#lambcoen fic

“Rescue you?” Coën makes a show of glancing around the empty training grounds; that’s right, he had been a smarmy little know-it-all, Lambert forgot! Lambert always had a thing for smugness; must be why he liked the kid. “You don’t seem particularly endangered.”

“And yet,” he laughs coldly. “My days as a free man are numbered. I’m to be married off to a Griffin at sunset.” The hand-embroidered beast on Coën’s chest suddenly stands out, and Lambert realizes aloud: “Suppose that’s why you’re here. You part of the delegation?”

“I’m part of the sacrificial offering,” Coën corrects him. “I’m to be married to the youngest Wolf at sunset, so I fear we’re in the same boat, my old friend.”

Lambert’s stomach does a sort of flip, and he inhales sharply. “Fuck. The very same, then.” Coën frowns, his brows growing close together, and Lambert quickly clarifies, “I’m the youngest Wolf.”

“Fuck,” echoes Coën. On his lips, it sounds softer than it ever has coming from Lambert. Lambert can’t stop staring now that he knows the truth— he had imagined some young asshole Griffin that would take great pride in making Lambert his groom without any care for him. But Coën is one of the most caring people Lambert has ever known. He forces himself to rethink the situation as the confused man stammers, “How could you be the youngest? You’re— you don’t look young at all! I mean, not— you’ve certainly grown—“

“As have you,” Lambert grins rudely. “I must admit, Keldar’s description was beyond vague. Had I known that you were my betrothed—“

“What, you wouldn’t be fighting with a pillar at the top of a cold mountain?” Coën laughs, happy and surprised. Lambert just watches him, struggling to keep from smiling too widely and scaring him off. “Yeah, well, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have bitched so much on the way up here.”

“Right.” A very terrible idea rises to the top of Lambert’s mind, and as he is so often prone to do, he immediately seizes onto the notion and sets his heart on making it happen. “You know what? I think I know how we can really piss off both Vesemir and Keldar, and get out of this stupid arrangement. Did you ride on horseback up here?”

-

“Leave it to Lambert to ruin his own arranged marriage by fucking eloping,” Eskel marvels. The keep has never been busier what with the extra wedding guests and everyone running around looking for the two grooms, but Lambert’s brothers know better than to try to seek him out. The only way to find Lambert once he’s gone into hiding is to wait it out— that, or offer a really high cash reward so he can turn himself in. And they just lost a very prosperous deal, so they don’t exactly have the funds for that.

Geralt just takes a long drink from Lambert’s ceremonial wedding wine in response.

On cruel nights his mind leads him to lovely dreams of his real home, with wavy black hair and a smile as sharp as his— but far less ugly. The warmth draws Lambert in until he snaps to it magnetically, body falling into step with Aiden’s the way it always has done. They whisper sweet nothings to each other, except the nothings mean everything and Lambert wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

In the morning, he can’t remember a single word and it makes him angry enough to revisit the familiar dent in his wall, searching inside each bruise on his knuckles for the meaning of the dream. It’s been nearly two years since he heard the news of Aiden’s passing, but the wounds are fresh not only in his mind. Lambert only wraps his hands so that Coën won’t bitch about blood in the food and safety measures. As if they aren’t immune to illness anyway.

Then, one year, Geralt enters and Lambert watches that same warmth of home permeate his permanent frown. He stands, preparing to greet his brother and thinking delightedly of all the stories that he has to exchange, wondering excitedly of what news Geralt will have brought home for the winter. The white-haired witcher has a penchant for getting involved in politics and personal drama, even though he always claims he wants no part of it. And this past year did not want for political unrest, so Lambert can’t begin to imagine what hand Geralt had in it all.

But as he embraces his brother he sees a small creature behind him, with a head too big for her shoulders and hair too proper for anyone travelling with a witcher. Her wide eyes blink curiously at Lambert, who regrets meeting her gaze immediately. He scowls back, hoping to scare her off into running back down the mountain. Geralt, what the fuck have you brought into our home.

The creature, as it turns out, is at the centre of several stories that Lambert has zero interest in hearing. Did he say he wanted to laugh at Geralt’s political drama? No, certainly not. He wanted to keep to himself this winter, maybe try to see if he could get Eskel to sled with him again even though it had been such a shitshow last time. He wanted to finish writing that journal on succubi, and drink his own weight three times over, and maybe see if he could work up the nerve to tell his brothers about Aiden. None of those plans involve a child, especially not a smarmy, snot-nosed princess who also happens to be the prophesied centre of so much horseshit it’s unreasonable.

Princess Cirilla of Cintra, she calls herself, with all the airs of a monarch whose royal court had not been razed to the ground. Coën takes an immediate liking to her, because of course he fucking does. Lambert knew he couldn’t trust a Griffin with anything— when he tells Coën this, the brazen traitor just stares at him knowingly, fingers loosely holding his stein of ale. “You’ll like her too,” Coën has the gall to inform Lambert. “She’s been through a lot, Lambchop.”

“I always tell you not to fucking call me that,” Lambert spits back even though he never once has. Coën doesn’t call him on it, and thank the Gods, Geralt’s precocious new plaything doesn’t hear the nickname. That’s the last damn thing he needs to make this winter any worse than it already is.

Then, as if thinking a dark thought like that could speak trouble into existence, Gwain stumbles through the front doors of the Keep. The lady under his arm wouldn’t be dressed warmly enough for Novigrad, let alone the top of a mountain, and behind her come several more. 

Geralt quickly pulls his child aside, directing a glare at Gwain that makes him look very much like Vesemir, but Lambert just tightens his grip on his ale and stumbles to his feet. “Now this is more like it,” he crows, welcoming his brother with open arms. “Gwain, you certainly understand who to bring to a reunion! Who are these lovely visitors?”

In his peripheral vision Lambert sees the child draw closer to Geralt, who is practically seething. But he ignores it in favour of greeting one of the girls, who gladly sidles up to him. God, she must be freezing. What was Gwain thinking? Lambert glances at the other witcher and sees that his eyes are alight not with the joy of coming home but something else entirely. He looks terrible, face marred by something that must have tried to take a bite out of his beard. He must not have his arm around the woman just for show, then— Lambert looks closer and sees her hand pressed to his side as if to apply pressure. 

His pulse races and his face falls, but before he can demand answers Gwain spits out, “I just thought it might relieve some tension. I know I need it after my last fight.” 

Gwain reaches around his back and the girl releases him only so that he can slap a sack down on the floor. A skeletal, wooden arm falls out, and the witchers all converge on the broken limb with concern. Vesemir is the first to ask, in near-wonder, “Is that a leshy?”

“Moved like one. Looked like one.” Gwain rips his shirt open, and even the prostitutes around him are too shocked by the ugly wound there to make any ribald comments. “Stung me like one.”

If Lambert had known now what he would eventually learn, he would throw Gwain and his band of women right back out those doors, and pace over to Geralt and give him a stern talking-to about bringing his battles inside the Keep, and then perhaps hug Everard and Merek so closely that he would need to be pried off.

But he hadn’t known, so he just embraced the nearest brunette and left Geralt to his own devices, not sparing his brother or the princess another thought for the rest of the night.

