Chapter Text
Geralt had reached a level of boredom that even he found absurd. With little else to do, he decided to tackle deep cleaning the living room. Ciri was safely tucked away in her playpen, her attention fixed on the tablet strapped above her. Yennefer’s voice filtered through the speakers, soft and melodic, as she cooed at their daughter. Ciri, in turn, giggled and babbled, her tiny hands reaching out as if she could touch her mother through the screen.
This has become a daily ritual. Yennefer would call for at least an hour, her sole focus on entertaining and engaging with Ciri. Geralt tried to ignore the pang of something he couldn’t quite name. Jealousy? No, not quite. Resignation, more likely. After all, Ciri was as much Yennefer’s as she was his. And seeing her so happy during these calls—her entire face lighting up at the sound of her mother’s voice—was worth whatever Geralt felt in those moments.
With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the closet. It was a mess, crammed with forgotten boxes, old tools, and bits of furniture that no longer had a home. He pulled out a dusty stack of photo albums, their covers dulled with age. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he flipped one open, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The first photograph was an old image of a young, brown-haired Vesemir. In his arms squirmed a chubby infant who could only be Eskel. The baby looked like he was seconds away from escaping Vesemir’s grasp. Geralt chuckled softly. Vesemir had adopted Eskel as an infant, though the full story of how that came to be was something Geralt had only ever heard in fragments.
Turning the page, Geralt came across a photo of himself. He couldn’t have been more than eight, standing stiffly in front of a garish mall Yule backdrop. The sweater he wore—an ugly, overly festive thing—looked like it itched terribly. He remembered the day vaguely. It was his first Yule at Vesemir's house. A part of him wondered, as he often did, if his mother regretted abandoning him in the mountains. Did she ever feel guilt? Did she ever look for him after?
His gaze shifted from the photo to Ciri, who was still chattering happily at the tablet. She had her mother—sort of. It was more than he’d had, at least. He turned back to the album, flipping through the pages.
There was Lambert, grinning with a toothy defiance as he posed in his hockey gear. Lambert had hated this place at first, but it was better than his home before. But time, and Vesemir’s unnerving patience, had turned things around. Eventually, Lambert had settled, though not without thoroughly ensuring Vesemir’s hair turned white in the process.
Geralt chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. The next photo was of Coën. He was sitting on a beach, surrounded by the rest of them. Geralt’s smile faded slightly at the thought of Coën’s parents, and that car crash that had left him an orphan.
He didn’t linger on the thought for long. A sudden cry from the playpen pulled his attention. Ciri’s face was scrunched up, her tiny fists waving in distress. Yennefer’s call had ended. The tablet screen was dark now, and her mother was gone.
“Alright, princess,” Geralt said softly, standing to scoop her up. He cradled her close, rocking her gently as he murmured soothing words.
Ciri’s cries began to quiet, her small body relaxing against him. Geralt pressed a kiss to her forehead, her warmth grounding him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
It was only a few minutes later that Lambert showed up looking like someone had pissed him off . His boots thudded against the floor as he stomped into the house, a dark scowl etched onto his face. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, his sharp gaze locking onto Geralt almost immediately.
“Ready?” Lambert asked, his voice curt.
Geralt barely looked up from where he was sorting through a pile of things Jaskier might need for the day while balancing Ciri on one hip. “Not yet,” he replied, his tone calm. “Jaskier’s running late. Said he’s caught up in some kind of meeting—something about ‘pop star training,’ or whatever that means.”
Lambert’s frown deepened at the mention of Jaskier. It was as if the very name soured his mood further, his lips pressing into a thin, disapproving line. Geralt didn’t miss the way his shoulders stiffened, but he chose not to comment, keeping his focus on packing a small bag for Ciri.
The sound of the front door opening interrupted them. Jaskier breezed in, holding a notebook and pen, his energy high. His hair was slightly mussed, and his face was alight with excitement. “Morning!” he greeted, his voice cheerful and loud. “You wouldn’t believe the writing frenzy I’ve been on! I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I started again.”
Jaskier looked over the moon, his smile wide and genuine. Spotting Ciri nestled in Geralt’s arms, he leaned closer, his voice softening as he cooed, “Oh, hello, my darling. Rough morning, was it?”
Ciri perked up immediately at the sight of him, her little arms reaching out eagerly. She squirmed in Geralt’s hold, making her wishes very clear.
Geralt let out a quiet chuckle, transferring her over to Jaskier. “Already won her over, have you?”
