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It’s a quiet afternoon, as afternoons go. Lambert is sitting out the effects of Thunderbolt in their camp, the trophy of his recent hunt away from his sensitive nose, while Valdo is fussing about, cleaning Lambert’s fiery hair from the brains of the second forktail that appeared out of nowhere and which the troubadour screamed to death.
So, nothing out of the usual.
Lambert is relieved his husband is a stubborn oaf that never listens to him, for the witcher would be forktail fodder if Valdo hadn’t insisted he came with, presumably in order to get inspiration for that bloody book he’s been writing the past five or so years. In Lambert’s humble opinion Valdo should never have started that blasted book, to begin with; it’s been a constant headache for both of them for far too long. For Valdo, because he was utterly stuck somewhere in the middle of the story for fuck knows how long, and for Lambert… Let’s just say that his husband does not take any advice. Ever.
In any case, that’s neither here nor there, as Lambert is quite thankful for Valdo’s unique, to say, talents.
Being married to a banshee – to this specific banshee – is truly a blessing more often than not. Sure, he can’t really bring Valdo to meet his family – they’ve both agreed that this would end in a disaster, they would very much like to avoid – but he wouldn’t trade Valdo for the world.
Lambert’s gaze lingers on the long, clawed fingers of his troubadour that deftly comb through the witcher’s long curls. He always loves looking at those talented hands.
He pulls Valdo closer, till they’re a breath away and those whiskey eyes glimmer in a mix of mischievousness and mirth, till Lambert can press a heady kiss on those lips and run his tongue between those sharp, pointy teeth.
Whether in human or banshee form, Valdo will always be captivating, ethereal in Lambert’s eyes.
Valdo straddles Lambert’s hips, pushing him down, and leans closer to his ear, “You’re thinking of something naughty, aren’t you?” he purrs, his hot breath sending shivers down Lambert’s spine. He wasn’t but he is now.
“Me? Never ,” Lambert smiles in the hollow of Valdo’s neck.
The troubadour hums and Lambert’s medallion vibrates against his chest, “Want me to f–”
Lambert’s attention snaps to the rustling of leaves, to heavy booted footfalls and the unmistaken murmur of a human voice. Quickly, he gestures to his husband to remain still, as he focuses his hearing to the – cock-blocking – nuisance that’s approaching their camp.
“-and you’re absolutely certain that you were the one with the wishes. How sure on a scale from zero to twenty-three are you again? Because I really don’t want to take any chances, for you see, if my wishes have come true I don't know what I would do. Honestly though, why must I say the first thing that comes to my mind? What the fuck is wrong with me?” a voice says, loud and musical and very much distressed.
Valdo snorts a laugh silent enough so that the owner of the voice won’t hear him, and rolls his eyes.
“You know them,” Lambert states, his voice barely a whisper.
Valdo nods. “Don’t worry,” he mouths, “It’s my brother.”
“Julian?”
Valdo nods again.
In the twenty-nine years, Lambert has been married to Valdo, and in the total of thirty-five they’ve known each other, he’s never met his husband’s brother. Sure, he pretty much knows the person – Julian – by proxy from all the tales Valdo has told him during the years, but the point stands; they’ve never met.
It’s pretty much the same situation as to why Lambert won’t bring his spouse to Kaer Morhen to meet the rest of the wolves. Monsters and witchers aren’t supposed to mix. Period. And well Valdo and he… they mix more than his brothers have any right of knowing. If you know what I mean.
“Come ooooooon!” Julian huffs exasperated, “Tell me! Are you sure? And no, don’t try to apologise again, I said I forgive you, you utter brute! Geraaaaaalt, tell me!”
What.
Surely this can’t be Lambert’s brother Geralt, can h-
A very Geralt hum echoes in the distance. Lambert’s eyes go wide in surprise.
“Shit,” he hisses a bit too loud for his liking.
Before he can get Valdo off his lap and in a less compromising position – hell – before he can tell the banshee to hide his true form, Geralt barrels into the campsite, sword drawn and eyes alert.
“Leave my brother alone, beast,” Geralt snarls, and Lambert blinks in disbelief.
“Excuse you?” Valdo shrieks offended, hand splayed upon his chest.
“Oh, Melitele! Merciful Melitele,” Julian leaps into the clearing, swiftly positioning himself between Geralt and, well, them. “Valdo, you’re alive! Oh-ho! More than alive I see!”
Now, there are two things that Lambert notices amidst his panic. One, Julian and Valdo look nothing alike; Julian is pale, blue-eyed and all soft-edged, while his Valdo’s skin is a tan tawny colour, his eyes a warm whiskey and his facial structure all sharp angular edges. And two, Julian is crying, tears running down his cheeks as he’s stumbling towards them.