With the morning comes grief that none of them were ready to face. Geralt handles it the best out of all of them, because of course he does. When he learns that the White Wolf was the one to land the killing blow, Lambert can’t restrain himself from throwing barbs in Geralt’s direction and hoping one will stick. He isn’t sure when he picked up the habit, he only knows that he feels sick triumph when Geralt finally turns around to parry his cruelty. And even that isn’t as satisfying as it once was, not when Geralt’s preoccupied with his Child Surprise.

A hand on his arm pulls him away from his meagre breakfast. Coën brings him away from the others, and Lambert would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited about being admonished. He prepares himself for a good scolding, setting his jaw against the inevitable backlash from his cruelty towards Geralt. He can practically already hear the Griffin’s voice reverberating around his skull: He’s suffering too, we all are. You don’t need to act like a dick for us to know you’re hurting, Lamb. We see you. I see you. I notice you.

Instead, Coën pulls him into a side corridor off the main hall, releasing his grip on Lambert’s arm only to gently hold him by the jaw. Coën’s head might be ravaged by pox scars but his fingertips are smooth and free of calluses. Astonishingly incongruous hands for a witcher to have. Lambert couldn’t look away if he wanted to, swept off his feet by the tenderness in Coën’s eyes where he’d expected— wanted— rage. Without removing his hands from either side of Lambert’s face, Coën tells him gently, “If you need to talk about your feelings, you know I’m here.”

The whole sentence and delivery is so remarkably Aiden that Lambert feels bile rise up his throat. He bats Coën’s hands away from his head, not caring much if he slaps the other man in the process. But Coën drops his hold without protest or reaction, which is obviously more irritating. “I’m fine,” Lambert hisses. “Not the first time we’ve lost a witcher. Not even the first time it’s happened here.”

“It can still have an impact,” Coën points out quietly. He, of course, knows this better than most other witchers; while Lambert has dealt with the personal grief of losing Aiden and Vesemir saw his kin murdered when he was still young, Coën’s entire school was eradicated. The only other Griffin Lambert knows is the poor fellow depicted in the tapestry upstairs— the one they all vandalize as a rite of passage. Coën should be angrier than any of them, but somehow his grief has cauterized him into the good man he is today.

Lambert suddenly can’t stand to look at him. He brushes past Coën without another word, dismissing his generic offer of help without a second thought.

Soon after they lose Gwain, Geralt’s brat takes up Lambert’s favourite spot in the courtyard every morning and afternoon. It’s such a basic petty grievance that Lambert is embarrassed by how much it irks him, but he can’t help the ire he feels every time he sees the princess hacking away at the same straw training dummy, using the same terrible tactics over and over. For hours. Doesn’t she ever get tired? 

Unlike his training sessions as a child, no one is there to beat her if she complains, or to pull her off the post before she collapses of exhaustion. Geralt must be slacking; he’s probably off deciding which of the other witchers he wants to kill next.

As soon as he’s had that thought Lambert regrets it, but he can’t take it back— even if he didn’t voice it to anyone. He drags his fingers through his curls and thinks of his lost friend. What would Aiden do, watching this poor girl struggle in the courtyard? Lambert is ashamed to admit that he has no fucking idea.

He rounds up Coën, figuring that two shitty trainers will still work better than none, and sets into action giving the child the lightest imaginable version of Vesemir’s morning routine. He hopes it will scare her away from the profession, so he muscles through the anxiety and ignores every side-eye Coën shoots his way. It will all be worth it when the child runs, crying and bleeding, back to the safety of the fortress.

When she falls a sixth time, small body hitting the snow with a thump that makes Coën cringe, Lambert steps forward to heckle her. “This is what being a witcher is, princess! It’s nothing like your nobility classes, how to balance books on your head. It is pain, over and over again, until the nerves that feel that pain are dulled enough that it doesn’t matter.” He sees Coën stiffen, but the Griffin remains silent. And so Lambert eggs the kid on, “Had enough yet?”

On shaking, tiny arms, the girl rises. Her pretty blonde hair is matted with sweat and at some point she must have scraped her hands; they bleed, unbandaged. Lambert remembers every ugly splinter he had to pry out of himself after this training course. He twitches but doesn’t relent, staring right back at her green eyes. “That’s enough for the day, Ciri,” Coën finally speaks up. “You’re going to overwork yourself and make a mistake.”

“I can do it,” the girl replies, trembling. “I can!”

The wooden hammers swinging out of sync catch her mid-step, knocking her down onto the ground. This time the cry she lets out is so piteous that even Lambert has to relent. “Enough,” he snarls, stepping forward. “You can’t do it, so give it a rest.”

But the girl is quicker than he expects, and she dodges his hands, scaling the ladder in record time. Lambert is left on the ground, staring stupidly at the bloodstained white snow and remembering his own childhood so intensely that he nearly misses Ciri’s first success on the training course.

The days slip into weeks as they approach and then pass the winter solstice, making it clear that the young Cintran princess is here to stay. Geralt stays too, although his attention is far from focused on one area. He spends his days training his Child Surprise and his nights labouring over the leshy arm with Vesemir, only spending his meals with the other Wolves. 

It feels like Geralt is busy solving some mystery that Lambert can’t even begin to comprehend, which is maybe why he’s so thoroughly unsurprised when Triss arrives at the Keep, prettier and wiser than he remembers. Lambert and Coën make the mistake of teasing Ciri in front of her which leads to a lecture harsh enough to make him feel like a child again. Lambert doesn’t hang his head, though; he watches Merigold lead Ciri away, fighting off the odd feeling in his chest. As they leave, Coën makes some mild remark about how he’d liked the flowers in her hair, and the feeling rises to a boiling point.

“If you like the princess so much, go hang out with her instead,” he snaps, and oh, shitting fuck, what a stupid thing to say. Coën turns his gaze on Lambert but where Lambert expects derision— really, Lambchop? Jealous of a child— he only sees the same soft sympathy that Coën meets him with so often these days.

“I do spend time with her, quite often,” says Coën. Somehow this is even worse than a lecture. “I play Gwent with her, and Eskel reads her stories. You’re the only one who still doesn’t like her.”

“I never said I didn’t like her,” says Lambert quickly.

“Yes, you have,” Coën snorts. “Multiple times. But she really isn’t that bad… maybe if you spent time with her too, you’d see—”

“I don’t need to do that,” snaps Lambert. “Whatever you’re fucking seeing in her, I don’t see it, alright? So just… leave me be, Co.”

And, to his incredible dismay, Coën gives him one long look before he does exactly that. Lambert is left alone in the dining hall, ale souring in his cup and thoughts turning rancid. He wants to shout and stir up a fuss and kick the place apart, but he knows it wouldn’t even make an impact. Nobody’s here to listen to his self-absorbed bullshit anyway. He should just grow up. Lambert picks up the pitcher of ale and drains it in two long gulps, and after that the night is a pleasant, sickening blur.

Things finally come to a head when Geralt is away on mysterious monstrous business that he refuses to let his brothers in on, and as a result Ciri has been left in the care of Triss and Vesemir. Lambert wakes up in his own bed to the sound of blissful silence from the courtyard; no blades swinging, training or otherwise. He revels in the peace for a long moment, stretching out under his blankets and entertaining the idea of heading back to bed.

