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It was supposed to be the usual, boring job.
That’s how most stories begin. With the usual, boring contract that goes awry and someone’s ass ending up on the line. Lambert hates this cliché; it’s always supposed to be the usual until someone almost loses a limb or some equally shocking shit like that. Today’s job isn’t even “the usual” but something infinitely more humiliating than that. Work is scarce - truth to be told, Lambert has never lived through a lucky season, with plenty of work, since he has left Kaer Morhen for the first time as a full-fledged witcher - despite summer being in its prime and, to add insult to injury, Aiden seems to be a lot more clingy this year – they’ve barely parted twice since meeting in bloody ass Hengfors at the beginning of spring, when snow still covered the roads up north and Lambert had to sleep with two shirts and a heavy woolen cloak not to freeze his prick off during the long, lonely nights before reaching Caingorn. Usually, they spend a little more time apart when it’s fucking clear that people are more than just put off by two witchers working together. But no. That’s how this shitty year is going. A long series of “Sorry, good masters, we don’t have the coin for two of your trade”. Needless to say, Aiden’s heart is way bigger than his own, so he’s always a tad too willing to cut their already meager pay just to slay some rotfiends and call it a honest day of honest work. Sometimes, Lambert feels he’ll never truly understand his antics. One day, he steals with the millimetric precision of a professional from the market, the other he’s all gooey and kind-hearted while helping an old woman find her lost dog. One day, he pickpockets a halfling on the road, the other helps a dwarven family pro bono with a wraith infestation, dragging Lambert along because that’s how Aiden is.
That being said, this shouldn’t be a two witchers’ job. They’ve perused some notice boards along the Pontar, finding a couple of uninteresting and underpaid jobs on the way, and now they’re at it with a nest of drowners giving hell to the local fishermen, sinking the occasional boats and munching on the poor fishermen when they’re tired of sucking half-rotten wooden planks. Sure, they’re incredibly outnumbered, tired from the endless days of travel, soaked to the bone, but – well. Lambert would have managed pretty fine on his own, while Aiden could have worked on the other contract, a little ghoul infestation in an ancient burial site up the low hills westwards.
But no.
He has insisted. Though Lambert has sworn himself he wouldn’t be that kind of man who gets easily coaxed into doing something by a pair of puppy eyes and strong arms wrapped around his middle, he can’t resist Aiden’s persuasive methods, not really. And puppy eyes work just fine on him as they work on Eskel. His sword deep in the stinky guts of a drowner, Lambert curses himself. When he retracts the blade, the squelching sound the decayed, slimy innards make causes a great turmoil in his stomach, despite it being miserably empty from yesterday’s dinner. To brush away the acrid burn of bile in his throat, he focuses on Aiden’s steady presence nearby, almost imperceptible given his stealth training, his steps silent and measured, the deadly dance of his sword gently moving the still summer air.
“You doing good?” He asks, though knowing the answer already, when another drowner charges and he slices through its hypermobile neck without so much as breaking a sweat – which, by the way, is entirely to blame on the weather, not on the drowners. Drowners are easy, gullible beasts. All instinct and no finesse. He strains to hear a soft grunt coming from Aiden’s parted lips, and the splashing caused by his boots stomping on a marshy puddle.
“Yeah. I sense some more drowners coming over. You think we’ll make a few more crowns?”
Lambert chuckles, ducking when vicious claws come for his already scarred face.
“If we don’t I will riot,” he replies, matter-of-factly. He hears Aiden huff out an amused throaty giggle.
“Pay attention to your right side, while you’re at it, Wolf puppy.”
Lambert frowns, pirouetting on his side and evading a vicious blow by an inch. Fucking Cats with their preternatural senses. He has never inquired extensively on the subject, but he distinctly remembers having read somewhere - probably at Kaer Morhen, during a particularly tedious winter - that witchers of the School of the Cat endure a slightly different mutation process, which makes them particularly unstable in the head but, on the other side, gives them even more enhanced senses and survival skills. Aiden’s tolerance of poisons is extraordinary, almost comparable to Geralt’s. He could chug down a vial of mixed neurotoxins and, let’s say, merely sport a mildly inconvenient shortness of breath afterwards. He has seen him take sips and sips of his elixirs, some of which have left Lambert bent over with nasty stomach spasms for hours, without being as much as affected, though the detox process has been a gruesome one. He catches a glimpse of Aiden’s overgrown hair in his peripheral and takes down yet another drowner.
