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Lambert knew it was the kind of thing bound to happen. He was a good liar when he wanted to, although he preferred to be brutally honest. Lying to himself, however? He was really, really good at it. He mastered it years, decades ago, even if he was not sure when, exactly.
Did he fall in love with Geralt the first time had they met, when he was back from the Path, and Lambert was still a youngling in training, angry at the world and all these fuckers for depriving him of being human? Or had it been a few winters later, when they shared a drink and a game of Gwent and Lambert lost at some point, too unfocused, because yes, Witchers had the same eyes, but there was something in Geralt’s?
Was it when Lambert had screamed and trashed what was left in the laboratory because all these deaths, all this pain, had always been too much for him to deal with, but after the sacking it was even more than too much, and Geralt hadn't tried to stop him?
Was it when Lambert had spent an entire winter plagued by nightmares and Geralt had allowed him to sleep with him, his firm chest under his head not quite stopping the nightmares but enough for comfort?
Or was it in the Path, when they had crossed, when he had been hurt, and Geralt had patched his wounds? When Geralt had allowed him to wash his hair?
When Geralt would made sure he’d still spend the night in a bed (whether his or Geralt’s) when he'd drank too much, when Geralt would take his place when Vesemir asked him to peel the vegetables because he knew Lambert couldn’t stand the stillness of it, when he’d let Lambert go hard on him during training because he needed to be let lash out ?
It’s been decades since he was in love with his brother — they were not by blood, and this brotherhood never stopped any of the Witchers from fucking each other (how many times did he smell Geralt on Eskel? Eskel on Geralt?), and it had been so long since he did his best to hide his feelings from everyone, himself included.
Geralt, for all his grunts and self-depreciation, was actually quick to bed people he liked. Or the people he liked were quick to bed him, Lambert was never sure how Eskel and Geralt, and Geralt and Triss and Geralt and Yennefer and Geralt and his bard and all these people got together and he didn’t want to know. All he knew was that if Geralt wanted him, he’d have taken him, one of the nights they had spent together.
Sometimes, his aggressiveness towards Geralt was honest. He loathed Geralt for making him feel so many things, for making him discover that there were other things in the world than anger and hate and alcohol and tears unable to get out, and he hated how it was just a painting he could only look at but never touch.
The first petals he coughed didn’t surprise him. He had read about it, about how true, repressed and unrequited love sometimes resulted in the other person dying. Lambert sure felt like dying some days, especially during winters. He loathed winters as much as he loved them. Loved them, of course, because it was the time of the year when they spent time together, when he could see and smell and hear Geralt. Hated them, so much more, because everyone treated Kaer Morhen as home and Lambert was never able to do so, to pretend so; hated it even more because he could see the gap between him and Geralt. Eskel and Geralt and their quiet friendships, how they didn't need words to communicate; Vesemir and Geralt, and how he’s the golden child, the perfect witcher despite all his fuck-ups; Coen and Geralt, when Coen was here, and how it was easy for the Griffin to get Geralt to be physical and comfortable with him.
Lambert never had that type of relationship with Geralt. Geralt always considered him as some sort of a child, a younger brother perhaps, but never an equal. Geralt cared about him because everyone cared about everyone if it’d kill them to admit it, and treated him the same, but never trusted him with his feelings. Lambert’s never been the one Geralt told about Yennefer first or about whatever came into his mind. Winters reminded him of it every time.
He had read about the disease. Some called it hanahaki, other wymiokwia, or just the Lonely. Lambert never dwelled on it because witchers were not supposed to feel emotions, even less enough feelings to have them killed. Plus, the Lonely wasn’t that common. He encountered some of the sick, but it wasn’t a plague: thankfully, not every unrequited love ended with this disease, else they’d be walking on corpses.
Lambert briefly angered when he coughed the first petals because it was unfair it happened to him, after so long, when he’d become comfortable pinning from afar, content to see Geralt doing whatever the hell he was doing with his sorceress and his surprise child. Destiny had decided to fuck him over. Classical.
He first coughed up barberis leaves. It happened over the first winter with Geralt and Cirilla. It was a few leaves, now and then, and it was oh so easy to hide. The coughings always announced themselves and Kaer Morhen was a huge place — plus the focus was on Geralt’s guests. No one bothered to check on him.
At some point during the year, when morning glory petals and lavender whorls joined the Barberis leaves, he picked up a book about the disease, about flowers and their meaning.
It bothered him to know there was a recurrent meaning for the flowers because it meant it was something shared by humans which somehow implied that someone, somewhere, a god or something, carefully chose what plant to give to humans to whatever feelings they felt — and actually he liked the idea of gods existing because it meant he could punch someone for his life.
