Archive of Our Own ^beta

If there was one thing Trevor realized he might despise more than wet socks, or acid-spitting monsters, or even bad drinks, it was University Classes.

To some, it might seem like an overreaction; "Trevor, surely it cannot be as bad as all that," they might say, "after all, you are learning things you would not get other chances to hear, and for free, even!" To which Trevor might say, "Shut the fuck up." Partially because he wasn't willing to argue about it, but also because he knew there wasn't one, solid good reason to stop attending. If there was, Geralt might've accepted it. As it stood, Trevor sat in the back of one such university class, listening to the professor go on about poetry, of all things.

It wasn't that the classes were bad--they were well attended, the professors generally knowledgeable, and Trevor was sure someone found the information useful. That person didn't happen to be Trevor. How any of the information in the classes Geralt picked applied to Trevor, he wasn't sure. Hunters surely didn't need to know more about sums than was required to barter for supplies and contracts. Trevor already knew how to read, and nothing he was going to be reading included poetry, surely. He found that the sciences might've been of some interest, but they were few and far between, and usually things he'd already started learning with either... either his family, years ago when looking over his father's shoulder, or his new family the witchers, who had been more than happy to have his help with at least the basics. Nothing too dangerous or toxic for humans, but at least he learned about several plants and monster parts and how to collect them and what they were used for. Lambert had quietly promised to show him how to start making bombs next winter, which Trevor was incredibly excited for.

But it wasn't winter. It was barely even spring.

As the professor droned on about some pentantic rhyme scheme or something, Trevor found himself glancing out the closest window, a thin thing which let in light through the shadows of a just-budding tree branch. The leaves hadn't fully grown, but the dapples of green were very clear on the gray bark. The wind still nipped at Trevor when he went outside--something he contemplated doing now, even in the middle of the class.

However, Trevor knew it was difficult to allow non-students into the Oxenfurt classes. He knew it was even more difficult for Geralt, since he'd apparently been gossiped about, personally, within the last year. Whatever had happened had reached the university city, and some of his old contacts were apparently dubious about letting him back onto the grounds once more. So there were things Trevor might have done were it only his own reputation on the line; With Geralt sitting next to him, taking in one of the few classes he'd been allowed to sit in on, Trevor kept his mutinous thoughts to himself. Mostly.

"And perhaps our guest, ah, Trevor, would be willing to tell us his opinion on Sir Augustyn's translation of this poem?"

Trevor felt himself twitch as many pairs of eyes turned to him, feeling just as uncomfortable as Geralt no doubt felt at being called out in front of a class they were not usually part of. This professor might've been convinced to allow them in, but he was an asshole.

The feeling of burning embarrassment, shame, and outrage had words jumping from Trevor's tongue before he could really stop them. "I think 'Sir Augustyn' confused proaspăt for necopt, a mistake I think he might've avoided if he'd admitted to his own 'unripeness' and just gotten a local speaker to explain things to him."

While most of the class gaped, a few started grinning, and a few had to stifle giggle or coughs. Clearly at least a couple students had been learning more languages than this professor bothered with. Said professor was turning a terribly red color, but seemed to think ignoring the sass was the best way to move on, and continued his lecture.

Once the class was over, and Trevor could dodge out of the crowd of students around his age, he went straight for the closest tree, slumping behind its trunk and waiting for Geralt to catch up with him. Geralt was quiet as he sat beside Trevor, only handing over a dried peach half. They both munched for a short time, until the breeze made Trevor shiver, words flowing out with it.

"Why do you bother?"

Geralt hummed, asking for Trevor to go on.

"I mean, it's early, but there are monsters out there, right? Why stop here? Why take a class which doesn't help with that, and taught by such a prick of a professor anyway?" Trevor crossed his arms, snorting. The visible wisps of his breath were immediately swept away.

"What did you learn?"

"...What? Nothing?" Trevor asked, astonished. He flushed at the Look Geralt gave him--expectant and not amused. Trevor turned back to looking straight ahead where other students were rushing about for their next class. "I learned the professor is a pompous, self-righteous asshole."

"Why?"

"What, like 'why is he an asshole?'" Trevor turned his head only to see Geralt nod, completely serious. "I- He- He only lectured about like, two poets, and he didn't accept any of the answers the students gave even though he would randomly call on them, and he talked about his own opinions like they were facts, and- He's an asshole!"

Geralt hummed, this time thinking, accepting. But he was only quiet for a beat longer before he pressed, "And?"

And? What else was there? "I learned studying poetry is stupid," he said, feeling petulant.

"Explain." Geralt leaned a bit closer, one eyebrow ticking slightly upward. "How is it 'stupid?'"

"W-well, uh, what's the point...? I mean, it's not like any of the people who wrote those poems were even alive anymore, so who knows what they were thinking? All everyone in that class is going to remember about them is what the professor thinks about some translator's version of the poem, anyway."

"And how is that an issue?"

"That professor didn't even understand the original poem! He didn't know the language, he only had one translation--which was wrong--so what is anyone studying under this guy gonna learn about except what the professor thinks? So, so-" Trevor waved his hands around, not really sure what his point was anymore. "-Stupid! Because, because are you really learning about something if you're not really... learning... about it?"

Something in his rambling must have made sense though, since Geralt was giving him a little grin. "You did learn something then. About the way some in Oxenfurt teach, and about the way some people learn... or learn not to."

Trevor opened his mouth, but closed it before the, "Who cares though?" could slip from him. Geralt only chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"You get out of a class, out of any situation, what you choose to get out of it. Keep your ears open."

Which was good advice, really. Neither a witcher nor hunter could afford to ignore information around them, even information which wasn't being purposefully given. But Geralt had to know that already, and that had been a class for fairly new students. Not completely green, but still young enough to be just below Trevor's age.

"So then, what did you learn?"

Geralt looked down at Trevor, mischief in the corners of his eyes. "That there are parts of Temeria which used to be quite nostalgic over their inexperienced youths running about, causing trouble."

"...Wait." Trevor got to his feet, stumbling after Geralt when he started moving deeper into the campus. "Wait, you actually paid attention to the poems?"

"Hmm."

"You like that sort of thing?"

Geralt chuckled, and Trevor groaned. He pulled his cloak closer around himself, bracing against the biting spring air. They wouldn't be staying long, but Trevor figured that for the rest of their time, he might as well try to get more out of the classes they were allowed to attend.

"At least the next class is about logic," Trevor grumbled. "That should be straightforward."

Geralt laughed so hard he had to lean against one of the buildings, hiding his face in his hands.