You're worse than Geralt, Jaskier says, and Lambert sputters indignantly at implication that he could possibly be more of a dumbass than his older brother. He is, however, also the one trying to convince everyone at this table that he's not dating a man and is somehow failing spectacularly at that objective.
"I wasn't doing fucking anything, I was just-- I was looking at him! The fuck was I supposed to be doing, staring at a wall? You look at people when you talk to them!" If there's a way that Lambert expected tonight to go, having to argue about the manner in which he looks at his drinking buddies wasn't it. "And he wasn't fucking looking at me any kind of way."
There's a pause. Lambert leans across the table a little, towards Jaskier. "Wait. So. How much eyeballing was he doing?"
"For fuck's sake, Lamb," Geralt says, because seriously, how fucking stupid do you have to be not to notice mutual attraction?
Jaskier turns his attention back to Eskel, both hands now on his bicep with his chin resting on them, gazing up at him with pleading blue eyes. Laying it on pretty damn thick, too. And really it's kind of a thing to be trying to hook up this hard with his brother right in front of him; couldn't he have waited until they weren't all sitting here, at least?
"Somebody had to get some sense in this family," Eskel replies, humoring him. If this is how the rest of the night is going to go, Geralt doesn't want to be part of it-- he doesn't need to watch his brother pick up Jaskier, he's already gotten too much of a glimpse into the musician's apparent taste in men as it is.
"I should go," he says, double-checking his wallet for his cards, just to make sure he got it back from the bartender, and also as a convenient method of not having to notice that both of his brothers are looking at him. "Gotta be at the ranch early tomorrow."
Lambert's hand dives into the pocket of his leather jacket, the one that he always keeps his keys in and returns with his goal before Geralt can stop him. "Drink your fucking expensive hipster beer, Geralt, you don't have to be up that early."
"Lambert," Geralt's voice dips into low, gravelly registers, a good signal of his mounting annoyance. Before he can try to get the keys back from his asshole of a brother, Lambert tosses them to Eskel, a childish game of keep-away. Eskel catches them, and flashes him a look that's apologetic, but not too apologetic.
"Hey, at least finish your beer. Then you can get out of here."
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"I wasn't doing fucking anything, I was just-- I was looking at him! The fuck was I supposed to be doing, staring at a wall? You look at people when you talk to them!" If there's a way that Lambert expected tonight to go, having to argue about the manner in which he looks at his drinking buddies wasn't it. "And he wasn't fucking looking at me any kind of way."
There's a pause. Lambert leans across the table a little, towards Jaskier. "Wait. So. How much eyeballing was he doing?"
"For fuck's sake, Lamb," Geralt says, because seriously, how fucking stupid do you have to be not to notice mutual attraction?
Jaskier turns his attention back to Eskel, both hands now on his bicep with his chin resting on them, gazing up at him with pleading blue eyes. Laying it on pretty damn thick, too. And really it's kind of a thing to be trying to hook up this hard with his brother right in front of him; couldn't he have waited until they weren't all sitting here, at least?
"Somebody had to get some sense in this family," Eskel replies, humoring him. If this is how the rest of the night is going to go, Geralt doesn't want to be part of it-- he doesn't need to watch his brother pick up Jaskier, he's already gotten too much of a glimpse into the musician's apparent taste in men as it is.
"I should go," he says, double-checking his wallet for his cards, just to make sure he got it back from the bartender, and also as a convenient method of not having to notice that both of his brothers are looking at him. "Gotta be at the ranch early tomorrow."
Lambert's hand dives into the pocket of his leather jacket, the one that he always keeps his keys in and returns with his goal before Geralt can stop him. "Drink your fucking expensive hipster beer, Geralt, you don't have to be up that early."
"Lambert," Geralt's voice dips into low, gravelly registers, a good signal of his mounting annoyance. Before he can try to get the keys back from his asshole of a brother, Lambert tosses them to Eskel, a childish game of keep-away. Eskel catches them, and flashes him a look that's apologetic, but not too apologetic.
"Hey, at least finish your beer. Then you can get out of here."