He was delighted to learn that the Barberis leaves were about sourness and resentment. Very fitting. The other two were more classical: morning glory for devoted friendship and lavender for fervent love. The sheer number of flowers one could cough meaning “I love you” impressed him.
Gods, he hated Geralt.
*
The few, scattered petals turned into full flowers, the same way that the annoying coughings turned into disabling ones. As the months, and then the years passed by, fighting monsters became a true challenge. He had to time it, not to over-exert himself if he didn't want to be snatched by a monster while being caught by a paralyzing coughing fit.
Blood smeared the flowers and his whole body went into it. A coughing fit meant that he’ll have to drop everything and let this goddamn disease have his way with him, muscles contracting so much they turned weak. He was used to getting choked, to not be able to breathe, but it was ridiculous. It was ridiculous to be killed by your own body.
*
The thing about Kaer Morhen during winter was that besides snow and ice, there was nothing so colourful petals could not be hidden.
It was hard enough to hide his sickness, keeping track of the petals was exhausting.
He could see that they were worried. Thankfully he still acted bitter and acid and angry, so he didn't seem to be out of character but he caught his reflection in a mirror through the year and he could see how ghastly and gaunt he appeared, dark circles under his eyes.
As each time he coughed it was loud enough he feared to spit his lungs too, finding a place where his agonising sounds wouldn't be heard was a challenge. He also had little time, when a fit surged, to hide and so he spent almost all his time away. He didn't sleep in his bedroom anymore. He walked on eggshells whenever he went down for a meal.
Sometimes they'd go after him but one didn't live long as a witcher if he didn't how to hide properly – and between his pranks played as a child here and his general need to get away from the world, he knew Kaer Morhen like the inside of his pocket.
Training had been a tough one: Vesemir wanted them to train all winter, not that much because he feared for their abilities but because it was a way to release the emotions they pretended not to have. He'd have loved to kick Geralt's butt, but he couldn't afford to: whenever strain was put on his lungs, he started coughing. It was inevitable.
So, for the first time since forever, one of them skipped training for an entire season. This, maybe more than anything else, shed a strange mood on the castle.
*
The days grew warmer and they'd soon be on the road again. It was probably Lambert's last winter.
It was very early in the morning, dawn barely showing. He was sitting in one of the highest towers, admiring the breathtaking spectacle of the sun shining on the snow of the mountain. Wherever he landed after this life, he won't miss much from this world, but this view? Nothing could replicate it.
He should have stronger feelings about his upcoming death. His brothers would be sad. Geralt would be sad – but certainly not as much as if Eskel or Ciri had died. They would spend winter mourning him, maybe another one, then he'd be a memory, one they won't think about but that'll accompany them until they remember only his name, like they remembered their life of Before.
He didn't have to turn to know that the steps he was hearing were Geralt's. He didn't try to run away. It was maybe one of the last times he'd see the man he was dying for.
“Lambert,” he said.
Lambert didn't acknowledge him, continuing to bathe in the view.
It didn't seem to deter Geralt who walked to him but didn't sit down. Lambert didn't invite him to.
“I'm guessing you'll go as soon as the snow melts,” Geralt said after a moment.
Lambert grunted yes.
“I'll stay here a bit longer with Ciri, maybe til mid-spring.”
Lambert shrugged. It was so unlike Geralt to fill the void with personal information. He didn't think his behaviour would perturb the man that much.
He didn't want to watch the man, but his presence attracted him. He wanted to touch Geralt, for Geralt to see him, for Geralt to love him and let be loved by him, for Geralt to see him as him, as an equal.
Bile raised in his throat, but he didn't know if it came from his rising rage against the man or these godsdamn petals and flowers and whatnots.
Geralt crouched next to him and Lambert, oh, Lambert wanted to punch his expression of fatherly concern off his face when he turned to face him.
“Are you the one who brought them?”
Lambert realised Geralt had an open palm. A mix of green leaves, white and purple flowers.
He couldn't hide the sudden shock from another witcher. Geralt probably heard the skip from his heart.
“No,” he answered because he hadn't brought them.
Geralt sighed as if he was already exasperated, “Lambert, don't lie.”
“I'm not fucking lying,” he answered, detaching each syllable as he ignored how something in his chest was moving.
Geralt nodded, “Any idea where they come from then? We found several of them in the castle or in the snow but none of us brought them.”
Lambert wanted to scream at him, to explain to him how exactly Geralt brought them, but he didn't want Geralt to remember him as someone as pathetic. Dying of love wouldn't be his legacy. They'd think he died fighting some monsters and it'd be better for everybody.
