Work Text:
‘That pear looks like a butt.’
The words hung in the air for a few seconds before someone cracked up, loudly and unabashedly and the awkward silence in the room was replaced by the steady buzz of laughter and easy conversation.
‘Lambert!’ Geralt hissed from the corner of his mouth, refusing to lean toward his brother and betray the fact they actually knew each other. ‘You promised you’d behave.’
‘What? It’s true! It even has a cleftal horizon and a bumhole, look!’ Lambert said rather loudly whilst pointing at the still-life photograph displayed in front of Geralt.
So much for discretion. Not that he should’ve expected any less from his terror of a younger brother, if he was honest with himself.
‘Actually, it’s called the intergluteal cleft—’
‘Tomayto, tomahto, Pretty Boy. Can’t you see I’m making an effort here?’ He waved the paintbrush he was holding around them. ‘I haven’t insulted anyone or cursed even once since we got here!’ He seemed oddly proud of himself as he made that statement, a smirk lingering on his face.
‘I told you to stop calling me that!’ Geralt should not have been surprised by his brother’s behaviour, and yet here he was, again. He sighed. Siblings.
Annoying Geralt without triggering him into retaliating was an art Lambert had mastered decades ago. He probably enjoyed pestering his big brother too much for his own good, but right now they were in public and Geralt hated drawing attention to himself.
Sure, Geralt would grind his teeth and sigh and whinge quietly but he would not make a scene unless Lambert crossed some gods-awful line and he hadn’t done that deliberately in at least twelve years (it had been awful for everyone involved and Lambert had regretted it immediately and apologised profusely and sincerely—he’d somewhat minded his tongue since).
Lambert grabbed the glass of wine resting next to his canvas by the stem with his left hand and took a sip just as his right hand started painting the dark background layer on the canvas.
Larissa, the small and laid-back woman leading the Paint & Sip event, had let them pick from Duke Nicolas chardonnay, Metinna rosé and Sansretour pinot noir and there was no way Lambert was spending three hours playing nice with his brother unless red wine was involved, so pinot noir it was for him. Geralt, on the other hand, had gone for the blush wine and cheekily asked for ice cubes and a straw, the monster.
‘When have I ever listened to you, Wolf?’ Lambert asked, winking at him. See? All grown up and mature-acting. He’d riled Geralt up, now he could just let him simmer for a couple of hours. Somebody give him a fucking gold medal. ‘Besides, you’re the one who asked me to tag along cos you were ditched by your date. You should be nice to me.’
‘Jaskier did not ditch me! Keira called and asked him to cover the dinner shift tonight, Regis is sick. He texted me as soon as he found out.’
Geralt squinted at his palette, trying to mix the good ratio of red and yellow paint to obtain a light orange that would work well for the persimmons' flesh.
‘Yeah, yeah. Sure. Speaking of, when are you bringing him over to dad’s for Sunday roast? He and Eskel keep nagging me because apparently you don’t read or reply to their text messages.’
Geralt let his eyes wander and looked at his brother, who was decidedly spending too much time painting the hammered Damascus pattern of the santoku’s blade. Weirdo.
‘Hmmm. It’s a bit early for him to meet the whole clan, don’t you think? We’ve only just started seeing each other.’
Lambert almost replied that that hadn’t stopped him when he’d first begun dating Yennefer (or Triss, for that matter), but he bit his tongue and didn’t rib Geralt. If he’d actually learnt some lessons from his past mistakes, no one had to know.
‘It’s up to you and him, really. I know he’s a decent, mostly reliable guy.’ He nudged Geralt with his elbow. ‘Just make sure you let Ciri know when he’ll be joining us, she’s been insufferable about having to hear about him from her grampa and not her own dad, yeah?’
If you asked Lambert, it was a bit intense how everyone in their family was involved in each other’s personal lives, but then he was good at keeping mum and his private life very private.
‘Will do, ta,’ said Geralt. He swirled his wineglass, making sure the ice cubes made a lot of noise before grinning widely and sucking his wine through the straw when Lambert made a half disgusted, half constipated face. It was so easy to rile his brother up sometimes.
Geralt had been so focused on his painting that it was only at the end of the event, almost three hours later, that he noticed some of the details his dear brother had painted on his own canvas.
‘Sweet Melitele—Lambert!’
Sometimes Geralt really wanted to strangle him.
‘What? You don’t like my painting?’
He sounded so smug, the little gremlin.
‘The pear! Why is your pear covered in brown fuzz?’ Why would anyone do that to that poor fruit?
‘I told you at the beginning of the event, that pear looks like a butt! And butts are hairy. Ergo, hairy pear,’ Lambert said.
‘Butts are—oh my gods.’ Geralt covered his eyes with a hand. ‘I swear, I can’t take you anywhere.’
Lambert chortled, the menace. ‘I’m pretty sure we established that when I was, what, ten, maybe eleven years old? When you and Eskel took me to that waterpark?’
Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering. ‘We do not talk about that day at the waterpark, Lambert.’ Gods, he’d had nightmares for weeks afterwards. ‘You were such a piece of work. Still are, sometimes.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Lambert waved him off. ‘I love you too, you big ninny. Now finish that diluted monstrosity you call wine in your glass and we can pack and go.’
Wanting to lead by example, Lambert poured what was left of his pinot noir into his glass, swirled it around and started swigging his wine when he felt someone stop behind him.
‘Oooooh! Nice butt you got there!’
Lambert had not expected that. Thankfully, even though he almost choked on one hell of a mouthful, he did not wine-spray his chef-d'oeuvre. He managed to get most of it down, let out a strangled-sounding gulp of air, and then swore quietly when some wine did escape his mouth anyway and dribbled down his chin. He grabbed a serviette and quickly wiped the lower half of his face before turning around, grumbling.
‘Beg your pardon?’
He narrowed his eyes at his cheeky interlocutor.
Tall. Long, straight, black hair and a goatee. Warm, dark brown eyes. A confident smile. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on.
Oh no.
‘I said, “Nice butt you got there!” Also, hi! I’m Aiden, nice to meet you.’ The newcomer extended his hand toward Lambert with a raised eyebrow.
Lambert blinked twice. He was so screwed. He took Aiden’s hand in his.
His handshake was firm. Not too soft or too strong. Just right.
‘Lambert.’
‘I know, I heard,’ Aiden said, motioning with his chin at an oblivious Geralt just a few feet away.
Aiden released his hand and Lambert felt something on his palm. He looked down and realised it was a scrap of paper with the phrase Text me -Aiden and a series of digits on it.
The smooth fucker.
When he tried to make eye contact with Aiden, Lambert realised the other man was making his way back to what he assumed was the group he’d come to the event with.
Fuck it.
‘Hey, Aiden?’
‘Yes, Lambert?’
‘Did you mean mine or the pear’s?’
Aiden’s melodious laughter filled the class.