When he and Aiden had travelled on the Path together, they would allow themselves the beautiful privilege of sleeping in way more often than they should have. But Lambert wouldn’t trade the memories of those mornings for any coin in the world. He thinks of it now, hand curling around the bottom of his pillow, remembering the kiss of Aiden’s rough stubble against his jaw and throat. Day’s a-wasting, Lamb. As if Aiden weren’t solidly sandwiched in atop him, preventing him from making any movement at all. Lambert would drag his knee up to make a show of trying to escape, and Aiden would just kiss him again, arms burrowing under him to hold him in place. Come on, get up. What’s stopping you?

For once, the memories soothe instead of ache. Lambert lies with them in silence, enjoying the phantom warmth until it fades, leaving him bereft and alone as ever. Then the silence from the courtyard really starts to bother him, and he grows annoyed with Ciri. How dare she get them all accustomed to a certain noise level this early in the morning and then fail to provide it out of the blue? He ought to have a word with her.

He dresses, expecting the usual witchers mingling about the main rooms, but the Keep is surprisingly empty. Eskel nods to him from where he’s cleaning up everyone’s breakfasts— thanks to the lack of Ciri’s training this morning, Lambert must have slept in. Lambert nods back gratefully but declines the bowl that Eskel left for him. “Seen Merigold anywhere?”

Eskel shrugs with one shoulder. He’s always so polite to Triss for reasons that Lambert will never understand. Maybe the two of them have a thing— but no, that can’t be possible with the way she drifts around after Geralt. “Checked her room yet?”

Lambert hasn’t, so he does. He gets an uneasy feeling when he sees her possessions half-packed, half-strewn about the room. For all her annoying habits, Triss is neat to a fault. He can’t imagine her leaving her quarters in this state unless she was packing to go somewhere and got pulled away. A nerve twangs at his heart, making him anxious for no reason— Lambert dismisses it, but he continues his search just a little faster. Where is Ciri?

After the mess hall and the private rooms he heads to the laboratory in the basement— he’s been avoiding this place ever since Gwain met his unfortunate end down here. Lambert’s ears prick up when he hears voices, and he clings to the wall, unusually suspicious. Nothing bad ever happens at Kaer Morhen— except, of course, for all the very terrible things that do, and have, and will happen here.

Vesemir’s voice rings out against the silence. “Hold still— yes, like that.” There’s an uncertain quaver in the old man’s tone that makes Lambert quicken his pace, and when he turns the corner he’s glad he did. He skids to a halt, watching the terrible scene laid out before him. It’s just like something plucked from one of his nightmares. The child, strapped to the bed, a cloth tied tightly around her arm to expose the veins. Vesemir hovering over her, vial in his shaking hand, his face dark in shadow. Attached to the vial is an apparatus to inject the potion— the mutagen, Lambert realizes. This is no nightmare; this is real.

He can hardly control himself as he marches up to the bed, shoving the old man away. “Stop,” Vesemir and Ciri both decree in the same haughty voice, both trembling with indecision. Well, lucky for them he showed up. Without hesitation or response, Lambert slaps the contraption out of Vesemir’s hand. Vesemir repeats, eyes wild, “Stop, Lambert! This is more important than you know!”

“Stop,” echoes Ciri, straining against the binds keeping her in place. “I asked him to! I made my choice!”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Lambert growls, reaching to free Ciri. But instead of letting her do something as monumentally stupid as lie back down he scoops her into his arms, ignoring her cries of protest. She claws against his back and scratches through his shirt, kicking and screaming, but Lambert doesn’t even really hear her. He hears himself, as well as Geralt, and Remus. And he hears all the other children who had been strapped down and force fed compounds that they didn’t even know how to spell. It killed more than half of them, and mutated the ones that lived, and like fucking hell is he letting it into Ciri. “Vesemir, how could you? What kind of choice is this to offer a child?”

“It’s the same one we all took,” Vesemir tells him, sagging with exhaustion. But his eyes dart over to the fallen vial— he hasn’t given up yet.

“Yeah, well, I don’t remember making a fucking choice!” Before either of them can say another word Lambert marches away from the bed, carrying Ciri with him. She kicks him the entire way up to her room, complaining loudly— he tunes out the whining along with bursts of pain, noting with private amusement that her training really must be working if he’s hardly able to carry her without stumbling.

Only when the door to her bedroom is safely shut behind him does Lambert finally relax, kneeling a little before dropping Ciri like a sack of flour. She lands on her feet, staring up at him with barely-contained fury in her wide, teary eyes. Lambert doesn’t much care about her qualms with what he did, seeing as he’s sure Geralt would have done the very same thing. But he figures he’s been a tool for long enough, so he meets her gaze head-on and growls, “Listen. Whatever he told you it would be, he left out a lot of important shit. It’s not just a quick path to power, princess. You have to trade away your fucking soul in the process, and it might just kill you anyway!”

“I know that,” Ciri retorts, sounding just as angry as him. “I don’t have another choice, alright? I need to protect myself, I can’t always rely on Geralt to be there. I don’t want to feel like this anymore!”

With those last words she lashes out against him, hitting his stomach with both of her fists. Lambert takes the blow well— a human would be rolling up and crying, but he just winces for a second. Ciri recoils as soon as the punches land, stepping away from him and backing up onto the bed. Lambert exhales away the brief pain, shaking his head sadly. “It won’t fix that either. I mean, you don’t really believe all that shit about witchers not feeling anything, right?”

Her silence gives away that she might have believed it, at least a little. Lambert thinks he’s finally beginning to understand Ciri. He sinks to sit on the floor, back still pressed against the door just in case Vesemir decides to make two stupid choices in one day. The girl rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes and spits out, “I’m just tired of feeling so afraid all the time. And when I’m not afraid, I’m fucking angry. All the time. How do I… how is anyone supposed to cope with that?”

“A punching bag, perhaps,” Lambert jokes. Ciri glances his way and he realizes she’s taking him seriously, so he tries to adjust his tone. He can’t imagine what Coën or Aiden or Eskel or Geralt or Triss might say. Instead, he makes a shitty attempt at speaking from the heart. “Uh… helps to find someone who’ll listen. Who gets it. A friend— but don’t get too attached, because, you know. People die.”

“I do,” Ciri says, so earnestly it hurts. He forces himself to remember, for the first time, what this child has been through. It’s an indisputable fact that she has it worse than he ever did, even adding his douchefuck of a father to the equation. Haltingly, as if she isn’t sure whether her questions will be welcomed, she asks, “Do you talk to Geralt about it?”

“Sometimes,” Lambert says. “Eskel, too. Coën mostly. And there was… hell, princess, you don’t wanna hear this.”

But Ciri repeats, this time ardent and determined, “I do,” and she moves over on the bed. She pats the spot beside her with a tiny hand, face bright and free of any agenda except to listen.

Lambert sighs. He presses his ear up against the door once more but doesn’t hear any sign of Vesemir approaching to steal the child away. So he tries to slow his still racing heart, shoves a chair under the door to keep it shut, and walks over to sit beside Ciri. “There was another witcher,” he admits, when it becomes clear that she’s waiting for him to start. “You won’t have heard his name from Coën or any of the others, because, uh, they didn’t know him. Different schools. You know the different schools, right?”