His complex emotions must have shown on his face because Geralt's own face made something complicated and as if someone was making him swallow a sword, he asked, “Is there… anything else you want to talk about?”
He had to break away from his gaze. He had. He had to turn back to the landscape – beautiful landscape, and if he were a poet he'd probably explain to people how this beauty could never match Geralt's eyes – or else he might spill everything. Maybe Geralt would feel guilty. He wanted Geralt to feel guilty. He wanted Geralt to have this realisation that he'd be the cause of his death.
He tore himself off his face and got up. He couldn't stand being in the same space as Geralt. He needed a way out.
That fucker stood up too and followed him. He hated this stubborn asshole. He walked faster.
“What do you want from me?” he snapped as they got to the bottom of the tower.
“I want answers.”
He hated how calm Geralt sounded when everything was boiling inside him. It wasn't fair.
“I have none to give you, get lost.” Surprisingly, it lacked heat and Geralt's widened face was a testament to how he would not let Lambert alone.
“Lambert,” and here was again his fatherly tone, “you clearly have a problem and if you don't want to talk about it with me it's fine, but we're all worried about you.”
“Yes, I have a problem,” he spat, “several actually. It may keep us busy until the snow melts. Do you want to go chronologically?”
Lambert had long stopped walking but kept his distance from the other witcher.
Geralt frowned, “I know you have to deal with… many things.” Lambert snorted. “But there's something more this year.” Lambert didn't answer. “Is it linked to the flowers?”
“Why do you care about the damn flowers,” he cried. “We're lost in nature, why do you care about some fucking flowers.”
He, however, should care about these flowers because he wouldn't keep them inside very long.
“It's winter, in one of the coldest regions of the continent. It's not normal.”
“So are so many things in life! Are we normal?”
The leaves started itching his throat and he had yet to find a way to escape Geralt quickly enough.
“Don't avoid the matter,” Geralt all but growled. “What is happening, what are you hiding?”
“I missed the moment when was your business!”
“You're my brother, of course you're my business!”
Lambert rolled his eyes, for good measure.
Geralt interpreted it as a retreat from Lambert, “You come here, looking like a corpse, worse than I ever see you, how am I supposed to let it slide?”
“Oh, you want a guide on how to? Fine Geralt, I'd give you some directives about how one's supposed to clean his own ass. First of all, you—”
Petals erupted from his trachea, overflowed his mouth and his throat, for one too many times this winter, started to burn.
He tried to stay upright, to keep his composure as he coughed, and coughed, and coughed and gasped and gasped, over and over, throwing up these bloody flowers.
It was too much, even for a witcher, after so long, and the next thing he knew his body gave up on him, falling on the floor. Distantly, he registered Geralt walking towards him, but the abundance of flowers, mixed with some blood and food vomited by the effort of his muscles monopolised all his focus.
It lasted minutes. He reached for some air, tried to keep the flower nside, prayed for it to be over soon. His mutagens, these shits, allowed him to suffer from suffocation way longer than any human. His vision still blurred, his head going light, the world reduced to some hazy lines.
A voice talked to him, but he didn't understand it. It was Geralt, he guessed. Geralt was here and
There were arms around him.
There were Geralt's arms around it.
As if his mind and his body finally reconnected, his coughings lessened enough for him to trash against the embrace.
“Get the fuck away from me!” He shrieked.
Geralt, to his credit, did let him go and Lambert jumped on his feet. He tripped over himself, air still not coming all the way to his brain, but he caught himself just in time.
Not like he could get more embarrassed in front of Geralt.
Some flowers were still stuck, but not enough to deprive him of air entirely and he allowed himself to spit them all before facing Geralt.
He had to face Geralt, he realised. He could turn away and run and hide until the snow melted. He could continue to flee, but now that Geralt had seen how pathetic he was, he may as well face his anger. Geralt deserved every bit of violent words he'd throw at him for killing him like that.
The last flower spat and coughed, he stretched as if Geralt weren't here, as if he didn't care, but all his senses (except his view) were focused on him, on each micro-movement he could make.
Would Geralt question him? Did he guess anything about his love? Maybe Geralt would be a coward and try to forget about it.
Lambert stubbornly glared at the wall, not wanting to be the one to cave.
“Is it Hanahaki?” Geralt's low voice broke the silence. Lambert didn't know what he perceived in his voice: surprise, for sure, maybe some sadness.
“That's an educated guess, the prize for hanging with so many scholars.”
“Who is it?”
Lambert rolled his eyes, “Why would it matter?”
“Because you're dying because of them.”
He sounded a bit fragile. Lambert still didn't want to meet his eyes and tried to keep his posture relaxed, as if he were discussing the weather with his brother.
