Chapter Text
When Eskel returns home for the winter that year, he’s not surprised anymore when he doesn’t see Lambert. He’s sad, disappointed, but not surprised. He had sent him a text asking him to come, hoping this year would finally be the one after three spent away, but he never got a response.
Geralt is the one to greet him at the door, with Vesemir not too far behind. Eskel hugs his brother tight, and, hearing the ambient commotion that the rest of their brothers bring, Eskel knows he’s the last one to arrive. He and Geralt exchange a silent look that he knows means he’s wondering about Lambert, too. Eskel communicates that he hasn’t heard anything, and they move forward.
A few days pass and, nearer to the solstice, when the moon is shining through his window and he can’t sleep, Eskel gets a call. “Lambert?” he answers, sitting up frantically.
“Hey,” his youngest brother replies. “Are you at Kaer Morhen?”
“Yeah,” Eskel confirms. “Was hoping you’d come this time.”
“Sorry. I—I thought about it, but then things were bad for a bit. I feel better now, though, so I really think I’ll come next year.”
“You’re telling me I gotta wait a whole year to see you?” Eskel ribs. “You know I’ll be in Ard Carraigh soon, right?”
“Oh, to visit Geralt?” Eskel narrows his eyes even though he knows Lambert can’t see him.
“And you, asshole. I’m gonna move there.”
“That’s cool,” Lambert says simply. He sounds far away, but Eskel can’t put his finger on it.
“You there now?”
“No, I— A friend invited me to Skellige with him, so we got here yesterday.”
Eskel smiles. “That’s good. I’m happy you’re not by yourself.”
“Yeah, it’s— you remember Áki? Plays guitar in the band?”
“Oh, yeah, brown hair? Glasses?” Lambert hums affirmatively. “Yeah, I remember him. Didn’t know he was Skelliger. Well, you can tell him he’s always welcome at Kaer Morhen with you if you want.”
Lambert laughs on the other end. “We’re just friends, ‘Kel.”
“I know! But friends are good, and clearly he’s got your back.”
“Yeah,” Lambert replies, wistful. “It’s beautiful here. I’ll send you some pictures I took.”
“Looking forward to it.” They’re silent for a bit, but so much anxiety has dissipated from Eskel’s body that he doesn’t even care. Still, he wonders what Lambert meant earlier when he gave his reason for not coming home. “Hey, Lamb?”
“Hm?”
“When you said things were bad earlier… Is everything okay? Do you need anything?”
“Oh, uh—no. Like I said, it’s fine now, I’m good. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Eskel nods to himself. He always dreads these deflecting responses, but he accepts them nonetheless (and any criticism about him doing the same thing will not be accepted). “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“Yeah. It’s late for you, right? I can let you go to bed.”
“Alright, then. Don’t go weeks without responding to texts again, okay?” That gets a small laugh out of his brother, and he relaxes still.
“You got it.”
“I love you, Lamb.”
“Love you, too.” Eskel hangs up the phone and he almost wants to cry with how relief floods through him. Every so often he considers seeing a therapist over the anxiety that wracks his mind every time he doesn’t hear from a brother, but he thinks he might just be a worrier by nature. (And besides, Lambert is a unique case. There are good reasons to be worried about Lambert.) He gets a text notification from Lambert, the pictures he mentioned on the phone. He’s right—it is beautiful. One of the photos is of the ocean looking over a cliff, and another from the same view but at sunset, reminding Eskel slightly of the views over the bridges in Novigrad, though clearly much more peaceful. He feels soothed, and Eskel sleeps soundly that night.
—
Lambert hangs up the phone to a gnawing feeling in his chest. Part of him feels bad for lying to his brother, but how bad is it to lie about the time before if he really is doing better now? He’s left his shitty ex behind, he’s got his own apartment in Ard Carraigh—a small one, but it’s his—and he’s here in Skellige with his friend. Eskel doesn’t need to know it was only two weeks ago that he could barely get off the floor of said apartment, feeling sad and guilty and alone, halfway to a suicide attempt before just taking something to help him sleep, then going to work to forget about it. Eskel carries enough for their family, he doesn't need Lambert’s problems on top of it all. Lambert sends his brother the pictures and drops the issue.
—
The last place Eskel expects to be that day is a hospital waiting room.
He had been finishing up a job interview when he got the call—from a number he didn’t recognize and which he only answered because of their persistence and a bad feeling in his stomach. He can’t imagine how it all looked, so he’s pretty sure he won’t get the job now, but he’s too surprised-relieved-worried to be concerned with that at the moment. (Is Lambert okay? He really trusts Eskel enough to put him as an emergency contact? Why didn't he say anything was wrong?)