Ciri nods. “What was his name?”

Inhaling sharply, Lambert begins the story he’s never shared with anyone else here.

-

After cutting his trip with Istredd short when he heard the distant, psychic cry of a very distressed Ciri, Geralt is a touch confused when he returns to the fortress and finds it absolutely peaceful. Vesemir and Triss are nowhere to be found so Geralt heads right for Ciri’s room, suspicions confirmed when he finds it locked. 

He wants to fire an Aard off immediately, but he doesn’t think anyone would appreciate being woken up like that. So he hesitantly reaches out and knocks with a gloved fist, muttering quietly, “Ciri? You alright?”

“Just a second,” comes the quick reply. She doesn’t seem as upset as she had earlier, so Geralt tries to wait patiently. From inside the room he hears the quiet scuff of furniture being dragged across the floor, and then the door opens. Ciri looks up at him, heart beating a little faster than usual. “You came back.”

“Of course,” Geralt says, nearly pushing past her to sweep the room. Then he sees the figure out cold on the bed. In a shock, he realizes it’s Lambert— and even more shockingly, that his brother’s hair is all done up in fine Cintran braids. Dryly, he says, “I see he was rude enough that you finally snapped and killed him. We all warned him this might happen.”

“No,” Ciri laughs, and the sound warms Geralt’s heart. Although he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he loves when he catches her smiling at his jokes. “No, he just fell asleep. He was telling me a nice story about his life.”

It isn’t his fault, really, it’s Coën’s— as shitty as that sounds. The truth is that although Aiden’s reputation lends him an infamous tendency for perversion he’s always been a romantic, leaning more towards lovemaking than any quick flings or cheap thrills. That’s why this thing he’s got with Lambert works so well: he has unlimited love to share, and Lambert’s desire to be needed and wanted is bottomless.

That must be why Lambert fell for Coën too, years before he’d even met Aiden. The Griffin sought refuge at Kaer Morhen after the siege of Kaer Seren, and according to the Wolf himself, Lambert instantly liked his earnest personality and bookishness. They had danced around one another for much longer than Lambert and Aiden, only finally admitting their feelings after a close call with a leshen that made all the witchers reconsider their time left and what they wished to do with it.

Aiden is glad, really. Lambert, insecure after a lifetime of trauma, has asked him time and time again if he’s harbouring any secret jealousy. The truth is that while Aiden has never been jealous of Coën for getting to spend the winters with his summer lover, he has questioned his own proclivity upon meeting his lover’s lover. He understands what Lambert sees in Coën, no explanation necessary. The very first time Lambert had introduced them, the young Wolf had been delightfully flushed and flustered, glancing between them expectantly. Aiden shook Coën’s hand, and Coën had told him some smart one-liner about the Cat caravan, and Aiden had thought— so vividly that he remembers it now— oh no.

He has never given away his infatuation, worrying that Lambert might feel put upon to share Coën. Instead Aiden keeps the secret close to his chest, saving his summers for his beloved Lamb and only daring to dream of Coën’s depths in the winter. Truthfully, he wants it all— the romance from and between both men, Coën’s sincerity and Lambert’s strength, Lambert’s firm body and Coën’s…

Well. Like he said. He’s dreamt of it often, but he has yet to see it in real life.

When Lambert fully strips down to his underclothes Aiden is already knee-deep. The water ripples around his thighs as he turns to whistle at his Wolf. Lambert flips him off which just makes Aiden laugh, and Coën interrupts, still on the shore. He’s still wearing his full armour, as though he expects a drowner to rise from this picturesque waterfall. “Is it cold?”

“Not at all,” Aiden lies through his teeth. Then he cackles as Lambert dips his toes in and immediately swears, colourful and loud. “Well, perhaps it isn’t the famed hot springs of Kaer Morhen. But two mountaineers like you should be able to stand it, no trouble at all!”

“C’mere,” Lambert growls, wading through the clear lake. “I’ll drown you right now. See how many of those nine lives you’ve got left.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” teases Aiden, breaking into a slowed sprint through the water. It’s easier when he dives, the lake bending easily to every stroke. The current is stronger as he approaches the fall but Aiden is strong too, and he hasn’t kept up his lithe figure all these years for nothing. He sucks in a puff of air and then breaches the waterfall; the spray is both lighter and faster than he expects. If any innkeeper could market this kind of water pressure, they’d be famous across the Continent faster than you could order a bath.

Something clamps around his ankle and Aiden makes a noise he isn’t proud of, shrieking and flailing. Then he recognizes the smug heartbeat and scent of his lover— even diluted by a rushing waterfall, Lambert is intimately familiar. Aiden does his best to kick Lambert, shouting and twisting to push him away. “You fucker! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Watch out for those kelpies!” Lambert releases Aiden’s leg only to grasp the curve of his upper arm. They float together until Aiden’s hip collides with a rock shelf, then he pulls himself and his beloved bastard man up onto the surface. Lambert huffs, breathless, “They might look handsome, but they’ll pull you under the tide and then you’re done for.”

“I surrender,” Aiden murmurs, sharing the last of his air with Lambert. This secluded nook behind the waterfall is the only privacy they’ve had in days, and while Aiden enjoys travelling with Coën, he did miss opportunities like this. Lambert kisses him back in the fresh spray, their ankles still dangling under the surface of the lake. Aiden takes his lover’s affection and runs with it, reaching between them. He wants too much, too fast, and he knows it— but Coën standing only a short distance away does nothing at all to quell that want, and that’s the part that Aiden has no idea how to confess. “Lambert,” he mumbles under his jaw, hand moving quicker than his mind. “Want you.”

Lambert huffs, “Here?” and Aiden nods, kissing his neck gently. His fingers dance lower until Lambert snatches them up in his grip, holding them away from any sensitive extremities. Aiden, ever the mature one, whines and bites him. “Not here,” he mumbles, ignoring Aiden’s teeth against his pulse point. “It smells like snails.”

“It’s romantic,” growls Aiden. At any other time his head would spin at the sensation of Lambert’s hand in his, but now he craves more touch than he’s likely going to get. “Surely you can’t blame me for taking advantage of a rare moment alone.”

Except he trails off abruptly after ‘taking advantage’, because destiny has other plans for them. Coën pokes through the falls, his disembodied head briefly parting the curtain of water. Aiden and Lambert look over, still entwined with one another, hands still tightly gripped as Aiden mouths at Lambert’s neck, their gazes searing into the Griffin’s nervous frown.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Coën apologizes, eloquent even when flustered. Of fucking course. He blinks several times before ducking his head, water rushing down over the back of his neck and his bare shoulders. “I didn’t— I— I’ll go—”

Four hands reach for him, pulling him under the spray and through the falls until he lands on the other side. Coën splutters, shaking his head and wiping his eyes dry as he struggles to find his footing. Lambert turns to Aiden, sharp as a sword’s edge, and demands, “So much for a private moment, huh? You pulled him in here too!”

“Well,” Aiden says hotly, “Can you blame me? I mean, look at him!” Both he and Lambert pause to admire Coën, nearly naked and soaked to the bone. The map of scars trails from his scalp down to his waist, hinting at a severe pox that he had been lucky to survive. Coën, embarrassed and confused, ducks away from their ogling but doesn’t shove their hands away. “He’s gorgeous,” continues Aiden. “I’ve got eyes, you know!”