“Poetic, right?”
He detached every words. “Lambert, who is it?”
“All you need to know is that they don't want me back. So, who cares?” He quite liked to keep Geralt on the guess. He could sense his frustration rising and oh — he'd die soon, he could indulge in some last playing.
“Did you try to talk to them? To tell them you love them?”
The exasperation made Lambert turn towards Geralt, “Are you serious?”
Geralt's face answered for him.
“See, unlike you, I use what's inside my skull. If he wanted me, we wouldn't be talking.”
Geralt frowned, “What do you mean?”
“We'd be fucking, Geralt. You and me."
The expressions on Geralt's face delighted Lambert. First the incomprehension, then the realisation, the surprise, the questions, the answers Geralt made for himself, then a realisation again and then the sadness, the resignation, all of the hell Lambert went through these past decades.
Lambert never deluded himself thinking Geralt loved him back. Alright, sometimes he might have hoped that the declaration, the discovery, would suddenly make Geralt realise his love, his consideration for Lambert, but he knew it was all fantasy.
Geralt blinked a few times “Is there… are they… For how long?”
“What?” Lambert all but spat.
“Did you…” if Lambert didn't resent Geralt so much, he'd find it funny how Geralt was at a loss for words. “When did it happen? Your love? The disease?”
Lambert's mouth twisted in disgust, “I don't know. I don't know when I hit my head hard enough to fall in love with your sorry ass. Decades, I guess.” Surprise suited Geralt well. He had nice cheeks, Lambert thought, and a strong jaw.
No. Now was not the moment to let some… some fondness make his way. He spent so many years wrapping his love in hatred and resentment, now was not the time to open it.
“Got sick four years ago.”
“And you didn't tell me anything?”
“What for? What for, Geralt?”
The man didn't answer.
“For you to tell me: ‘Oh I'm sorry Lambert, but you're just an incompetent, annoying little brother to me, and you should grit less your teeth or you'll break them again’? No, thank you.”
“I don't see you as–”
“I don't care.” Because he did not care. “I don't give a single fuck, Geralt.”
“There must be a solution,” Geralt said.
“No, there isn't.”
“Have you tried–”
“I didn't ask for your opinion, I didn't ask for your help, I didn't ask you to be there, I didn't ask to love you, I didn't ask for anything.”
At that, Geralt flinched. Good.
“Actually, I do ask for something.”
Geralt tensed, like he was waiting for a blow and Lambert was more than happy to give it to him.
“I ask you to leave me alone. To not talk to me anymore. In a few days, I'm descending this mountain and it'll be over. Understood?”
Geralt's face made so many complicated things that Lambert didn't bother to understand it, having enough of a headache.
“ Don't follow me.”
And with that, he fled back in his tower, the sun well above the mountain.
*
None of them had spoken to him, but he knew Geralt had told them. Eskel glanced at him, with sad eyes and Vesemir with disappointment. Of course, Gods forbid this asshole felt a pang of sadness to his death — he’d have preferred for Lambert to find a solution, to accept to follow the rumours of sorcerers who could empty hearts and feelings — for real this time, but Lambert was almost stripped from his humanity once, he wouldn’t suffer through it a second time, especially not by his own volition.
He had avoided Geralt. Sometimes, when they had to be in the same room, he could feel his eyes on him, could hear the hitch of the breath of someone ready to speak, but he must have come each time to the same conclusion: he’d never love Lambert more than he did already, and he wouldn’t change Lambert decision either. He was too stubborn.
They gathered for his departure. He let Eskel hug him because he knew the big boy needed an adieu and Eskel was maybe the only one Lambert felt guilty to sadden.
He nodded to Cirilla. He didn’t know if Geralt told him anything, if she understood on her own or if she was clueless. She had sad eyes though.
He didn’t look at Vesemir.
He hated himself for not being able to contain his emotions seeing Geralt. He looked bad, almost a copy of Lambert’s state, minus the garden in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt said.
Lambert considered him before settling on his horse. He’d have to be careful dying not far from civilisation, he guessed, so his horse could find a new owner.
He heard Geralt open his mouth but he cut him, “Don’t. Nothing you’ll say will make things better or change anything.”
Geralt nodded, breaking his glare from Lambert.
“I wish the worst for all of you,” he said as a goodbye and pressed his horse’s sides to make him trot.
Probably, he’ll regret his last words. They were his family, they were all he had, even if he hated them most of the time, but he couldn’t bring himself to be open or worse, vulnerable.
Just like he hadn't been able to say, in all words, that he loved Geralt.
He didn’t look back.