The usual, boring job.
It keeps being nothing more than routine until Luck proves herself to be a bitch once again and, suddenly, it ain’t the usual anymore.
The fight rages, and Lambert’s sore muscles scream. He’s on an empty stomach, leaping, running, brandishing his sword, and the sun is getting higher and higher, meaning that they’ve already been at it for hours…yet the drowners won’t stop coming. He’s starting to believe all the Pontar is regurgitating the hideous beasts one by one, when he distinctly hears a curse, the sound of a twig snapping, and the chaotic sploshing of clumsy arms flopping uselessly in the murky waters. He’s quick to turn on his heels, drowner blood smeared all over his torn gambeson and on his face and hair, assessing the situation and letting out a series of colorful curses that would put a common thug to shame.
Yes, Cats are chock-full on survival skills but, apparently, swimming wasn’t essential in their brutal training program. After all, who needs swimming when the School is well known for high-profile murders and partaking in grand political schemes? Aiden struggles against the tricky mud of the Pontar, his light armor dragging him down, keeping his face submerged under the thick green waters. Drowners are already crowding around, ready for an impromptu snack and Lambert, fuck his absolute hate towards playing the kind knight in a shining armor, plunges himself to the rescue, making quick and minute work of the creatures surrounding Aiden - what a great human invention crossbows are - and then diving deep in the river, its water dark and dirty, tainted with the smell of Aiden’s blood. Lambert must force himself to swallow back the sheer panic gripping at his throat. What if he’s too late? What if the drowners have damaged some vital organ or shredded an artery? The thought is unbearable. Lambert kicks with all his might, having a hard time locating what’s preventing Aiden from swimming towards the surface. Apparently, his boot has been sucked up by the mud, and freeing him proves itself to be more difficult than coming out from a Skelligean tavern without having been involved in a brawl. The mushy bottom must have given in under his weight so suddenly that Aiden hasn’t had the time to react, for how much of a fast thinker he can be. Gulping down mouthfuls of water, Lambert finally pushes his foot out of the mud and swims fast, fast, fast for a breath. The air, though permeated with the stench of several dozens of dead drowners, has never felt more crisp and sweet.
***
“Stop worrying so much. I am fine!”
Aiden’s voice sounds mockingly petulant in the quiet afternoon, clusters of velvety flies following them around as they get back to the village with their disgusting cargo of severed drowned heads, tightly piled and shoved into big jute bags strapped to their saddles. Aiden’s new horse, a Palomino which - he claims - he has obtained with absolutely legal methods, has yet to get accustomed to the smells, and it keeps stomping its hooves stubbornly, its fair nostrils quivering. The last of Aiden’s problems, though.
“Sure. You’re still vomiting mud, but sure.”
Needless to say, Lambert won’t stop worrying until Aiden is fine fine, not just pretending to be. Dry drowning is serious business, but Aiden is decidedly underestimating his situation. When Lambert helped him to the shore, he was shivering, his face ashen gray and his lips slightly blue at the corners. Now the pallor has considerably subsided, but his lips are still somewhat purplish, unmistakably a bad sign – right?
Sometimes, Lambert just wishes he had Eskel’s gift to always know what to do. Always. Or Geralt’s creative problem solving skills. Sadly, he is just Lambert, spite incarnate with a good pinch of salt and so much rage that if unleashed would burn the whole Continent down, and a stagnation of murky water in someone’s lungs isn’t something he can fix with anger or violence. If only it was that simple. Fuck.
Another fit of cough makes Aiden bend over the saddle and spit down a trickle of greenish water. It reeks of fish, drowner guts and blood. Lambert’s chest clenches painfully at the sight. Contrary to what everybody might think, he’s far from a heartless bastard, which is why he dismounts and carefully approaches Aiden, still bent over his horse’s neck, to rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades and ease the spasms in his back.