“It smells like snails back here,” Coën comments as mildly as possible.

Lambert retorts, “You’re just putting on a big front because you’re jealous! I know you are, you do a fucking terrible job of hiding it—”

“Fine! Yes, I’m jealous,” Aiden cuts in before Lambert can start an actual argument. But both Lambert and Coën freeze, turning to him with equally nervous expressions. Coën slowly floats over to the rocky shelf, blinking errant droplets from the waterfall out of his blue and brown eyes, and Aiden shifts over to make room for him. “But… I’m jealous of you,” he confesses to Lambert, suddenly embarrassed for the first time in a long while. “Coën is beautiful, and I’ve never so much as seen him tear his shirt during training. I mean, the mind wanders, and imagining the two of you together… how could I resist? Fucking look at you, Coën!”

Instead of bashfully hiding his face in his shoulder as Aiden expects, Coën meets his gaze head-on. He narrows his eyes, curious, and replies, “I tend to keep my clothes on most of the time. I don’t want to frighten Ciri or anyone else I might encounter, and… it’s obviously a sight that takes some getting used to—”

“Insane,” Aiden scoffs. He turns to Lambert for confirmation, who just shakes his head in wonder. “Anyone would count it as a blessing to see you naked. I know I’m not taking this for granted.”

And he isn’t— even as they trade nervous, genuine banter back and forth, Aiden’s gaze hasn't stopped wandering the length of Coën’s body. He pays little attention to the scars, too enchanted by the broad veins running along Coën’s dark arms, the thin patch of hair along his chest, and his soft bare stomach that makes him look so vulnerable.

From behind Aiden comes a gentle touch to his shoulder; he leans into it without hesitating, accustomed to Lambert’s touch by now. “You should’ve said something, Cat.” Aiden shudders as that low, pleased voice rumbles through his chest, heading straight to his lower regions and flooding them with blood. “I could’ve introduced you years ago.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Coën breaks in, because of course he does. “But… the scenery is romantic, at least?”

“Ha,” crows Aiden triumphantly, twisting in his lover’s slippery grip to shoot a look at his wolf— something akin to ‘see?!?!!’. But Lambert isn’t wearing the miserable expression of a loser at all, instead thrilled and excited. Aiden’s heart thrums at the half-smile on Lambert’s face; a smile he leans in to kiss slowly, ignoring their company.

Then he breaks away, turning to their company and taking Coën’s hands in his. “Come on,” Aiden insists, tugging the Griffin away from the safety of the rock shelf and back under the spray. Coën barely has time to begin treading in the shallow water before Aiden is pulling him in and kissing him, wet hands looping over his bare shoulders. Coën kisses exactly the way Aiden dreamed that he would, with an unmistakably intense focus and a slight bite that leaves Aiden wanting more.

“I’ve been wanting to see that happen for years,” Lambert drawls, and it doesn’t ruin the moment but it does send Aiden and Coën into simultaneous fits of giggles. Coën kisses him again as they laugh, and then when they turn to face Lambert, water rushing down over their bare bodies, they see the raw desire written all over his face. Then nobody is laughing at all.

After a few awkward three-way emails between Lambert, his therapist, and the local community centre, he’s starting to feel like the butt of a bad, complicated joke. But the date and time are set and he put down the meagre twenty-dollar deposit, so there’s no backing out now. Adhering to the BYOC policy, Lambert shows up at the second floor of the community centre with a cheap canvas under his arm and a scowl that keeps crawling back every time he isn’t thinking about it. 

He can practically hear Geralt’s kid admonishing him for his resting bitch face, especially when the door swings open to reveal [email protected] in the cheerful, bubbly, young flesh. Lambert doesn’t know why he expected someone with an actual poem in his email signature to be at least Vesemir’s age, but this guy looks like he’s in his twenties. He could play a high schooler on the CW. Lambert winces at the bright, beautifully clean room that smells of acrylic paint and lemon cleaner, and tries his very hardest not to scowl. “Doctor Pankratz, I presume?”

“Oh, please, call me Jaskier,” sings the young man, flapping a hand to dismiss Lambert’s attempt at a joke. “Come on in, sit anywhere you like!”

The room is already nearly full, destroying Lambert’s plan to show up early and pick the most remote seat. But there’s still an unoccupied corner so he makes a beeline for that easel, throwing his jacket over the back of the chair and shoving his bag under it. Jaskier flits away, talking to a few other students about how to set up their canvases— Lambert, with quiet pride, begins setting up his easel on his own. The handful of YouTube tutorials that he’d watched at breakfast this morning are paying off. Lambert preens; he is going to get a good grade in therapy, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve.

Once more, Ciri’s voice chides him mentally and he tries to school his features out of their natural sullen state. He doesn’t have to look like he’s brooding in the corner just because he’s brooding in the corner. He glances across the room at the assembled artists, curiously observing all the various types of people that find themselves in a community art class at nine in the morning. An old man with a thick gold chain dangling around his neck is sitting between two of the most beautiful women Lambert has ever seen— possibly supermodels. A few seats apart from them, a woman with long blonde hair begins tying it up in a loose bun. Lambert quickly moves to copy her, not wanting his precious red locks to come anywhere near the paints.

Then his gaze lands on someone looking at him, and the din around them fades to dull, background static. Lambert freezes, hands caught in his hair, tie half-extended around the mass of curls. The stranger across the room smiles and the tender warmth sends a frisson of desire sparking along Lambert’s nerves. His blood rushes faster. He finishes tying his hair up and nods, awkward as anything, to the stranger.

“Alright, everyone, if I could have your attention for a few minutes I’ll explain what it is we do here!” Jaskier’s announcement interrupts the quiet conversations happening around the room, and it pulls the stranger’s focus away. Lambert’s gaze only lingers for a moment before he, too, turns to Jaskier to try to listen to the rules. He follows very little of it, too surprised by his own thoughts and reaction to the stranger.

The thing is… Lambert doesn’t do this. He can recognize when people are attractive, of course, he’s only human— and he can very easily entertain the idea of getting to know them better. But he never does, because every time he has a cute moment like making eyes at a hot stranger across the room, his brain sets into overdrive, reminding him of all the reasons it wouldn’t work. He knows that it should be happening right now, bracing himself against the inevitable anxious spiral. On a regular day, he wouldn’t even last until the end of Jaskier’s introduction, bleating out something about being in the wrong room.

But today he is feeling exceptionally brave, fueled by the gentle smile from the stranger and by all the reassurance he received from his therapist that this new approach to his mental health would be great. If he can learn to get out of his own head for an hour to make some shitty painting for Eskel’s birthday, then maybe he’ll stop feeling so… pent-up all the time. Maybe if he can smile at a stranger without panicking about the inevitable fallout, then he can embrace the impossible idea that someone could like him like that.

