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Christmas time has always been a strange mixture of melancholy and excitement in the Morhen house. Vesemir spends the days leading up to Christmas Eve both preparing and mourning.
His sons know, they can see that glint of something missing in his eyes even as he smiles and hangs lights, makes dinner and watches them open presents. There’s always one extra gift left under the tree, unopened. It’s been there for over ten years, the wrapping paper wrinkled and faded after so many years in and out of storage, tag long faded though they all know who the gift was meant for.
They all feel it, though not as intensely. The hole in the home left by the brother who never got to really be their brother.
They never learned what happened to him, they heard a rumor that he joined a gang and got involved in drugs and crime, but none of them quite believe that. They know he was on the streets, but what happened to him… well, they never hear from him, and they are almost certain that he’s gone.
–
Vesemir is just pouring one of two large cans of tomato into his stock pot when there is a firm knock on the door. He startles, a few drops of red spilling onto his apron and the white linoleum of the floors. He curses, because this apron is new and was a pristine white thing. But that's what it’s for, he supposes. At least it didn’t get on his slippers or shirt.
He sets the can down on the counter and pulls the apron off, lying it over the back of a chair.
He wonders if maybe he’s got another package being delivered. He’s pretty sure all the things that he ordered for his boys already came, but with most of his shopping being done online nowadays he can never really be sure.
That is to say, the last thing he expects when he opens his front door is two young men, huddled together on his porch. They’re dressed for the cold, in warm maroon sweaters and thick pants. One of them has admittedly impressive black curls that fall well past his shoulders and make Vesemir long for his youth. A white medical eyepatch sits over his right eye - the other a striking emerald green. He’s leaning against the other man - Vesemir’s heart leaps into his throat.
Honestly, he barely recognizes him. His hair is darker, and shorter, than it was, slicked back with some kind of citrusy-smelling pomade and he’s sporting some rather thick stubble - he’s taller and broader, too but -
Vesemir would recognize those fierce, rage-filled amber eyes anywhere.
He’s staring. He knows he is - he can’t move - or speak - or breathe .
The man - because he is a man now - licks his lips, eyes darting away nervously.
A single syllable breaks the trance Vesemir is in, “Hey,” Lambert mutters, all tense muscle and held-back anger. So, so familiar, and-
“Lambert?” Vesemir croaks, his vision blurred with tears. Lambert grunts and Vesemir chokes out a sound he barely recognizes as coming from him, “Oh, thank god, you’re alive.”
He reaches for him, tugs him in for a hug - and Lambert lets him. Hugs him back, even.
“Yeah, I’m alive,” Lambert agrees, squeezing just a little tighter, “Good to see you, too.”
Vesemir pulls back and takes a good look at him, “You look good.”
Lambert shrugs, “We make do.”
Vesemir nods, sniffling as he finally lets go and turns to the other man on his doorstep, “And who’s this?”
“Aiden,” Lambert says as Vesemir takes the man’s hand, “My husband.”
Vesemir blinks, “Oh,” he forces a tense smile, “Nice to meet you.”
It’s not that he isn’t happy for Lambert, he is. If anyone deserves love it’s that boy, he just never imagined him getting a good enough grasp on his anger to manage a long-term relationship. He’s surprised, to say the least, but perhaps he was short-sighted at the time - Lambert was only 17 the last time he saw him, and that was 12 years ago. People change, he of all people should know that.
“Nice to meet you as well, Vesemir.” Aiden’s smile is a bright thing that looks rather strange next to Lambert’s ever-present scowl. He wonders how these two found each other - how they ended up together. He’s missed so much.
“Not that I’m not thrilled to see you,” he tells them both, “Because I am. I really, really am, but… what - why, are you here?”
Lambert takes a deep breath, Vesemir watches him force down a snarl and visibly calm himself.
“My therapist suggested I try to reconnect. I- could we talk?”
“Yes,” Vesemir breathes, probably too fast, “Yes, please, come in. I was just making dinner. Your bro- erm… Geralt, Eskel and their families are coming for dinner, but we have lots of time.” He steps aside, holding the door open for them to pass.
“I gotta grab some stuff from the car. We… weren’t sure if you’d let us stay,” Lambert admits.
“Of course you’re welcome,” Vesemir says as softly as he can, “You’ve always been welcome.”
Lambert opens his mouth to retort, but Aiden strokes a hand over his bicep and he closes it with a click before nodding tersely.
“Right. Can you help him for a second?”
He shuffles Aiden forward a bit, offering out his husband’s hands to Vesemir. He takes them, very confused, and tenses as the weight transfers and Aiden shuffles forward with great effort over the step that is the threshold and into the lobby while Lambert jogs off to the car.
"Thanks," Aiden smiles, or tries to, as he visibly forces his body to move, face scrunched in concentration and obvious pain. “Sorry about him," he mutters once Lambert is out of earshot, “He’s still really unsure.”
“I’m just glad he’s alive,” Vesemir smiles sadly, “I’m not sure why he left, but… we thought,” he trails off, not willing to continue. Aiden nods, knowing fully well what Vesemir and the others assumed had happened.