He approaches the overworked clerk and figures out what he’s going to say, only to have not needed any of it. “Hi, my brother—“
“Name and date of birth?” Eskel gives them the information after only a few moments of standing, stunned. “He was transferred to psychiatry, eighth floor.” Psychiatry? But Lambert would never admit himself, so that means…
“Is he being detained?”
“You’ll have to talk to them. Eighth floor,” the clerk reminds him curtly. He gives them his ID and is given a completed visitors pass. Eskel walks away from the desk to make way for the people behind him in the busy department, and he doesn’t know what to do. Should he call someone? Geralt? Vesemir? (That option gets an immediate no. He doesn’t know exactly what happened between them but he’s not stupid. He knows Vesemir and Lambert’s relationship is…strained, at best.) Common sense tells him he at minimum should get in an elevator and make his way to the eighth floor, so that’s what he does, even while numb with uncertainty.
The conversation (if one could even call it that) with the psychiatry front desk is even worse. He leaves with some handouts about his rights as a nearest relative and some numbers to call that he knows will go straight to voicemail, and he still hasn’t seen Lambert. How is he? What even started all this? How soon can he leave? He hates that the burden is on him to actively seek out this information instead of it being given to him when he answered the call. More than anything, he’s exhausted from the runaround. He sits on a bench outside and lights up a cigarette. The nicotine calms his nerves just enough for him to think about his next course of action, for which he decides to call Geralt.
“Eskel?” Geralt answers. He hears the sound of dishes being put away, the faucet being turned off.
“Geralt, I need to—“ He’s cut off by another’s voice. A child’s voice. He blinks, shocked, then asks, “Is that a baby?”
“Well, she’s five, but technically—“
“Who would trust you to babysit?”
Geralt sighs. “It’s kind of complicated. You remember Pavetta?”
Eskel wracks his brain for a Pavetta, eventually coming across a memory of them being introduced at Geralt’s hooding ceremony some five or six years ago. But if this child is five… “Holy shit, Geralt, don’t tell me you—“
“No! No, no, no, she’s not mine. The point is—“ Geralt sighs and resumes at a lower voice. “Pavetta died a few weeks ago. And the real father is a deadbeat, supposedly, so…”
Eskel wants to scream. His brother was always too noble for his own good. “Fuckin’ hell, Geralt, she doesn’t have grandparents? Aunts or uncles?”
“Not anymore, no,” he says, brusque. Eskel immediately regrets everything.
“Shit, sorry.”
They’re silent for a while, until Geralt asks, “What were you originally calling about?”
Eskel swallows. “Lambert, he’s— ‘involuntarily hospitalized’, they said, but jailed seems more accurate to me.”
“Shit,” is all Geralt can say. Eskel takes the opportunity to make fun of him otherwise he might just lose his mind.
“Swearing in front of the kid?”
“She’s asleep, I’m hoping she didn’t hear that.”
“What’s her name?” Eskel asks. He feels a bit bad for his reaction earlier. This little girl must have had her whole world changed. He can’t call his brother irresponsible for stepping up for her.
“Cirilla,” Geralt reveals. “Ciri for short. She reminds me a lot of when Voltehre came to live with us, if you remember that. Lambert, too, a bit, but she’s quiet, less angry. Just scared.”
“Yeah, I remember.” All this reminiscing just makes Eskel feel worse about the whole situation. He doesn’t know what Lambert is going through—most of all he’s worried about whether he tried to kill himself again, but apparently he’s not worthy of that information—but Eskel is sure that whatever it is, it will be better dealt with in the company of brothers, not in a psych ward.
“You should come over for lunch. We can talk about what to do.”
—
When Eskel arrives at Geralt's apartment, he understands the comparison between Ciri and their younger brothers. She sits at the coffee table, coloring, then turns to look at him with wide eyes. Geralt introduces him to her, at which point she musters a little smile and a wave.
"Geralt tells me you like kebab," Eskel says, holding up the takeout bag in his hand. Immediately, her eyes brighten and she runs to the table. He makes conversation with Ciri while Geralt sets up the food, asking questions about her art, as well as amusing himself with ones about what she thinks of Geralt. She gets tired of him bothering her eventually, because she goes back to drawing by herself once she has her food, but Eskel doesn't mind, since it means he can talk to Geralt freely about the matter they're dealing with.
Eskel is silent for a long time. He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "He called me last night, at like three in the morning," is where he starts eventually, though he's not sure where it will get them. Maybe just processing the emotions of it all is a good first step.
"What about?" Geralt asks.
"That's the problem, he didn't tell me. I tried pressing, but he kept deflecting, and he called me."
"You know it's probably hard for him. To talk."
"I know," Eskel groans. He leans forward to rest his head on his arms. "How do I keep fucking this up," he mumbles.
"You didn't," Geralt says simply. He looks away like he's thinking about something, though Eskel's not quite sure how to interpret what he's just said. "What exactly did he say?"