After a particularly hard week last summer, his therapist had gently reminded him that sex didn’t have to be an ordeal. It didn’t have to be something you put yourself through because you felt like you had to, or a physical method of stress relief, or a big mistake every time that leaves you feeling lonelier than before. Sex— and desire— can just be something nice. Lambert glances over at the stranger again and sees him avidly listening to Jaskier. His sleeves, half rolled up, reveal his broad, thick, dark arms. His eyes are dark too as he watches the instructor, and his mouth hangs slightly open, jaw loose and relaxed but gaze and posture tense and focused. Lambert inhales, and finds that for the first time in a long time he wants, and he feels completely okay with it.

-

The class is shorter than Lambert expected, or at least it feels that way— Jaskier gives them plenty of warnings that their time has almost drawn to an end, but when he strikes a triangle the resonance still shocks Lambert. Has it really been an hour already? He could have sat here all day.

He blinks at his painting, trying to see it in a new light. Maybe if he flips it upside down he can call it ‘Goat-On-The-Moon’ instead of ‘vaguely hircine animal hovering over a shoddy orange-and-green hill’. Lambert snorts; he can’t possibly give this to Eskel. He flips it upside down anyway, and doing so reveals a part of the sky where he forgot to blend a cloud. The white paint strikes him immediately as wrong and he winces, picking up his paintbrush and defying the instructor’s orders. He still has a little of the bluish-pink he’d mixed earlier and he dabs it onto the cloud, swearing under his breath as he does.

Jaskier approaches behind him— Lambert can hear his heels clicking against the tiles, and he quickly growls, “I’m almost done, I know we’re out of time, just give me a sec, alright? I forgot this stupid fucking cloud.”

“I’m not here to rush you,” says a voice that is Definitely Not Jaskier. Lambert whirls around, forgetting about the paintbrush in his hand, and ends up splattering periwinkle paint across the man’s apron and arms.

Lambert is aghast to recognize the stranger from across the room, who is much taller than he’d expected. He stares down in bemusement at his ruined outfit, and Lambert mentally cusses out himself, God, his therapist, Jaskier, his piece of shit birth father, and everyone else in his life that led him to end up here, making this colossally stupid mistake. “Shit, I am so sorry,” he blurts out. Tall, Dark, and Handsome just blinks, moving to try and wipe away a dot with the pad of his thumb. The paint smudges in a line instead, and Lambert watches in horror. “I can pay for your— for your drycleaning, I didn’t— aw, fuck!” He knew he would fuck this up somehow.

But the stranger says, “It’s fine,” and reaches up behind his head to remove the apron. This does mitigate most of the damage, but it also draws the few specks of paint on his shirt and arms into much higher contrast. Thankfully, he doesn’t sound mad at all, only slightly amused. “Really, I snuck up on you, so it’s my fault! I’ve learned not to wear nice clothes to these classes anyway.”

Lambert squints at the man’s outfit. He looks like a model. “You sure?”

“Very sure.” The stranger takes the empty seat beside him, still holding onto his painting instead of setting it down on the easel. This disappoints Lambert as he wasted at least three minutes of the class zoning out and imagining what the stranger’s art might look like. His canvas is much smaller than Lambert’s; it could fit on a nightstand. “I come here a lot, and I’ve never seen you before. Are you new?”

Oh, so that’s why he’s here chatting with Lambert. The disappointment is almost reassuring; at least he can be comfortable with the knowledge that this friendly man is eager to welcome new artists. This way, he doesn’t need to work himself into a state worrying about all the uncertainties and possibilities of a stranger approaching him. Lambert nods, only slouching slightly as he says, “Yeah, it’s my first time. As you can see from the painting.”

But the man just turns to look at Lambert’s canvas curiously, expression betraying none of the amusement he must be feeling. A ten year old child could have done this painting, but you’d never be able to tell from watching this guy’s face, which Lambert does. Very closely. His skin is speckled with small scars and discoloured in some places, and Lambert gets the feeling that the beard isn’t just a fashion choice. His eyelashes are long enough that he could be wearing makeup, and as he carefully observes Lambert’s shitty goat art, his mouth falls open again. Lambert’s gaze dips to those lips and he feels a stirring deep in his heart. This can be something nice, he reminds himself.

“I like what you’ve done with the colour here.” Lambert tears his eyes away from the other man’s mouth, flushing with embarrassment and want. 

His hand is indicating the hill on the painting, and the warmth in Lambert’s chest heats even more with pride. He had been proud of the blending on that part— he’s got no idea what the fuck he’s doing, obviously, but he did think it looked cool. “Thank you,” he mutters quietly. The room has started to empty out by now, and once more it just feels like the two of them are the only ones in the world. Feeling unusually bold, Lambert asks, “What’s your name?”

“Coën‌,” replies the man. He lowers his hand, returning to toy with the edge of his small canvas. “And you?”

“I’m Lambert.” The fleeting and ridiculous thought occurs that his therapist is going to be so proud of him for all this fucking progress, which spurs him to continue, “Now that I showed you mine, can I see yours?”

He doesn’t even pick up on the flirty undertone until Coën‌’s eyebrow shoots up, and then Lambert recoils, feeling like a fool. He shouldn’t be starting things he doesn’t know if he can finish. At least Coën‌ doesn’t seem to mind, nodding and slowly handing the painting over. “Yeah, um… I feel a bit like I should apologize, but. I’ll just let you see it first. I can’t help who my muse is, right?”

Lambert’s response dies on his tongue when Coën‌ flips the painting over, and he sees— well. Firstly, it’s remarkably beautiful. It’s clear that Coën‌ is a very skilled artist, and Lambert fights the immediate desire to throw his own goat art right out the open window so that it can sail directly into the parking lot dumpster. Coën‌ has painted a portrait of a knight with an open helm, staring right out with wide, angry eyes. With Lambert’s eyes, and his messy red hair, and his stern, ugly jaw. 

Lambert squints, trying to figure out why in the world Coën‌ would have done this. He knows he should just say thank you for the obvious compliment and try to be normal, but he can’t. He fidgets with the end of his sleeve, likely staining it irreparably with paint, but… he can’t stop, and he can’t take his eyes off the painting. Finally, Coën‌ nervously clears his throat, and Lambert demands, “Couldn’t have picked a prettier model to draw, huh?”

“No,” Coën says after a beat. Lambert looks at him and sees that same tender smile from before, and instantly feels bad for his reaction. “No, I couldn’t have. I’m sorry, I should have asked first—”

“Nah, no, this is— I would’ve said no,” Lambert tells him truthfully. “And it’s really cool. It’s, um, it’s beautiful. You made me look…” He falls silent, staring at the painting again. “Thanks.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“What?” Lambert freezes. “Oh, fuck, no, I couldn’t possibly accept that—”

“Well, I’m not quite done, this is just a first go at it,” Coën‌ says sheepishly. Lambert thinks that he could attend ten thousand of these classes and not be able to come anywhere close to Coën‌’s first draft of a painting made on a whim. “But if you wanted it I could finish it for you! Uh, if you don’t, that’s fine too—”

“At least let me give you something in return,” blurts Lambert, too overwhelmed by the kindness. “I mean, I can pay for your drycleaning, or, um, take you out to dinner, if you would want! That! With me!” His heart is in danger of pounding right out of its little cavity, so maybe it would be for the best if Coën‌ said no anyway.