Lambert steps back up the porch, hauling a large black wheelchair that he unfolds in the lobby and then steps around to carefully help his husband into. Vesemir watches, suddenly understanding why he had been asked to help Aiden stand. The poor boy is shaking just from the strain of being helped back down, looking exhausted by the time he's seated. Vesemir is glad he lives in a farmhouse, with wide doorways and halls, easy for maneuvering.
Though, if they become regular visitors - and Vesemir desperately hopes that they will - he’s going to have to install grab bars in the bathroom and convert the spare room on the ground floor that is Ciri’s now into one suitable for a wheelchair to maneuver in.
“You good?” Lambert asks softly.
“Yeah. You got Ava?”
“Yep, you want your bag while I’m-”
“Yes, please.”
“You got it, baby,” he jogs off again and Vesemir blinks after him a moment before turning back to Aiden.
“He treats you well?”
Aiden laughs, seemingly surprised at the question, “As well as I can expect him to. He’s been very good to me, especially after the accident.”
“Good,” Vesemir nods, and turns back towards Lambert when he hears the sound of the car locking. He’s nearly bowled over with surprise for the third time that day when he sees Lambert coming back up the stairs with a small child, a little girl of no more than three, balanced on his hip.
“You-” Vesemir stammers and Lambert scowls.
“There a problem?”
“I- is she yours?”
“She’s ours,” Lambert pauses in the doorway, “Our daughter, Ava.”
The girl is a small thing with a mane of red curls and ocean blue eyes dressed in a red cable-knit sweater dress and little white snow boots. She’s got her fingers in her mouth, which Aiden reaches up to gently tug away with a soft, “No fingers in our mouths, sweetie.”
The girl is watching Vesemir, who is glancing between her and Lambert and trying desperately not to cry again.
“She’s beautiful,” he rasps, and offers the girl his hand, “Hey there, kiddo.”
She pinkens and hides her face in Lambert’s shoulder making the three adults chuckle. Vesemir remembers then, as a gust of cold winter wind blows snow into his home, that they are lingering in the doorway and moves to allow Lambert in.
“What kinds of toys does she like? I’m sure Ciri won’t mind letting her play with some of hers.”
The door is shut and Lambert sets Ava on Aiden’s lap to shrug out of his jacket.
“Ciri?”
“Geralt’s daughter. She’s only just turned four.”
“Huh,” Lambert hangs his coat on one of the hooks by the door then helps Aiden and Ava out of theirs, “Good for him. She likes cars.”
“She’s obsessed with her dump truck right now,” Aiden chuckles, “Likes playing garbage man.”
“If only she wanted to clean up after herself,” Lambert huffs, amused, and Vesemir smiles at the normalcy of it all.
“Ciri has a bus, an excavator and a dinosaur safari rover.”
“Dinataur!” Ava perks up, seemingly forgetting that she’s shy in favour of dinosaurs.
“Dinosaur it is, then. You boys make yourselves at home in the kitchen, I can’t leave the sauce going unattended too long.”
Lambert nods and kicks off his boots, Vesemir goes to fetch a few toys from Ciri’s room - and to maybe have a little private breakdown.
When he comes back, Aiden is sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of water, helping Ava take careful sips, and Lambert is standing at the stove stirring the sauce. He glances up when he hears Vesemir enter. Neither of them says anything, Vesemir lays out a thick, pink playmat in the corner of the kitchen and sets the truck, some dolls, and a stuffed cat down.
“Thank you,” Aiden shifts to set Ava down and points to the array of toys, “Do you want to play?”
She nods, toddles over, and flops gracelessly onto the mat, grabbing for the dinosaur truck. Vesemir moves into the kitchen and rummages around in a drawer at the far end of the island, pulling out a sippy cup a moment later.
“Milk or juice for her?”
“Milk,” Lambert and Aiden reply at the same time, though Aiden follows it with a. “Thank you.”
He makes the drink and sets it next to Ava on the blanket before returning to take the spoon from Lambert to stir the sauce.
“So,” he starts, “You-... you’re well?”
Lambert leans against the cupboards, hands stuffed into his pockets, “I’m good,” he mumbles.
Vesemir sets down the spoon and stares into the boiling red, “I missed you.”
“You’re the one that didn’t want me here,” Lambert defends, body tense.
Vesemir frowns, brow furrowing, “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Lambert huffs, and Vesemir thinks that maybe he’s trying to keep from crying, “You said I was a disappointment and a failure. Didn’t raise me to quit or be gay-”
“Now, I never had a problem with you being gay,” Vesemir folds his arms over his chest.
“You said I was just confused, that I’d get over it.”
“No,” Vesemir corrects, “I said that you were traumatised and that you should talk to a therapist before you decided, because I didn’t want you just jumping to conclusions without dealing with your issues first.”
“Alright,” Lambert clenches his fists, uncomfortable, “Let’s assume that’s true - that’s not what I heard - but it doesn’t matter. I was still the failure you didn’t approve of.”
“I didn’t approve of you not applying yourself, because you’re smart . You had potential, and again, I wanted you to see a therapist so you could work through things. You were struggling, and I knew that if you would just talk to someone you could do amazing things.”