“Like fuck you’re fine, Aiden,” he grumbles when his familiar fingers seize his wrist and squeeze it tight, making Lambert’s bone creak in a loud protest.
“I’m almost done,” Aiden replies breathlessly. “I don’t feel that annoying sloshing in my chest anymore.”
Lambert would very much like to scold him like a child for behaving so recklessly and keep the fact that he was feeling uncomfortable to himself, but he refrains because it takes one stubborn asshole to know another. It’s like the story of the pot and the kettle and so on, and so on – how many injuries he has kept from Aiden? How many torn stitches, aching muscles, more or less chronic pains? It would be unfair to call him out on something he himself does all the time.
Still.
“You should have told me.” He tries so hard to hide the slight resentment cutting through his stern voice. He fails, of course, and he’d gladly slap himself twice for how visibly Aiden’s eyes darken in the beating sunlight. “We’ll find a healer anyway,” he’s quick to add, in lieu of a real apology. “For a soothing concoction or something.”
Aiden scoffs lightly.
“Or better. You should punch me until I throw up everything.”
Nice suggestion. Questionable outcome. Lambert shakes his head.
“Oh, yes, so I can bend your spine for good. Mmmh. I wonder how much coin can a cripple witcher can make in a year.”
“I wasn’t kidding. And I might know a couple of witchers who make good coin even if they ain’t in their prime anymore. There was this Bear guy, back in my days, who had lost a hand and still worked fine with a prosthetic. Or the many of our brethren who had lost an eye somehow and still continued working nonetheless.”
“Who cares? They’re most likely dead by now. Given how tough it’s getting for our lot, I highly doubt you’ll stand a chance with a hunch, or with chronic back pain.”
“Oh, shut up. I’d be old enough to earn chronic back pain,” Aiden jokes, cracking a smile. Lambert bites at his lower lip so hard he manages to draw a pinprick of blood. Abruptly, out of pure instinct, he cups Aiden’s cheek and runs his thumb over his discolored mouth, waiting for the usual pinkish rose to tint back his lips. He waits in vain, of course. There are so many things he would like to tell Aiden right now, nauseatingly akin to grand declarations of love mostly. Whatever. What he wants, he realizes all of a sudden, is for Aiden to live a fulfilling life, so long he dies on his bed, old and gray, his blades and daggers forgotten somewhere for good. Since he’s so inept with words, though, he doesn’t say anything except for a heartfelt, loving “You’re an idiot” which sounds a tad too brash and rough. Aiden kisses him anyway, his tongue tasting like a sewer drain and his lips cold, clammy despite the torrid warmth steaming from the half-paved road flanking the woods.
“Yeah, but you like me anyway, don’t you?” He winks. Lambert grunts. “Anyway, let’s just head back for now. The alderman will think we’ve been overpowered by drowners and that’s not how I want to be remembered.”
Remembered.
The word sounds even more sourer than Lambert would care to admit. Sadly, though, Aiden has a point. There will be a day in which one of them will only live in the memories of the other, and Lambert dreads that day more than anything else. After all, no witcher has ever died in his bed, they say. No witcher that Lambert knows of, that is.
His heart sits heavy in his chest for the rest of the ride back towards the village.
When they finally get admitted into the old, rickety house where the alderman and his ridiculously huge family reside, the middle-aged man counts the heads, winces at the disgusting sight, and pays them a fair - albeit lowballed - sum in coins and pearls, and then he kindly shoos them away. Excuses, excuses.
“It pains me to ask you, masters, to leave our village before sundown. We’re in the middle of our summer celebrations and we’re expecting some important guests from the nearby towns, you surely understand. The inn will be full, and your ilk doesn’t like to partake in celebrations. Besides our guests could be extremely noisy and-”
Lambert’s brain shuts down after the umpteenth false assumption. Who the fuck doesn’t like to partake in celebrations? Usually, Lambert steers clear from any kind of fun that involves socializing, but Aiden loves community celebrations and often drags Lambert along when he spots a marriage banquet or anything with a big fire to dance around. Fuck, he has even enjoyed himself while prancing and dancing with a flower crown on his head and whatnot. Credulous bigots.