Though he frowns in bemusement, Coën accepts the proffered tinsel. Aiden counts that as a minor victory and steps back into the apartment, clearing a path for the man to enter. He continues, “If you’re uncomfortable then of course you don’t have to, it’d just— it’d just be a massive help! I mean, the shops were all sold out of sexy one-eyed blow-up dolls, so I had to make do with what I already had at home.”

That terrible joke finally draws a smile out of Coën, and Aiden instantly relaxes at the warmth in his eyes. It’s easy to see why Lambert used to have such a crush on this man when they were teenagers, even if Aiden is glad that Lambert chose him instead. “I’m not uncomfortable,” Coën tells him, sounding very uncomfortable. “It’s just… not what I expected. Where do you even find bondage tutorials?”

“Reddit has everything, my friend,” laughs Aiden. As if he hasn’t been scrolling through the same weirdly devoted Tumblr blog for most of the day, half-trying to find inspiration and half-grinding against his palm. He balances that palm against his bare waist now, and watches without comment as Coën’s gaze sweeps over his naked chest once more. “So… you’re alright with this? Really?”

“It’s a great present,” says Coën, ever the fair and balanced dork. Aiden can’t imagine how he puts up with an asshole like Lambert— he’s only able to manage their relationship on account of being a massive asshole himself. Finally Coën steps over the frame and shuts the door quietly behind himself, and Aiden exhales for the first time since he showed up. Then, for reasons unknown, Coën adds, “Lambchop’s a lucky guy. We should probably get started if he comes home from work soon, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aiden nods eagerly, then remembers exactly how weird this favour really is. “Um. Would you like water or anything, first?”

“I’m alright.” Coën begins twisting the tinsel in his hands, looking for an end as if it’s tape or yarn. It takes tremendous effort but Aiden manages to tear his gaze away from the shifting muscles in those broad arms, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. How can anyone look that good in an ugly, homemade Christmas sweater? It defies the imagination. “So am I tying you to the couch here, or…?”

He could ogle Coën all day but the man’s right— they’ve got work to do. Aiden shakes his head and gestures for Coën to follow him into the bedroom, where he’s already set up a jazz vinyl. Lambert can’t stand the sound of jazz but Aiden adores it, and if he’s going to relax enough for another man to tie him up in tinsel, he’s certainly going to need calming music. 

The record is quiet enough that the neighbours won’t hear, but loud enough to drown out the creaking bed frame as Aiden reclines onto it. He starts on his back, drawing his knees up and spreading them until his feet are by his wrists, and he can easily hold his ankles. Raising his head to peer at Coën, Aiden mumbles, “I thought something like this, maybe. You know, you could just tie my wrists and ankles like this, um…” Still holding his bundle of tinsel with one loose end, Coën stares at him from the entrance to the bedroom. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t expect this to be awkward.”

“You didn’t?” Once more Coën laughs, although there’s no meanness to it at all. “So this is your first time having a friend tie you up, then?”

Aiden releases his ankles, huffing sheepishly. “First time having anyone do it, actually,” he admits, and sees Coën’s eyes bulge in surprise. “I mean, I don’t want anything too intense! I just want him to be surprised.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” says Coën. Aiden watches him pace over to the nightstand to retrieve a giant red bow, the type that would belong on a new bike. Not a trussed up boyfriend. Aiden flushes, embarrassed, but Coën just holds the bow up, frowning thoughtfully. “Is this meant to go around your neck?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Aiden bleats out, instead of I thought maybe you could hang it above my gaping asshole, actually! He reaches for the bow, meaning to arrange it around his neck to test how it might feel, but before he can grab it Coën snatches it away. He huffs, shifting his shoulders around to get a little more comfortable. “So are you up for this or not?”

“Sure, I’d love to help.” His tone is almost too perfectly kind— Aiden flushes again as he wonders if he’s being teased. Lambert has always raved about Coën’s sharp wits but honestly, Aiden never gets that impression from him. Coën seems too honest and loyal to have a cutting sense of humour; he’s booksmart, not necessarily clever. But now, seeing him walk around the bed and admire Aiden’s body like it’s a new project to be worked on… Aiden starts to think that maybe Coën’s hiding a laugh. He’s surprisingly flustered by the idea, which must be why the next question catches him so off-guard. “Are you going to keep your pants on?”

“I don’t have to,” Aiden volunteers almost instinctively. Coën doesn’t move, and eventually he realizes that that means the onus is on him to undress himself. Feeling more demure than he’s ever felt in his entire life, he reaches down to unbuckle his belt. The mood music isn’t doing a good enough job calming him down, and the tiny clink of his buckle is almost more than he can bear. To keep the conversation going, he blurts, “I told Lamb you might help me with his present, you know.”

“Yeah?” Coën holds a hand out for the belt. “What’d he say?”

Aiden, stymied, hands it over— then he watches Coën open their closet and carefully hang it next to the rest of their belts. That’s almost too much to handle, so he focuses on stripping out of his jeans in one smooth motion. “Uh, he said that was good, that he liked the sound of that. Because, uh, apparently you always give really good gifts.”

“He flatters me,” Coën scoffs fondly. When he turns back to the bed to take Aiden’s discarded jeans, Aiden watches him falter. Which is entirely fair— it’s not like Aiden had warned him about his underwear, and he knows that this piece is a scene-stealer. Aiden is privately pleased when Coën doesn’t immediately look away from the red lace garment sitting low around his hips. It wouldn’t be fair if he was the only flustered one here.

Then, as the music swells for a heated moment, Aiden realizes that Coën is staring not at his festive underwear, but at the plug that must be visible through the semi-opaque fabric. Even if he can’t see its ridiculous candy-cane colour he would be able to see the flared ridges of its base where they’re pressing against the lace. 

Aiden inhales and curls his toes, flexing his thighs so that the plug moves inside him, and Coën honest-to-God squeaks. Aiden opens his mouth to reflexively deflect, perhaps to give the man an out. After all, he’d signed up for ‘hey, we’re friends, we’ve been to three concerts together now, could you perhaps tie me up in tinsel because I forgot my boyfriend’s Christmas present?’ He had not signed up for this, and Aiden knows he’s taking it too far. But he can’t help put on a show, not when Coën is watching him with such narrowed, focused intensity.

But before Aiden can defuse the situation Coën steps closer to the bed. He doesn’t touch Aiden but he sets the bow down on the mattress and Aiden swears he feels the impact anyway. Coën says, low and serious, “I guess I have a reputation to live up to,” and before he remembers their previous conversation Aiden can’t, for the life of him, parse what the fuck Coën means. Then the implication sets in— I guess I have to make you look good for him— and a shudder runs down Aiden’s spine, making him tremble. Coën doesn’t relent, continuing in that sinfully low voice, “If I came in here… alright, let’s try something else. You’ve got a lovely face, but if I came in here expecting a present, perhaps I’d want you on your hands and knees.”

“Right,” Aiden pants, scrambling to do exactly that. He flips over on the bed so quickly he nearly topples off the edge, but before he can fall he feels a hand on his upper back. He nearly jerks at the motion, unsure why he expected Coën not to touch him. In order for this whole plan to work, Coën is going to have to touch him a fuck of a lot. “Sorry,” he grits out, shaking his head. “I’m good, I just… you startled me a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Coën says sincerely, coming around the bed to stand at his side without touching him. “If you need me to stop or untie you, really, just say the word. I’m only doing this because you want to— if it starts to feel weird, you need to tell me, alright?” Aiden nods, digging his teeth into his lower lip. Again, Coën prods; “Is that alright?”

