to Kovir. They’d travel together until Murivel then Eskel would head south, and Geralt north.
Eskel looked at a shirt and chucked it at Geralt, “This one’s yours.”
“How can you tell? We wear the same sizes!” Geralt grumbled, yanking the shirt off his head and throwing it back.
“Elbow’s patched crooked and you can’t sew to save your hide.” Eskel chuckled and shoved it into his bags. He was absolutely positive one of his shirts had made it into Geralt’s bags. His best friend was sentimental like that. Eskel latched his bags shut and tossed the bag onto his chest at the foot of the small cots, then flopped down, arms spread across the thin mattresses they’d long ago shoved together for warmth and comfort.
Geralt grinned and took the opportunity to throw himself onto Eskel, knowing the cots could easily take both their weight. “Gods above, you’re boney!” he said, wiggling to get comfortable on Eskel’s chest and tucking his head under Eskel’s chin.
“You’re no better!” Eskel grunted, though Geralt had more meat on his bones than he did, a “blessing” of the enormous and ravenous appetite the extra mutations had given him, and the mages allowance of double meal portions, all year round. Winter was the feasting time, when all the Witchers were in residence for the resting season, but Geralt’s appetite had outstripped everyone's, even full grown Witchers, and the lack of a few meals had made themselves apparent very quickly.
Eskel wasn’t that boney, just more so than Geralt. He was raw-boned, and the trainers said in a few years he’d fill out a bit more, but would remain rangy, like many of the Wolves. He maneuvered Geralt into a more comfortable flop, pressing a kiss to his hair and the pair drifted off to sleep, for the last time in the tiny beds they shared.
Geralt hugged Eskel tightly in the woods just outside of Murivel, knowing he’d not see his best friend until Winter, if he ever did again, but he tried not to think about that. “Be safe, Wolf.”
“Same to you.” One last deep inhale of each other’s scent and a last deep searching kiss, and they split apart, turning away and striding away, neither looking back lest they refuse to separate again.
Geralt cursed as he flung another bale of hay up into the hayloft of the keep’s stables. It was cold as balls already, and he was heartily sick of the cold. Kovir was just as far north as Kaer Morhen and stayed just as cold, if not more so since it was closer to the coast. It was certainly damper . He’d come back with rust on his steel sword and armor, despite how carefully he’d cared for them.
He’d gotten minor grief over that, but far far less than he’d have gotten as a trainee. Vesemir had even shown him how to coat the blades in a salt-resistant oil to keep the rust off. The senior fencing master was far more friendly now that he’d survived a year on the Path. Almost like he hadn’t wanted to get too attached before they’d proven themselves. He hadn’t been cruel like Varin, but he’d been distant and sparing with praise, which came far more often now. The corrections still flowed like air though.
There was a clatter on the bridge behind him and he turned at the exclamations of shock and surprise. Geralt dropped the bale of hay in his hands as he gaped at the sight before him.
Eskel stood there, in armor barely held together by twine and hope, a shirt of two different colors stitched together in an
attempt
to cover the massive, burly shoulders and broad chest. His pants were ragged and patched, and very clearly not his Witcher gear, but more akin to a peasants roughspun. His swords were well kept and he was leading a chunky chestnut gelding. The armor was in good condition, just… completely unable to cover Eskel’s frame. He’d clearly done what he could to cover his vulnerable areas, but it was a losing proposition.
He was flushed bright red, as all the Witchers around stared at him. He’d left a raw-boned, rangy Wolf, and came back looking far more like a Bear. Geralt found his tongue and called out into the silence as he approached, “Good Gods, what did they feed you down there? The whole damn mountain?!”
Eskel chuckled and pressed his forehead to Geralt’s in greeting, “Close enough! Dwarves pack their work beer with all sorts of things. Alcoholic and filling. Plus all the venison I could eat. I think I gained a pound or two.” He gave a wry smile at the joke.
Laughter broke the silence around them as everyone crowded around to greet Eskel and slap him on the back in welcome. A cough had them parting like water to see Vesemir standing there with a raised eyebrow.
Eskel flushed again and looked from the senior fencing trainer to the well kept, but now very ill-fitting armor and back. “Uhh… Help?”
Vesemir laughed and shook his head, “I told them you were going to grow into your shoulders, but I didn’t expect it this soon. Come on lad, I think we have gear that will fit… If not, you’ll keep Alvit busy this winter.” He turned and headed towards the armory, clearly expecting Eskel to follow.
Geralt clapped his friend on the back, “Better get going, he’ll skin you otherwise.”
Eskel grinned and passed the horse’s reins to him, “This is Bug. He doesn’t bite, but he does like hair.” He darted off before Geralt could say anything, and before Vesemir could shout for him.
Geralt watched the big, burly form trot away, the roughspun pants not hiding a thing. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on Eskel’s new physique and see just how different it was, and how similar.