[ CLOSED ] my skin peels off like paint

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: April Pre-event
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: In the aftermath of Nero's death
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon.


can't you hear that scratching?
there's something at the door;

discontinued | quantifies | starters below.

Comments

[oversight]

What he's bothered to acquire for the purposes of grooming is a noticeable uptick in quality compared to the rest. His clothes are serviceable but not nice. They don't sport the same sharp edges as his straight razor, nor do the clothes share the fine details like the engraved handle. This was an extravagant purchase for Blake, something he'd saved up for, and just another example of his personal priorities. It's handmade by someone in town, along with the brush and bowl which are a deeply lacquered wood. Prized possessions for a man who keeps very little and often rebuffs claims of sentimentality.

"Be outta your hair once the sand is," he notes as he continues to draw what he needs from his bag. He knows that Geralt's irritation isn't nearly as heavy as it sounds and that's the only reason he's got any sass in him. Any more snap and Blake might have taken a pass. Instead, he finds himself steadfast in his position, peeling his shirt away to reveal the pale skin he's kept under wraps, but focusing on Geralt's reflection in the mirror.

"Used to have to share with dozens of other kids," he says, voice skewed as he goes about his business. Shaving takes a little more finesse now that he's got that scar. "So I know how much it sucks when someone just up and ruins the mood."

Is acknowledging it better or worse? Blake lathers messily, wondering himself what it is he feels here. He's halfway soaped up when he stops to look back over his shoulder, eyeing Geralt with a thin suspicion.

"You okay?" The tingling of unease in the back of Blake's head won't stop. He's got to at least ask. Little does he know, but Abraxan magic has its place for him as well, even if it means he's siphoning these sorts of feelings from others.

[gynvael]

His expression flickers between amusement and something more contemplative. He finishes rinsing out his hair, which—for once—has been let loose from its leather cord.

"Should've sent you to the lake like us. Plenty of room. Patches of ice to sit on."

Fits at least several dozen boys, though it hardly matters when most don't make it past their first few months. He rises from the tub, reaching for a towel as he steps out. Water drips onto the tiles below. Geralt pays it little mind as he carelessly scrubs his hair dry.

Sensing Blake's unease, his eyes linger on the other man, watching the scrape of the razor's edge. Funny that Blake asks him first. If something is wrong.

He pauses. Lowers the towel. He does not consider himself an easy man to read, but he's met his share of the ones who see more than most. It's not accurate to say he hates it, but. On occasion, he does. And he could claim he's all right. Tell Blake to mind his own fucking business. In truth, Geralt has not spoken to anyone about what happened. Not really. He's informed them; he's listened to Steve. He has not said much of it himself. What would it accomplish? But Blake doesn't know Nero, nor what Nero truly meant to him, and it grants a distance that does not exist with others.

After a moment, he fastens the last button on his trousers and settles for a cautious, "It'll pass."

[oversight]

Having always been fairly empathetic — he gets that from his mother, apparently — Blake only notes a difference here because of its strength. Does he suspect magic? Not quite, but as he watches Geralt, only meeting eyes briefly in the reflection, he can't help the desire to be more than just a nuisance. Or a peeping John (but how could he not notice).

"Yeah, so I've heard." The reply is so gentle, it might as well be a light breeze coming through an open window. He's back to smoothing his face a moment later, half-mumbling around his work. "Just hope it doesn't take me a hundred years to know it, too." Is that crass? Blake feels like he understands what Geralt is both expressing and suppressing, and while there is always an eagerness for details, he doesn't deem it fair to invade the other man's space only to drive him out. Still, the undercurrent has Blake in its tow, and he knows he can't fight it forever.

Blake wonders where Jaskier's gone, whether he's giving Geralt space or perhaps dealing with something of his own. Hard to tell, when the sense permeating this home reads almost... oppressive.

"Hang out. I'll make us food." The invitation's backward, he realizes: it's not his space or his food. Offering is tantamount to insanity, all things considered, but suddenly Blake can't bear the despair he feels at the idea of them separate in this house, but alone.

[gynvael]

Blake's feather-light reply receives a faint noise of acknowledgment. The suggestion that he hang out in his own home brings a more significant glance out of the corner of his eye. Mm-hm. He doesn't remark upon Blake barging into his damn house and inviting him to stay.

"Go on, then."

The meal Blake dragged down to the mines wasn't bad. Besides, Geralt is hardly discerning about what he eats.

He disappears briefly into his room without a word before emerging dressed, his damp hair tied back again. The pantry contains a scattering of vegetables. A loaf of bread is on the counter—as fresh as the day it was purchased—and the shank of boar wrapped in parchment shows no sign of having sat in the heat for hours. Jaskier's magic.

Leaning his shoulder against the threshold wall, he watches Blake move about. "Were you responsible for it?" Cooking, that is. For the boys he lived with. "Growing up?"

He can almost envision it: a younger Blake, just tall enough to comfortably reach the countertops. Nero was raised much the same, surrounded by discarded children and little else. Geralt supposes it isn't exactly unexpected that he found himself drawn to the two of them.

[oversight]

Clean-shaven, but not yet washed, he works studiously to prepare something with those available ingredients, his mouth watering with delight. A quick stew requires more than just a few steps, but Geralt has caught on to his obvious comfort in the kitchen: He's not at all deterred from sniffing around at spices and herbs before making his choices; his knife skills are surprisingly honed for a man who doesn't carry a sword; perhaps most importantly, he tries everything he can before he uses it.