“What can I say? I have that effect on people,” Jaskier said with a laugh, cradling Ciri like a natural. She settled against him, babbling happily, her tiny hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt. Jaskier looked utterly charmed, his focus entirely on her as he began softly humming one of his songs.
Meanwhile, Geralt glanced over at Lambert, who was watching the scene unfold with an expression that was rapidly shifting from irritation to something closer to fury. His face was beginning to turn a deep shade of red, his jaw clenched tightly.
“I’ll be in the truck,” Lambert said abruptly, his voice stiff. Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and marched out of the house, his boots echoing sharply against the floor.
Jaskier, too absorbed with Ciri, didn’t even notice Lambert’s abrupt exit. He was busy making silly faces to keep her entertained, her laughter ringing out in delighted bursts.
Geralt took his time walking to the truck, leaving Jaskier and Ciri behind. He wasn’t in a hurry—not when Lambert was in one of those moods. The moment he climbed into the passenger seat, he glanced sideways at Lambert, who was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His face was flushed, the deep red creeping up his neck and into his ears. Geralt hadn’t seen him this worked up in quite a while, and it wasn’t a good sign.
The silence in the truck was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the engine as Lambert pulled away from the house. They drove down the street without a word, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
Geralt’s phone buzzed, cutting through the quiet. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. It was a notification for a new group chat.
Eskel: Something up with Lambert.
Geralt’s brow furrowed as he looked at the list of participants: Eskel, Coën, and himself. Just those three. He smirked faintly at Eskel’s tact—or lack thereof—and typed back quickly.
Geralt: No shit.
There was a brief pause before Coën chimed in.
Coën: Any clue what it’s about?
Geralt stole a glance at Lambert, who was still laser-focused on the road, his jaw clenched tight. Whatever was going on, he wasn’t about to talk about it.
Another message popped up.
Eskel: I saw Aiden leaving his house with suitcases this morning. Gaetan picked him up, I think.
Geralt blinked, rereading the message. Well, that explained the storm cloud currently hovering over Lambert.
Coën: You think they broke up?
Eskel: You act like he tells me this stuff. I only know because I live a few houses down from him.
Geralt turned the phone over in his hand, trying to piece it together. Aiden was gone, apparently, and Lambert looked like he was on the verge of snapping.
The truck rolled to a stop at a red light, and Geralt chanced a look at Lambert again. His brother’s expression was like stone, his lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were fixed on the road, but Geralt could see the tension radiating off him. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor, and his hands were still locked on the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Geralt asked finally, breaking the silence.
Lambert’s jaw worked, his mouth opening like he was about to say something, but then he closed it again. The light turned green, and he stomped on the gas, the truck lurching forward.
“Nothing to say,” Lambert grumbled eventually, his voice low and tight.
“Right.” Geralt didn’t push. Not yet. He knew better than to prod Lambert when he was this wound up. He’d get it out of him eventually—whether Lambert liked it or not.
Instead, Geralt picked his phone back up, letting his fingers hover over the group chat.
Geralt: Not sure yet. Will figure it out.
Jaskier’s phone buzzed not long after Geralt had left with Lambert. He glanced at the screen to find a message waiting for him.
Geralt: Mind asking Aiden if he’s okay?
Jaskier frowned, his brow furrowing as he tapped out a quick reply.
Jaskier: I mean, sure, but this is a bit out of the blue.
He stared at the screen for a moment, wondering what this was about. But curiosity got the better of him, and he sent Aiden a quick text asking if he wanted to meet up for coffee later. The response came within minutes: Aiden agreed.
By mid-afternoon, Jaskier found himself sitting across from Aiden at a cozy café, a steaming latte in front of him. Aiden looked as polished as ever, dressed sharply with his hair neatly tied back. But there was something off—something tired in his posture...
“Oh, love, how are you?” Jaskier asked warmly, offering his brightest smile as he leaned forward.
“I’m making it,” Aiden replied with a small, practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
The two sipped their drinks for a moment in silence before Jaskier gently pressed, “You don’t look like someone who’s just ‘making it.’ What’s going on?”
Aiden hesitated, his fingers tightening around the mug. For a moment, Jaskier thought he might brush the question off, but then Aiden exhaled a weary sigh.
“I’m taking a break from my partner,” he admitted quietly. “We haven’t… broken up, but it feels like we might as well have.”
Jaskier tilted his head, concern etched across his face. “Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Aiden let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Because I’m tired, Jaskier. I love them—I really do. But I’m tired of being a secret.”
Jaskier’s heart clenched as he watched Aiden struggle to explain his feelings.