When they leave the alderman’s house - Lambert visibly stomping and loudly banging the door closed on his way out - Aiden, ever the optimist, gives him one of his brightest smiles. Somehow, though, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’ve never liked this side of the river anyway,” he says. Lambert doesn’t miss his labored breath and the pained shadow passing over his face when he stifles another fit of cough.
***
Aiden’s eyebrow quirks playfully when he spots the large tub, filled to the brim, towering at the very center of the room.
“A bath? I’m flattered. Though, I must argue, I think I had enough water for today.”
Lambert can’t help but let out a warning growl, low and throaty. Aiden shows him his raised palms, but he rolls his eyes just because. Childish twat. Lambert feels magnanimous tonight; in spite of their rotten luck, they’ve managed to find a lovely inn - one of the few that are still run by nonhumans in this part of the Continent - where to spend the night and have a hearty dinner at a reasonable price. Aiden has, as always, lingered downstairs by the tavern to play Gwent and dices with a bunch of strange travelers, while Lambert has asked for a tub as he grumbled endlessly about drowner goo plastered to his scalp and splashed across his skin. His gambeson needs urgent mending, but he’s in no mood to play Little Miss Tailor tonight.
“Come on. Let me help you get undressed.”
He is swift and businesslike while unclasping hidden straps, undoing his upper half first and scowling while hearing Aiden’s breathing still labored and distressed, an almost undetectable wheeze set deep into his lungs with each inhale. Aiden kisses his cheek, playful and teasing, his oh-so-beautiful golden irises shining in the dim light cast by the tallow candles.
“What is it with you tonight? Something is troubling you. You suck at keeping things from me.”
Yeah. You wish.
Lambert shrugs, moving onto his sturdy leather breeches, effortlessly peeling them away under Aiden’s intense gaze. Neither of them speak for a while. If Aiden is hoping to keep his breathing difficulties a secret he’s failing miserably, because his breath is louder than a snoring ogre’s and in the complete, quiet stillness of the room it’s ludicrously easy to pick up the ugly cracking noises in his airways. Lambert flashes him some sort of an accusing look, but Aiden seems determined not to acknowledge it, curling his perfect lips upwards and peeling them back to show him his pointy fangs.
“Stop grinning like this. I thought you were the normal one,” Lambert blurts out, a shard of ice breaking through the stuffy atmosphere aggravated by the steamy hot bath waiting for the both of them. Aiden doesn’t stop grinning. In facts, the grin turns into a cackle, then into a cautious but rather honest laugh.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry without a cause, you know that?” He chirps, taking off his knickers and standing there, all glistening skin and naked, primitive glory, the scars littering his lean body a constellation of shining stars that Lambert would gladly spend the rest of his life praising and worshiping.
“Step in the tub before I get even more beautiful,” Lambert snorts back, pulling his crumpled shirt over his head and tiptoeing out of his smallclothes, making a disgruntled face when he finds vile drowner matter smeared over his crotch. Oh, the repugnant bastards. Aiden laughs at his outraged face, but soon enough another fit of cough ravages his throat, leaving him gasping and spluttering, one foot in the tub and one still outside.
“Fuck. Sorry. I must have pulled a muscle. It hurts like hell,” he says, with an apologetic smile, before diving into the wooden tub with a grimace, biting on another curse. Lambert must look awful himself if Aiden is staring at him with that concerned look of his, the same look that makes him weak in the knees. So Geralt was right all along; it’s true what they say, that even the prickliest witchers grow soft with age.
May fucking Melitele prevent me from that.
A shame, though, that he’s thinking that he doesn’t want to go soft while lowering himself into the tub behind Aiden and tugging him tight against his chest, pressing his nose into his long, curly hair, and inhaling his awful smell of fish and death. His neck is scratched badly, the surface wounds swollen and probably a little infected. A couple of livid bruises have bloomed on his ribs and Aiden hisses when Lambert probes around, looking for more serious injuries underneath. He’s satisfied not to find any, though. Aiden stretches and arches his back, his joints popping merrily, and he bends backwards like the most skilled contortionist to flash him a weird upside-down look, doing his outmost to breathe from his nose and keep any sign of distress to himself – still, Lambert knows better.