"Mm," he agrees as he wipes his hands clean and starts searing chunks of boar on high heat. Most kids thought it would be easy access to treats and extras, but the veil was quickly lifted away by the industrial cans of basic ingredients and the math involved. Admittedly, that wasn't Blake's favorite part either, but the effort and ingenuity necessary to satisfy so many stomaches day after day was an incredible lesson in simply making things work. "Wasn't a real popular chore, but I learned a lot." And he's been feeding people ever since.

The meat won't take long at all, and Blake's already preparing to combine everything to simmer. What silence that falls is filled in with tasks - vegetables and aromatics being prepped and softened — but Blake always hedges on thoughtful when he's in this intimate space with Geralt, as if the Witcher simply allows for more room to be.

He hums a fond sound. "My mom liked to cook. Or, well— that's what my dad said, anyway. All I really 'member's her waffles, y'know? And my dad tried—" The laugh is a little bittersweet. "Well, he tried. Which is... the nicest a person can do when they suck at somethin'."

[gynvael]

Blake will not find a single dull knife in the drawer. As expected, no doubt, considering whose kitchen they're in. Beyond that, there are a couple of wooden spoons (solid and perforated), wooden forks, and not a hell of a lot else—the house of a man who not only cooks the most basic meals but also doesn't come from a world of expanded utensils.

He could help. Normally, he might've done so. But Blake looks at ease doing it alone. So he watches, passing behind Blake only to retrieve a jug of ale. He pours them both a drink without asking, leaving one mug near Blake. The extent of his encouragement.

A soft noise escapes him. "A familiar feeling." The kindest thing he could say about Vesemir's cooking was that he tried. But frankly, keeping them fed in the first place was more than anyone else ever did for them.

"I don't know my father." Barely his mother. Bits and pieces. Most of it blurs together, one hungry day after the next. "She never spoke of him. After a time, I learnt to stop asking."

Which was all right. Geralt doesn't know what happened to his father, whether he left or died or disappeared long before the birth of his son; she would not say. Here and there, he recalls whispers that the man might've been a warrior of a sort. Or a soldier. Nothing special. Does it matter? Probably not. Visenna was the sole presence in his life growing up. Until she wasn't.

[oversight]

"Yeah, that's— familiar, too," he agrees, an abrupt confirmation on the heels of Geralt's announcement. His dad was always too sad to say much. Or too drunk, although nothing close to an alcoholic's intake until the very, very end. Had he lived to keep going — not given in to vices — Blake's certain he would have died rather unnaturally of a broken heart. It's something Blake considers thoughtfully as he stares into the ale and continues cooking.

Much like his father, he feels shame over the emotions that often rule him in ways that society feels are unacceptable. It leaves a seed of unwelcomeness within him, barring off those feelings or masking them in other ways. It's part of the reason he's so poor at sharing himself, while simultaneously being notorious for sharing everything else.

By the time it's come together, it's hard to say exactly how much time has passed, but Blake is on to his second glass of ale and far past too many thoughts when he adds the finishing touches, including a little drink from his glass. It's altogether fragrant and lightly salted, herbaceous and fresh, but hearty enough that it should easily feed Geralt and Jaskier for a day or two after Blake's gone and stick to their bones in the interim. If nothing else, it feels somewhat commensurate with the cost of his intrusion, although not quite entirely a full payment without approval.

A bowl's placed in front of the Witcher, piping hot (much like Geralt). "If my cookin' doesn't do it, I've got a card or two up my sleeve," he says, offering out a spoon but little else by way of explanation. Blake settles in the seat across from Geralt, cradling his ale beneath the pique it's brought to his cheeks. He's poised to go, but too interested in Geralt's opinion of his cooking to do so immediately. And thus, he stares, dark eyes filled with a very pointed interest. Tell me I'm good.

wrap? 🎀

[gynvael]

Mm. Geralt lapses into another silence after that and sits at the table. He both watches and doesn't; his eyes are elsewhere, but he's always listening, tracing Blake's movements on instinct while he contemplates distant memories blurred by time.

When the bowl arrives, Geralt simply takes it. Part of him had expected Blake to join him, but it seems the man is intent on serving more than anything. Geralt decides not to question it. Blake's idiosyncrasies are not his to command, and in the grand scheme of things, they hardly matter.

He sticks the spoon in his mouth with a tip of his head that suggests he doesn't hate it. It is as high of a compliment as Blake will wring out of him. (The stew is good. Geralt's inclinations towards enthusiastic approval are just. Lacking. But perhaps Blake can read between the lines.)

"Come back some time," he says around the mouthful. "We'll put you to work."

🎀!

[oversight]

Approval is all he needs, really, and the spark of joy it brings to Blake knowing Geralt has nothing bad to say probably gives away that he's come to understand the code: No news is good news when it comes to the Witcher. Hell, a grunt of dismay might actually feel like a gold star to some, in fact, although the younger man thinks it's as much for show as it is for his companion's sanity; too many people equals too much exposure, and under those circumstances, even mild gripes or compliments could be taken to some level of detriment.

"Geralt, you can't afford me," Blake flippantly snipes on his way out. He's got a bath to take and having been relieved of some of the guilt, there's no reason not to get on with it.

Still, a second after leaving, he peeks back for only a moment to say, "But I'm not saying no." Far be it for him to pretend he's not a little bit flattered.