"He said… that he couldn't sleep, and he thought about me. I asked if he needed anything, and he said no." Eskel sighs again and shakes his head. "I don’t know how to get him to rely on us."
Geralt presses his lips together, what Eskel recognizes as more than the tiny display of emotion it must look like. "You can blame me for that." Eskel raises an eyebrow, prompting his brother to elaborate. "We haven't spoken in months. He… I don’t know the details, but I think he must’ve been in a bad relationship, and I pushed too hard."
Eskel does not take this well. "The fuck did you say?" he hisses, trying to be careful of the child nearby but frustrated. This is why he tries to handle everything himself. Geralt can focus on raising Ciri—because apparently that’s happening now—and Eskel will help Lambert. And be the one Vesemir always asks for favors. And try to find a job before he burns through his savings. And maybe after that, he might still have some time for himself—
It’s fine.
Geralt starts to explain. "Every couple weeks he would come here to sleep on the couch, and he always looked fucked up. I tried asking about it a few times, but he never wanted to say anything. The last time, it was like… November. He had come in overnight, because I gave him a key, so I didn't see him until the morning. He was still asleep when I woke up, and I just couldn't— He had a nasty black eye, and there were fingerprints on his neck." Eskel feels sick. He didn’t know any of this. "I don't remember exactly what I said, but I was too forceful. I made it seem too much like he has to leave because I said so, not enough like it's a suggestion and that I want to help."
Eskel leans back in his chair, considering it all and trying to put the pieces together. "I know he moved around then, and a friend helped him, so maybe he's not there anymore."
Geralt hums. “Which friend?”
“One of his bandmates, I think,” Eskel says.
“Is that still a thing?”
He shakes his head. “They posted like a month ago. ‘Indefinite hiatus.’ I don’t think they fought or broke up as a band, though—just life stuff.”
“That’s probably not helping. I know playing meant a lot to him.”
Eskel sighs. “Yeah.” He takes a moment to just breathe before refocusing. “How do we get him out?”
Geralt exhales and shuffles through the papers Eskel was given. “This says you can write a letter and they'll approve or deny it within 72 hours.”
“And if they deny it?”
“Apparently it has to be a really good reason. But then you can visit on Thursday.”
But today's Friday. “A whole fucking week,” Eskel grumbles and holds his head in his hands. He thinks he'll be lucky if this passes before he gets an aneurysm from the stress.
“He’ll be okay,” Geralt tries reassuring. “It’s not great, but he’s strong.” Eskel wishes he could transmit the voice he had heard last night on the phone into his brother’s head. The version of Lambert he talked to seemed anything but strong. He almost sounded scared. He feels so stupid for not seeing that call for the cry for help that it was, for not going over to his apartment to just be there with him, get him out of his head, just like he would when Lambert was younger. But would he even have wanted that? How much of what Lambert said was because he actually didn’t want Eskel to show up, and how much was because he thought it would be burdenous to him? Where’s the line between respecting his boundaries and showing Lambert Eskel will always be there?
—
It takes entirely too damn long for his liking, but, eventually, Lambert is discharged, and Eskel is there. He gets into the passenger seat of Eskel’s car, but he doesn’t say anything, and Eskel doesn’t make any moves to leave the hospital parking lot, doesn’t even turn on the ignition. He simply looks at his brother, who honestly looks terrible, but he probably would too if he had the couple weeks Lambert has had. (Maybe longer, a month? It’s been at least that since he’s seen him.) He looks tired most of all, almost gaunt. He must not be sleeping or eating well, and he needs a haircut and a shave. Eskel thinks it looks good, but the long bits of hair in the front clearly bother Lambert from the way he keeps brushing them out of his face, and the beard is just weird to Eskel—he’s never seen Lambert with more than stubble, and it mostly makes Eskel feel old (and a bit jealous), seeing his baby brother look grown. He lets that be his first comment.
“They don’t let you shave in the psych ward? I thought we agreed you weren’t allowed to grow a beard before I do.” That gets a snort out of Lambert, which is relieving.
“I never agreed to that.” He smiles and looks out his window. Eskel fights the urge to ask how he is, knowing that will just piss him off. He chooses instead to ask about actions.
“What do you want to do, then?” Eskel asks. “Do you want me to take you home? Or do you need to eat?”
Lambert hums, noncommittal. “I could eat.”
“Wanna get breakfast?”
Lambert side eyes him. “It’s noon.”
“Like that's ever been a problem for you before,” Eskel counters. Lambert tilts his head in a conceding gesture and Eskel drives them off.