“Are you going to sulk all night? I thought I had drilled it out of you.”
Lambert must summon all of his control not to snap at that. He snatches a rag instead, uncorks a vial of faintly scented oil with his teeth and pours its whole godsdamned content into the bath, rubbing at the Cat’s scalp to wash away all the grime that’s caked into his curls. The soft, purring sounds coming from his throat are worth a thousand nights like this, even if they’re exhausted and Aiden has nearly drowned in the fucking Pontar – what a stupid way to go. His fingernails scratch at a spot that Aiden particularly likes, so he lets out a quiet appreciative moan, reflexively tucking himself closer to his chest, grabbing at his muscular thighs for leverage. Now, Lambert isn’t sure it might be the best night to engage in some action, but Aiden’s sharp nails digging deep into his skin ain’t something to which Lambert is particularly inclined to resist. He hastily finishes the job, rinsing the oil away and trying not to mind too much the slimy strip of drowner skin floating around his bathwater, just to suck an eager red mark into Aiden’s neck, basking in the beautiful sounds he’s able to elicit while simply nibbling at his skin with his teeth and lips. Really, he wasn’t at all interested in sex, but no man in full possession of his faculties would turn down such a gracious offer. The mood changes quickly, by the way. Namely, when Aiden starts coughing again, this time spitting out not only muddy river water but also blood – his own blood, not drowner fluids.
“Ah, fuck!”
Lambert bolts out, almost taking the tub with him in his desperate search for a basin or a bowl. When he finds it, he places it under Aiden’s chin, shushing him promptly when the asshole tries to apologize for emptying his obviously afflicted lungs while in the middle of some soft foreplay.
Who cares for apologies anyway? Lambert wants Aiden’s fucking lungs to get clear and empty. Otherwise, he might just-
What, drop dead suddenly during the night?
Fear turns the blood in his veins into thin, cutting shards of ice. His heart hammers in his chest, kicking against his sternum like a caged animal dying to break free.
“That’s it, that’s enough,” he mutters when Aiden is done, raking a hand through his oozing hair and tugging at the roots, “I’m finding a healer.”
Aiden, now slouched against the tub, peels one eye open, the strain of breathing through the whole ordeal making his chest heave most painfully.
“There’s no need to…” His protest is weak, uttered between a gasp and the other, cut short by another fit of phlegmy cough. Lambert wouldn’t want to, but he shudders and hesitates before placing the bowl back under his chin to catch a stream of pinkish, frothy saliva dribbling down his gnawed lower lip. “I might…know…a thing…to clear the lungs,” he forces himself to say after a long pause, his raspy breathing chilling Lambert to the bone.
“Why. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me right away?”
Aiden gives him his brand guilty look. Oh, the idiot. Lambert wants to grab him and shake him until his head has stopped spinning with sheer worry.
“I thought I was done coughing up the Pontar,” he replies, attempting at some levity. Lambert grabs a towel to dry himself a little, the wooden planks of the floor squeaking when he paces in panicky circles. The compulsion at literally ripping his hair out of their bulb is getting more and more intrusive, and he’s got to ball his hands in tight fists not to resort to drastic methods.
“Speak,” he drily commands, almost sure he’ll dig a hole in the floor with his restless pacing.
Slightly pushing down his obvious urge to cough and gasp simultaneously, Aiden croaks “You’ll need fresh water.”
Lambert, already busy getting dressed to get down to the well himself, listens. The instructions aren’t difficult to follow. The ingredients are easy to find in every witcher pack that isn’t dangerously short on alchemy ingredients. They lack honey, but he’ll improvise anyway.
When his task of finding some water is complete, anger is still boiling and bubbling inside of him, white hot and impossibly cold at the same time. He wants to scream, but he also wants to hold Aiden and whisper soft promises to his ear until he knows, until he knows he won’t die if he dares look away. What a foolish thought. Aiden is old, resilient. He won’t die for a little water sitting in his lungs.
But.
Better safe than sorry.