“Hey, Julek,” Valdo rises to his feet and catches his brother in his arms, “of course I’m alive you buffoon, I sent you a letter not a week ago. So calm down, please?”
“What’s happening?” Geralt queries, sword still firmly in hand, and gaze drifting between Lambert and the two brothers.
“You tell me,” Lambert shrugs, “And put that fucking thing down, pretty boy, before you hurt anyone.”
Geralt, in typical Geralt fashion, grunts and sheaths his sword in the holster on his back.
“Good,” Lambert gets up and dusts his pants, “Point that thing towards Valdo again and I’ll garrotte you. Understood?”
“I misunderstood,” Geralt says and nods.
“Damn right you did,” Lambert chuckles, the tension he felt up till now leaving him by the second. Can’t blame Geralt for misunderstanding though. Not when he’s sure what that looked like.
Lambert turns towards the brothers and speaks loudly, “Can any of you two explain what’s going on?”
“Oh, hmm… well, this is rather awkward,” Julian says, visibly calmer. He opens his mouth to speak and smacks it closed again. He opens it and clicks his tongue.
Geralt gestures for Julian to continue while Valdo huffs, "Out with it, Julian."
Julian takes a deep breath and speaks, "Geralt, you've heard of Valdo."
"Once or twice," says the white-haired witcher, brows knit in confusion, "You mention him when you're piss-drunk."
"Right, yeah, right. I suppose introductions are in order; Geralt, meet my brother Valdo. Valdo, this is my friend, I suppose, Geralt."
"Brother…?" Geralt looks more confused than ever and Lambert realises his brother doesn't know that his friend and obviously companion is not, well, human. That's ‘bouta be exciting, Lambert smiles to himself and says nothing, watching the scene unfold before his eyes.
"Brother," confirms Valdo, "Same parents, and all that jazz. And yes, before you ask, we share both parents, we are quite aware that we don't exactly look alike."
Geralt's gaze shifts between the banshee brothers and then lingers on Lambert, a cry for help painted in his features. It takes all of Lambert's self-control not to laugh on his face and start teasing Geralt for his obliviousness.
"B-but you're human–" Geralt cuts himself off, realising he said something utterly moronic.
"Obviously not," Valdo chimes and Julian smacks him on the arm. Which is the last straw that was holding Lambert back from laughing out loud.
"I-in my defence," Julian stammers, face flushed beet-red in embarrassment, "I really thought you knew, Geralt. We've been travelling together for –gods– thirteen years, Geralt. How didn't you know?"
So Julian is that Jaskier Geralt's been annoying them about, during winters.
"Yes, how didn't you know, Geralt?" Lambert mimics Julian's tone, a wry smile painted on his face.
As on cue, Valdo slides next to Lambert and wraps his willowy arm around him, "Since when did you know about me, Lambs, remind me again?"
"Since before you approached me on that fucking boring banquet."
"And how long ago was that?"
"This summer it'll be thirty-six years."
The secret of their marriage be damned, the look on Geralt's face is worth every question and every prodding Lambert will get the next winter.
Lambert shoots a look at his husband, and Valdo nods. No words necessary, they know each other that well.
"Now if you don't fucking mind," Lambert drawls, "my husband and I were in the middle of something before you so rudely interrupted us. There's a clearing a mile east for you to set camp. Now scram," he shoos Geralt and Julian off with a gesture of his hand.
"Husband?" Julian shrieks incredulously, "Valdooooo why didn't you invite me to your marriage thing?"
Valdo shrugs, while Geralt drags off Julian by the hand. "Don't take it personally, Julek. We didn't invite anyone really."
"Promise me we'll talk tomorrow!" Julian shouts from a distance.
"Oh, dear," Valdo snorts a laugh before he shouts back, "Noon at Vizima's north gate!"
Julian’s rambling still echoes for a while in the distance. Supposedly, Valdo’s younger brother once used his Voice to get the witcher out of trouble by… making a nest of alghouls explode and Geralt apparently thought that they did so by themselves. Honestly. Lambert sometimes worries for him.
"Are we gonna tell them we've been married for nigh three decades?" Lambert asks half-seriously.
"Not if we can help it, no. I love my baby brother and I would loathe to break his heart so."
"You fear he'll stop talking to you, Valds?"
"Nah, I fear he'll demand a second ceremony which he'll organise from start to finish and will no doubt be extremely extravagant and lavish."
Lambert leans in and plants kisses on his bard's jaw, "And that's a bad thing?" He faux-whimpers.
"I suppose not."