“That’s not what it sounded like to me.”
“I hear you,” Vesemir sighs, “I’m sorry if I- maybe I phrased it poorly. It was so long ago, I hardly remember. All I know is I loved you and it was killing me to see you struggle like that and not be able to help you. Maybe I went about trying in the wrong ways.”
Lambert takes a breath, lets it out.
“I just needed you to tell me you were there for me. To let me fail and be there when I did. But, every time I failed it was always ‘Geralt and Eskel this or that’ and I-” he wipes at his cheek with the heel of his palm, “I know you loved them more than me, and I get it, I do… I just… I wish I could have been good enough.”
The words wash over Vesemir like ice and he stands, staring at Lambert until he can feel wetness on his cheeks.
“I don’t-” he croaks, “Lambert, you were always enough.”
The boy scoffs, or tries to, it’s more of a wet, sniffling grimace than anything else and Vesemir can feel himself breaking at the sight.
“I never meant for you to feel that way,” he continues, “I was trying to motivate you, but if I had known, I never would have - I’m sorry.”
Lambert nods, but continues to avoid eye contact. Aiden recognizes the look as him processing information that he isn’t sure if he wants to believe or not. Aiden feels pretty good about this information. Sees hope, and potential for a future, and a family here.
“Maybe I heard what I wanted to hear,” Lambert says, eventually. “Maybe there was some fucked up part of me that wanted you to hate me as much as my old man did. Wanted proof that I-” he swallows, “That I’m unloveable.”
“Well, we know that’s shit,” Vesemir forces a smile and nods toward where Aiden is sitting and observing from across the island, “Seems like you found yourself some very well-deserved love.”
“Yeah,” Lambert smiles, reaching across the countertop to take one of Aiden’s hands, “He’s my miracle man.”
“I’m happy for you,” Vesemir offers, “I wish I could have seen your wedding.”
“You would want to go?” Lambert mutters, “After all the shit I put you through?”
Vesemir gives him a very serious look, “You’re still my son, Lambert,” he sees the panic that floods the boy’s eyes but continues on, “Even when you were cursing me out and breaking anything you could reach, or trying to claw your brother’s eyes out, I never didn’t love you. You were mine from the moment you set foot in this house. Even when you left, even now… if you ever decided you wanted to be my son, I will always have a place for you, and for your family.”
“Oh,” Lambert utters, tears clinging to his lashes, “I-” the crystalline drops slide down his cheeks when he blinks, “We could - try?” He glances to Aiden, who nods in encouragement, “I think I’d like to try.”
Vesemir steps in close to hug him again and Lambert goes easily, curling into his arms like he’s a young child again. He clings to Vesemir, tears soaking into the collar of his shirt. He can feel Vesemir trembling, likely with his own tears, and he can’t help but wonder how much time they’ve lost. How many more hugs they could have had, if Lambert hadn’t been so stubborn. If they'd just communicated.
They pull apart after a long moment, both pretending they don’t see the other scrubbing away their tears.
“So,” Vesemir clears his throat, “What brought this on, if you don’t mind my asking. The visit.”
“I almost died,” Aiden pipes up and Lambert scowls.
“I started therapy, before we adopted Ava, because I’m- I know what I’m like. I needed ways to not lash out when I got angry. She kept telling me to try reaching out to you, get closure. I didn’t - I thought I didn’t need it, but then…”
“I almost died,” Aiden offers again, gentler this time.
“He almost died,” Lambert whispers, “There was - he was in an accident.”
“I was driving North for a work event about a year ago, in February. The roads were icy. I don’t remember much, but it was a head-on collision around a bend.”
Vesemir hisses in sympathy.
“Lost my eye,” he says, reaching up to trace the edge of the patch covering his right eye, “Broke my back, both my legs, a bunch of ribs, and my right arm. It’s been a fucking mess, but I’m alive. And I can wiggle my toes now.”
Lambert reaches to take Aiden’s hand again, sorrow in every inch of his expression, “I was terrified I’d lose him, and by the time he was getting better, all I could think was… what if something like this happened to Geralt, or Eskel, and I wasn’t there? Or I never heard about it? I thought I didn’t care but - “ he breathes out a slow, calming breath, “I loved you guys. Even when I thought you hated me… Even when I didn’t want to.”
“We love you, too, Lambert. Eskel and Geralt miss you, too.”
“Yeah,” Lambert agrees, voice hoarse. “I miss them.”
Vesemir hums, “You two made it through a hell of a time.” He rounds the counter, puts a hand on Aiden’s shoulder, “Glad to have you with us, son. Thank you for taking care of my boy.”
Aiden smiles up at him, “Thank you for being so welcoming. It’s going to be nice for Ava to have another grandfather.”
Vesemir clears his throat, trying very hard to not cry again, “You all should stay for dinner,” he says instead, “Your brothers would like to see you again. Their families are loud, Jaskier was bad enough but now that Ciri is in the mix things get hectic as all Hell, but it’s nice.”
The couple exchange silent glances, communicating with looks alone.
“That’d be nice,” Lambert acquisces after a moment, “Thanks.”