Swallowing the hard lump in his throat and occasionally glancing at Aiden’s slouched form, shivering despite the dome of stifling warmth encasing the room, Lambert gets to work on brewing the concoction on a small open fire. Many times Aiden looks on the verge of saying something, but at the very last second he changes his mind. His raspy, labored breathing is drilling holes inside Lambert’s brain.
“I didn’t have to lash out,” he finally admits. And that’s a fucking first, because Lambert never takes back what’s already said and done. Never. Aiden might want to rethink their whole agreement, after this. From friends with benefits to old married couple in less than a whole night. That’s a turn for the fucking unexpected.
Lambert curses as the concoction brews. Of course he does. He hears Aiden shuffling, breathing raggedly, dragging his feet across the room until he's leaning against his back, his forehead pressed into his hair. Silence hangs heavy. So many things to say and the both of them too stubborn to bring themselves to talk first.
"It should be ready."
In the end, it's Aiden who breaks the unbearable silence, drumming his fingers against the fabric of Lambert's wet shirt and pulling away just when Lambert is so fucking ready to squeeze him in a tight embrace and reprimand him for making his life so fucking hard.
But it's never easy when it's two witchers involved, right? Fate has a twisted sense of humor.
He intently watches Aiden gobble down the odd - probably nauseating - mixture, meticulously swallowing each intake without faltering or frowning, his face unreadable and pale. When his golden stare gazes back to his face, Lambert nearly chokes on his own spit.
"I should have been less of an asshole, puppy Wolf. I'm sorry too."
Lambert's tongue knots on itself, preventing any word from streaming out of his sealed lips.
That's for the better, though.
He wouldn't have known what to say anyway.
***
It doesn't come as a surprise to Lambert that, once they curl up together in the too narrow bed, he can't find a good reason to close his eyes and sleep. No matter how weary his body feels, or how sore his tense muscles, he just can't close his eyes and dream of whatever shit his brain is conjuring up for him these days. Aiden, on the contrary, shuts down the very moment Lambert pulls him into his arms, laced protectively tight around his still shuddering back.
Lambert doesn't know if he loves Aiden, this stray Cat without a pack or a family that has crossed his path for a strike of luck, on a sunny day in the picturesque valleys of Ellander. He doesn't know why he stayed after that first contract, when they kept meeting and eventually fell into an easy routine that had soon become a fellowship of some sorts...and then something more. Constantly changing, redefining. Blurring boundaries and praises, promises whispered under the vast canopy of stars, sharing a bottle or having sex. It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. And now he's listening to the rasping sound of Aiden's abused lungs, one strained breath stumbling into the other painfully, unable to think straight because he is afraid.
Of what, puppy Wolf, of being alone once more?
What a stupid question. Lambert was expecting some wits by his inner monologue. One of us should be clever enough , he thinks, not without pulling a face at how nonsensical it feels to pick a fight with his own conscience.
A part of him loathes the loneliness coming with his trade, while another craves it terribly. Human interaction is a pain in his ass – hasn't he endured enough? On the other side, though, Aiden is...like a gust of fresh wind during a sultry summer night. The last drop of wine when someone is thirsty after a frenzied dance. Or, perhaps, Aiden is the dance itself. Lambert doesn't particularly like meddling with complex philosophical concepts, but he's so tired that his brain is literally dragging him around like a dog on a leash.
When he's about to succumb to weariness, however, Aiden wheezes and for a single, long moment Lambert's heart freezes in his chest, then scrambles to a gallop. Sleep is evading him for good. The room is so warm that he's sweating pools in the clean linens. Ears popped open, he listens to Aiden's ragged breath, expecting him to bolt upright and vomit some more water in the next few minutes.
At some point, there's a faint twitch in the Cat's bare leg, and Lambert eases it, placing soothing kisses over his fluttering eyelids until they go still and he heaves out a long sigh.
On a rational level, he's well aware that Aiden will be as good as new come morning, both of their bodies have been subjected to far worse than a little water in the lungs, but it's difficult to disentangle himself from the ball of grimy, spiraling thoughts keeping his guts in a chokehold. Despite putting all of his efforts into locking it in, a small moan dances on the edge of his tongue, broken and wet like a sob. He doesn't remember when was the last time he cried.