“It’s alright,” says Aiden, embarrassment fading slightly. God, Coën is such a dweeb. He’s going to choose to focus on that and not the undeniable fact that this encounter is already much, much sexier than he’d imagined it would be. He had thought the tinsel would be unimaginably itchy and the bow hilariously goofy, not… well. He hadn’t thought that any of it would go like this, with him on his hands and knees, ass in the air for another man. For his boyfriend’s best friend, no less. Even though Aiden knows Lambert wouldn’t mind, the thought still makes him tremble.

Apparently satisfied by his answer, Coën returns his broad, warm palm to Aiden’s back. “Lower, I think,” he suggests gently. Aiden obliges, folding himself down so he’s resting on his elbows. Then Coën taps those too, pulling his wrists up behind his back. Like this Aiden is face down against the mattress, preventing him from enjoying any part of the display, but he can imagine how it’d look for anyone entering the room. For Lambert entering the room. 

His legs spread a little at the thought, at what Lambert will surely do when he comes home to find Aiden like this. Coën takes the cue and moves down there, taking Aiden’s ankles and gently spreading them even further apart. “Is that comfortable? Do you feel like you could hold this for another half hour?”

“Holy shit, we’re cutting it close,” Aiden laughs against the pillows. Coën laughs too, and it sets them both at ease, dissolving some of the tension built up between them. “Yeah, that feels alright. Feels good.”

“It looks good too,” Coën assures him. “I’m going to tie your legs like this, then, but I’ll leave him a little room to move them around.” All of a sudden Aiden is extremely glad to be face-down as heat sparks through him and his cock twitches with desire. Not room for Aiden to shift his legs, but for Lambert to move them as he pleases. Aiden exhales heavily and the pillows only partially muffle the sound.

If Coën notices Aiden’s growing problem, he graciously ignores it, wrapping tinsel around his knees and ankles. Aiden expects it to itch abominably— this is the part he’s been dreading all day, honestly— but it only feels like a light tickle. A rasp, maybe, if he leans into it. He nearly likes the idea that it’ll leave his skin flushed red even after the gentle restraints are removed, like how rope would cut into him and leave an impression. He closes his eyes and lets Coën tie his legs up however he likes.

“Stunning,” Coën says. Aiden gnaws on his lip again, worried about the kind of noise he might let out if he doesn’t. “Really, just… this was a great idea. I had my doubts, but it looks… Yeah. Wow. Lambchop’s gonna black out.”

“Well, let’s hope his reaction is slightly more involved than that,” grins Aiden. Coën chuckles, this time lower than before. Suddenly Aiden desperately wants to know what the view is like for him. Not what it’ll be like when his boyfriend gets home, but how Coën is feeling right now. “Hey, if you’re gonna black out, at least finish wrapping me before you do!”

“What a mouthy gift you’ve brought home,” Coën teases, and Aiden is the one who nearly blacks out at that. So he does know how to tease! Aiden redacts his earlier musings about Coën not having the capacity for cleverness, and wiggles his hips slightly in lieu of a response. 

But Coën just reaches down to take Aiden’s wrists in one hand, grabbing the tinsel with the other and tying them together above his ass. The angle is just shy of uncomfortable but at least Aiden won’t be like this for long. He tests the bonds, curious to see how Coën’s handiwork will hold up against the most minor struggling— but to his surprise, the knot holds fast. “Oh,” he breathes. “You’re very good at this. Hey, I can’t believe I forgot to ask this earlier, but have you done this before?”

A beat hangs in the air as both of them breathe, silence interrupted only by the record player. “No,” Coën finally admits. “I was a Boy Scout, though.”

“Course you fucking were,” Aiden says, delighted. “I would pay to see pictures of that. Do you still fit into your uniform?”

“I didn’t keep the shorts, but I’m sure I wouldn’t,” Coën laughs. He moves up the bed and at first Aiden can’t fathom why, but then when Coën’s gentle hands draw a ribbon around his throat, it’s all he can think about. Right. The bow. Coën ties it more loosely than he expects, and leaves the large bow dangling around Aiden’s neck, ends trailing over his shoulders. 

Perhaps Lambert will grab the ends while he fucks him— the thought makes him shudder, and he really shouldn’t be having reactions like this while Coën is still so close. Valiantly trying to return the conversation to safe territory, Aiden begins, “So was Lambert a Scout with you? Or was that before the two of you knew each other?”

Before Coën can answer, both of them freeze as they hear a sound from outside the bedroom, distant but unmistakable— the doorknob turning as someone opens it. They hadn’t even fucking locked it. Aiden can hardly lift his head to look but he tries anyway, and when he turns he sees Coën staring back at him with wide, dark eyes. “You said half an hour.”

“Guess he’s home early,” Aiden breathes. His traitorous cock twitches with want again. Why is that the most dangerous situations always make him feel the most turned on? “You weren’t supposed to be part of the present, Eagle Scout. Any ideas?” Because Aiden can provide a couple, but he’s pretty sure none of them are appropriate enough for Coën to say yes.

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” whispers Coën. Despite his serious tone he looks uncertain as he stands and slowly crosses the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself. Aiden doesn’t blame him— for all Lambert’s many winning attributes, he does have a lightning-quick temper. Coën’s involvement in this whole ordeal was only supposed to be a funny story, shared after Lambert fucked Aiden silly. Aiden feels guilty that Coën now has to go explain this whole thing to his best friend. 

And also, he feels especially guilty that none of this awkwardness has, at all, made his dick less interested. He strains against the tinsel but Coën did a fantastic job tying him down. If Aiden really wanted to free himself, he’d have one hell of a time doing so. He rolls his hips forward in a tiny, locked motion, grinding against thin air. It provides no friction or relief and the plug in his ass doesn’t move against anything, only moving when Aiden flexes. He moans into the pillow, low and quiet, and as a result he nearly doesn’t hear the awkward conversation happening just outside the room.

“Coën? Didn’t know you were over. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s fine, sorry! Aiden asked me to come over.”

“Oh, cool. … Where is he?”

“Uh. Well. It’s kind of a funny story.”

Aiden’s knee slips out towards the edge of the bed a little more and somehow the motion pushes his panties up his hips, jerking the plug slightly more inside him. He misses the rest of the muffled dialogue from outside, too busy trying to catch his breath. He’s overwhelmed— has been ever since Coën pushed him down onto the bed, to be honest, and he’s starting to lose what little control he’s got left. He bites down on the soft fabric of the pillow, thinking absentmindedly about the laundry they’ll have to do later, and the apologies he’ll have to deliver to both Lambert and Coën.

Then the bedroom door opens, and he hears a quick inhale from— well, from either of them. Like this, with his face shoved into the pillows, Aiden has no hope of being able to tell who’s who. That thought— that it could be either one of them standing behind him, ogling him right now— is too much to bear, and he groans again, trying to bear down against the plug.

“Holy fucking shit,” Lambert says, already sounding hoarse. Well, that’s one question answered.