—
Sharing a meal with his brother again, Eskel could convince himself that nothing is wrong. He tells Lambert all the work stories from his first week, what it’s been like having Ciri around, the music he’s been listening to recently. It’s the little things that let him know something is, in fact, wrong. There's the way Lambert stares at him wide-eyed before shaking his head ‘no’ when Eskel offers him cream for his coffee. There’s the tension he carries in his body, and the fact that he doesn't talk about himself at all. It’s not like he’s seeking out everything that’s different. He never liked hearing himself talk for too long on end, and he just finds himself missing his brother’s voice.
“We should talk about it. Probably,” Eskel says. He didn't think it was possible for Lambert to become more tight-lipped than he already was being, but clearly that's what's happened. “You don't need to tell me how it all happened, or what it was like. Just— what you want to do. What you need from me.”
Lambert looks down and picks at his food. “I don’t want you to worry. Or feel responsible for me.”
Eskel wants to laugh. “Lamb, I already worry about you. And you’re an adult, I’m not gonna act like you need to be supervised 24/7 or whatever. But I don’t want you struggling by yourself when I’m around to help.”
Lambert considers this. Eskel wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s deciding what Eskel should and should not know. He can live with that, even if he gets nothing. “They said I have to stay on meds. And do therapy.”
“Do you want to do that?”
“No, not really. But I’ll do anything to not go back there, so.” Lambert shrugs. Eskel doesn’t love that, but he understands. His brother just looks out through the window next to their booth, and slowly his face starts to change like he’s concerned about something he thinks he can’t say. His eyebrows furrow, his grip into his arm where they’re crossed gets unhealthily tight, but Eskel recognizes when Lambert is about to say something himself versus when he has to ask.
“What’s wrong?”
Lambert shakes his head. “I can’t— do everything they’re asking me to do,” he says, voice unsteady. “I can’t go to appointments and shit, I can barely get through the day.”
Eskel’s mind rushes to all sorts of conclusions about what he means by that, but he stays calm and continues to prompt. “What do you mean?”
“Shit’s bad, ‘Kel,” he replies, ever lower. “I don’t even feel like a person most days.” Lambert’s eyes flick from side to side, like he could say more but not in public. Eskel takes this as an easy cue and gets them ready to leave, paying for their food and leading them out. He prompts Lambert to continue once they get back to the car, only the time seems to have made him clam up again. He opens and closes his fists a few times before saying, again, “I don’t want you to worry.”
This time Eskel does laugh, just a little. “You said that already. I’m always gonna worry, Lamb, but telling me things does help.” This seems to assure him, but only slightly. The ‘asking questions’ route seems to be going well, so Eskel decides to stick with it. “What did you mean when you said you don’t feel like a person?”
It works, because Lambert doesn’t hesitate in his response. “Like I’m alive, but against my will. Every day is a chore. And it just doesn't feel worth it anymore. But that's the fucking thing, I wasn't even there for a suicide attempt!”
Eskel blinks at this information. He's not going to lie, suicide was exactly what he thought when he read the words ‘stimulant’ and ‘overdose’ stamped all over his brother’s ER paperwork, but he supposes in hindsight that that doesn't make much sense. He had gone to work like normal that day. It was his supervisor that called. “It was accidental?”
Lambert nods slowly. “I take shit to keep me awake. I can't remember the last time I slept more than two hours in a row.” He looks at Eskel almost afraid, like he thinks he’s going to scold him for just doing his best to cope. Eskel tries to keep the smile he gives more sympathetic than pitying, but it’s a hard line to walk, not to mention his own guilt. How long has Lambert been dealing with all of this? And why is this the first time he’s hearing about any of it? What happened to the little brother who followed him around everywhere and told him his every move, the one who let him hold him tight even when he kicked and screamed, or when he was paralyzed by fear? Maybe Eskel has simply been too absent to witness the changes. Maybe he even caused them by being away.
“You’re looking guilty. Stop,” Lambert tells him off.
“Sorry.” Eskel tries to think about the timeline of it all. Did he mean it when he said he was doing alright last winter, or was that another lie to make Eskel feel better? “Why didn’t you come home last winter?”
Lambert inhales and looks away again. “I didn’t— I don’t know. It gets harder every year. And— it’s hard to imagine anyone really wants to see me, you know?”
That cuts deep. How badly have Eskel and the rest of them been fucking up if Lambert really thinks they’re all better off without him home? “We all miss you.”
Lambert lets out a bitter laugh and shakes his head. “No way. Even Vesemir?”
“Shit, Lamb, especially him. There’s always an empty seat at dinner. Two of ‘em.” This gives him pause. Eskel thinks if he looks closely he can see the tears welling up in Lambert’s eyes. “It would be good to have at least one of you.” Lambert sags into Eskel’s shoulder and he wraps his arms around his brother, as tight as the somewhat awkward positioning will let him, and lets him shake with silent sobs. He vows to never let Lambert deal with something like this alone, even if it’s self-imposed. Eskel will be there every step of the way, from now on.