"You're not sleeping."
Aiden's voice is distant and coarse. Gravelly, even. Lambert blinks, trapping the tears that have built up in the corners of his eyes inside the thick mass of his eyelashes, and squeezes him slightly – at least he's acceptably warm, now. Sweating even. Yet, none of them is going to shift into a more comfortable position any soon.
"You were. Go back to sleep."
Lambert's voice too sounds weird. He hopes Aiden graciously avoids pointing it out.
His eyes are shining fever-bright in the darkness. The tallow candles have long stopped burning, leaving behind a faint whiff of burnt dust and melted fat. Even if he must put a real effort into it, Aiden props himself up on his elbow, his nose brushing Lambert's just so. His free hand comes to rest on his cheek.
"I know I scared you, puppy Wolf. I know. But I'll be all good tomorrow. It's just a little shortness of breath and a scratched throat. You should sleep."
Lambert should say something sarcastic. Spit venom, maybe. That’s what he does best, after all. Words fail him, though. Even the most spiteful ones. He blinks the last of his unshed tears away and shrugs childishly, a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead, itching on his nose.
“I can do without it. Go back to sleep.”
Time stretches impossibly. Outside the slightly cracked window, crickets chirp their summer song and dandelions wither in the heat.
Aiden's forehead touches his. A featherlight contact. Fleeting. Gentle.
What a wild fucking ride of a day. Aiden has almost drowned. They have almost had sex. He's almost ready to admit that he loves Aiden, it doesn't matter if he has yet to understand what this kind of love - something that has nothing to do with brotherhood and only marginally with comfort - means.
“Hold on. Are you afraid I might drop dead if you don’t stand guard? Oh, you big silly. I won’t die suddenly if you look away.”
There’s something astonishingly soft in the tender edge of Aiden’s temporarily ruined voice. Lambert feels another lump bubble up to his throat, but this time he’s able to masterfully swallow it down before it turns into something else. Tears, perhaps. Again. May the Gods fucking forbid it.
“Fucker,” he rasps, peppering his face with kisses and lingering a little over a translucid scar notching the thin skin under his eye. Aiden giggles imperceptibly.
“Ouch. Stop making me laugh, my ribs still feel sore.”
“Fuck you.”
It’s weird to tell someone to fuck themselves affectionately, if said someone isn’t Eskel. Lambert will grow accustomed to the feeling, sooner or later.
“I’m serious, woof-woof. No more laughing. You need your sleep too, otherwise you’ll crumple prematurely, and we don’t want that, eh?”
Actually, Lambert couldn’t give a single, flying fuck about his looks – aslong as Aiden likes his mug, he’s got nothing to be scared of in terms of aging and other bullshit. He sighs, gulping down mouthfuls of Aiden’s now so painfully familiar scent, and kisses him again, proper and neat, on those lips that less than a few hours ago still looked dangerously pale and purplish.
“Nobody said I didn’t like a little wrinkles.”
Aiden nudges him gently.
“There’s no way I can convince you to sleep, right?”
“Afraid not.”
“How disappointing. I thought I had learned how to persuade you.”
“Aiden-”
The Cat scoffs, shifting and curling even more tightly against him, then he plants a loud kiss into his collarbone, one of those smacking beauties that usually leave Lambert’s skin positively flush for a couple of hours. A few beats and he’s out cold again, his raspy breath now resembling a somewhat human snoring. At least he sounds healthier, a little bit restored. That concoction of his must work wonders.
Lambert’s tired gaze roams around the room, then out of the shutterless window. There’s a chicken coop nearby, and by the noises coming from the hens and chickens rasping around, it won’t be long before dawn breaks. Lambert relaxes imperceptibly against the wall, where he is pressed to leave Aiden a little room in the small bed. Despite the innkeeps being uncharacteristically friendly, there is always only one bed for their kind. He snorts ungracefully from his nose. Gradually, Aiden’s breaths become deeper, more silent and slow. This doesn’t mean that Lambert will stop keeping watch anytime soon, though.