“They’ve been there for me through so much,” Aiden continued, his voice softer now. “Even when I went blind, they were there. They helped me adjust, they didn’t leave when everything got hard. And I’m grateful for that. But…” He trailed off, his expression distant. “It feels like I’m not enough—not enough to be seen, to be acknowledged publicly. I’m just this… hidden part of their life.”
Jaskier leaned back, the words hitting him harder than he’d expected. He knew that feeling all too well. His thoughts drifted to Radovid—the secret nights together, the careful affection, the way Radovid had justified it all as necessary for his political career. It had chipped away at Jaskier, little by little, until there was nothing left but regret and a lingering ache in his chest.
“I’ve been there,” Jaskier said softly, his voice tinged with sympathy. “Hiding because someone else needed it to be that way… it’s exhausting, isn’t it?”
Aiden nodded, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah. It is.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the understanding between them unspoken but palpable.
Geralt stared at the message Jaskier had sent him, his lips pressing into a thin line as he read it again. The weight of the words gnawed at him, and without another word, he passed his phone to Eskel, Vesemir, and Coën, letting them read it for themselves.
Eskel groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Gods, I knew Lambert could be a dick, but this? This is pushing it.”
Coën frowned, leaning over to get a better look at the message. “Why the hell would he even think we’d care about that? It’s not like anyone here has ever said or done anything to make him think that.”
Geralt gritted his teeth. Coën might not have meant anything by it, but it was clear he didn’t fully understand. “Lambert’s dad was a lot of things,” Geralt said, his voice rough. “An abusive ass, a flaming racist, a raging alcoholic—and, yeah, probably homophobic too. It’s not exactly a stretch for Lambert to assume the worst, even with us.”
Coën froze, his brow furrowed. “We’re not like that,” he said firmly. “He has to know that.”
“Maybe he doesn’t,” Eskel muttered. “How was Lambert today?”
Geralt sighed, thinking back to the scowl Lambert had worn all morning. “Like someone shit in his mailbox,” he admitted.
Vesemir, who had been quiet up to this point, let out a deep, weary sigh and rubbed his temples. “Geralt, we have somewhere to go,” he said finally.
“What?” Geralt asked, confused.
Vesemir didn’t elaborate. Instead, he stood, grabbed his coat, and motioned for Geralt to follow him. “Come on. We’re fixing this shit.”
Geralt hesitated but relented, following Vesemir out to the car. Ciri was left in the care of Coën and Eskel, who watched them leave with matching looks of confusion and concern.
The drive south was tense and quiet. Vesemir didn’t say much, and Geralt didn’t press, though curiosity gnawed at him. After an hour or so, they pulled up to a house—a large, well-kept one that looked out of place in the quiet countryside.
“This is Guxart’s place,” Vesemir said as he stepped out of the car.
Geralt followed, frowning. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Vesemir didn’t answer. He approached the door and knocked firmly. After a moment, the door opened, revealing a tall man with striking red and white hair, his sharp eyes narrowing at the sight of Vesemir.
“Vesemir,” Guxart said, his voice gruff. “What brings you here?”
Vesemir folded his arms, matching Guxart’s stance. “It seems our boys are close,” he said simply, “and I think it’s only right to invite Aiden to Yule dinner.”
Guxart raised an eyebrow, a dry snort escaping him. “Is that so?”
Before Vesemir could respond, an older woman appeared behind Guxart, her features strikingly similar to Aiden’s. She said something in a language Geralt didn’t understand, her tone questioning.
“أنت تتحدث عن صديق أيدن، أليس كذلك؟”
Guxart nodded. “نعم.”
The woman rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before saying, “I’ll get back to my knitting.” She disappeared back into the house, leaving Guxart to shake his head.
Guxart turned back to the door and bellowed up the stairs, “(إيدن)، انزل على الدرج!”
Geralt heard faint footsteps as someone descended the stairs, the sound of a hand gliding along the railing. Aiden appeared a moment later, his sharp features calm but curious. He looked toward the voices, tilting his head slightly.
“Vesemir?” Aiden asked, his brow furrowing.
Vesemir nodded, though Aiden couldn’t see it. “I came to invite you to Yule dinner at my house,” he said, his tone firm but warm. “You’re welcome there, Aiden. Lambert would want you there.”
Aiden’s expression shifted from confusion to cautious hope, his lips parting slightly in surprise. “He… he wants me there?”
Vesemir nodded again, this time more resolutely. “He does. And so do the rest of us.”
For a moment, Aiden stood frozen, processing the words. Then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “Thank you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.