For a few months after he was sixteen, Blake had lived doorway to doorway with little more than the clothes on his back. He could have stayed at St. Swithin's. They had offered him two more years — it was in the funding — and it wasn't pride that drove him away so much as a heart-heavy practicality learned long, long ago: Any space he takes is room someone else doesn't have. And so he'd gone, opting instead to risk the streets where he'd spent most his days anyway.
Staying clean, especially getting showers and washing his clothes, had been difficult enough with fifty other boys, but lacking funds and steady housing only complicated the matter. More than once from the catwalks, he'd taken advantage of an unlocked apartment, opting to go in through a window and risk law enforcement over the dingy and dangerous YMCA showers. It hadn't been an easy or glamorous life by any means, but he'd still reveled in the warm water and the feeling of being fresh and clean, often fragrant of soap for hours as a reminder of what life could be.
It's such longing thoughts that have brought him to Geralt, the begging question entirely due to Blake's own meager domicile's lack of private amenities combined with the recent storms. If he doesn't scrub up soon, there's no telling how long it might be before the frayed ends come loose and he finds the rope he's hanging on by no longer serving its purpose.
"You don't know how much I need this," he says, perhaps rhetorically. Does he stink? Probably. Any worse than anyone else? Nah. But there's emotional grime in a layer that's thick enough that he feels caked: It's sorrow at Jayden's departure, shame at his own ineffectiveness as a Summoned, annoyance over the ever-changing storms, haunting anguish from the pit, and frustrations of all sorts, which does not preclude at all the sexual aspects of being thirty and living smack dab in the middle of a population of beautiful, complicated people (who all somehow glisten immaculately in the sun or brood appealingly in the shade).
It's a lot. And admitting as much when asking for something so simple as this feels akin to leaving himself vulnerable in an idiotic way because he's choosing comfort over security.
Geralt rarely has words to spare, so Blake isn't expecting much by way of questions or commentary. Instead, he's relying on the Witcher's storied reputation of reliable silence as they move through the house Geralt and Jaskier share. It's certainly a feast for the eyes, although Blake's certain to keep his head down to only sneak glances unless otherwise presented with a run of the place. He's not here to take advantage of anyone's hospitality, especially when he's got nothing to offer in return.
@ gynvael
Staying clean, especially getting showers and washing his clothes, had been difficult enough with fifty other boys, but lacking funds and steady housing only complicated the matter. More than once from the catwalks, he'd taken advantage of an unlocked apartment, opting to go in through a window and risk law enforcement over the dingy and dangerous YMCA showers. It hadn't been an easy or glamorous life by any means, but he'd still reveled in the warm water and the feeling of being fresh and clean, often fragrant of soap for hours as a reminder of what life could be.
It's such longing thoughts that have brought him to Geralt, the begging question entirely due to Blake's own meager domicile's lack of private amenities combined with the recent storms. If he doesn't scrub up soon, there's no telling how long it might be before the frayed ends come loose and he finds the rope he's hanging on by no longer serving its purpose.
"You don't know how much I need this," he says, perhaps rhetorically. Does he stink? Probably. Any worse than anyone else? Nah. But there's emotional grime in a layer that's thick enough that he feels caked: It's sorrow at Jayden's departure, shame at his own ineffectiveness as a Summoned, annoyance over the ever-changing storms, haunting anguish from the pit, and frustrations of all sorts, which does not preclude at all the sexual aspects of being thirty and living smack dab in the middle of a population of beautiful, complicated people (who all somehow glisten immaculately in the sun or brood appealingly in the shade).
It's a lot. And admitting as much when asking for something so simple as this feels akin to leaving himself vulnerable in an idiotic way because he's choosing comfort over security.
Geralt rarely has words to spare, so Blake isn't expecting much by way of questions or commentary. Instead, he's relying on the Witcher's storied reputation of reliable silence as they move through the house Geralt and Jaskier share. It's certainly a feast for the eyes, although Blake's certain to keep his head down to only sneak glances unless otherwise presented with a run of the place. He's not here to take advantage of anyone's hospitality, especially when he's got nothing to offer in return.