#lambskelden

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Could you be tempted into writing some somft Eskel/Lambert or Aiden/Lambert (or the three of them together if your feeling fancy)? I have a friend who speaks so highly of you and your talents and their having a bit of a time this week. If you have ko-fi or the like please point me in its direction should this request appeal!

(Aiden/Eskel/Lambert; reflecting on the trauma of the past, current happiness, mention of Aen Seidhe marriage customs - @/jlyarts to be credited for headcanon - a bit of cheeky arousal, a little grinding, kissing, Lambert calls Eskel an "old man" cause he's a shit - I hope your friend feels better soon, Anon)

Poets were full of horseshit. Lambert had always known that. Even when Geralt had waxed lyrical about the beauty and depth of Dandelion's poetry, Lambert had maintained a healthy… let's call it, cynicism. And he'd been fucking right. Now that he had actually sat down to read some of it, he could only reason that Pretty Boy had been hit on the head one too many times and it had rendered incapable of good taste or reason, which, while Lambert was being honest, explained a whole fucking lot. 

It wasn't that he couldn't respect a good poem; the lewd ditties he had memorised over his lifetime were an art form in themselves. There were so many creative ways to rhyme the word tit, and Lambert knew them all in several languages. But there was something saccharine and chewy about Dandelion's drivel that left a bitter taste in Lambert's mouth. 

Completely disingenuous, fucking sanitised. Like someone had been told the story of their lives, picked out all the flecks of bone and scrubbed off the bloodstains, the rancid smell of vomit, alcohol and regret all washed out to make it some kinda bullshit romance. Dandelion had told the world that this was what being a witcher was like, and had made money off it. Greatest conman in history. 

"This is fucking diabolical, Eskel," Lambert said softly to the man in his lap, the heat of outrage completely missing as he lifted the book a little higher to peek beneath it. Truth be told–because if Dandelion's bad poetry had clearly achieved anything that late summer's afternoon it had turned Lambert into a temporarily honest man–he didn't want to wake Eskel.

They sat beneath one of the many maple trees lining the river that ran through Geralt's estate. Lambert had found a comfortable nook between some roots, and Eskel had claimed squatter's rights on Lambert's lap. The big oaf had run himself ragged around the farmstead, lifting things, chopping things, fixing things, and had burnt himself out. He'd thrown a pillow on Lambert's thighs, made himself comfortable between partially spread legs, and promptly fallen asleep face down. At some point he had shifted so that he wasn't inhaling linen fibres, and Lambert could feel the occasional soft flutter of breath on his elbow.

Slowly, Lambert put the book aside, his head tilting as he considered the man in his lap. It had taken Geralt and Lambert months to net Eskel and wind him in from the Path. So much of what Eskel had built of himself was tied into it; the expectations, even the fucking pain. That's what Dandelion's poems were missing. The way you started believing that pain was a way of life, how you strapped it on like you strapped on your armour, all the while waiting for the next time you could drown it out with something: fucking, alcohol, fisstech. Forging on because the only purpose you'd ever been given was to fight and suffer, while feeling more affinity with the creatures you were killing than the people paying you for it.

When Kaer Morhen had fallen for the last time, Lambert knew Eskel had been tempted to disappear with it. It had taken a lot of drinking for Eskel to see a new way forward that didn't involve all the fucking bullshit that came with being a witcher. Lambert was thankful that the pull of  Eskel's loyalty had been stronger than any other feeling he might have had at the time. They had used that loyalty to pry the swords from his hands and get him to hang up his medallion. Time to find the Eskel underneath all the blood, steel and suffering. And, you know what? The Eskel underneath, Lambert really fucking loved him.

Without the disagreements they had over witchering, Vesemir, Kaer Morhen, the final chasm between them had healed, allowing the sparks that had existed for fucking decades to kindle into a roaring inferno. And by Melitele's ballsack was Lambert happy to bask in the heat of it. Witcher Eskel had been a good lay--plenty caring, never left anyone wanting--but Farmboy Eskel did things with his dick, tongue and hands that Lambert was pretty sure defied the laws of biology or physics or some shit. Must be something in the water, or maybe the magic of a full belly and good wine year round.

With a crooked smile, Lambert stroked the loose strands of hair from where they sat over Eskel's face. He teased a thumb over the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, so deeply etched now that they were still visible in his weathered mug while he was asleep. "Still a handsome bastard though," Lambert breathed, his thumb following the groove between two scars until they met just above Eskel's lip. Eskel shifted, nose twitching against the tickle of hair, rumbled something, and then settled again.

It was easy to forget the past here, with the sun warming his bare feet, a light breeze ruffling his chest hair, and golden fields stretching out as far as the eye could see. Damn pretty. Not nearly as pretty as Eskel's shoulders, or the crest of his arse which had got a whole lot fuller with good grub, or the real reason they were sitting under a tree in the afternoon sun like fucking idiots. Nah, he was still busy in the water.

Lambert scratched thoughtfully at his beard, fingers still stroking idly through Eskel's hair, letting silken strands, some streaked with silver, fall between them one by one with each pass. "Pettin' me like a dog…" Eskel growled, still groggy. "He done yet?" 

"Not yet. You know what he's like. Half fish, probably playing with his food too."

"Strange." Eskel rolled over with a groan, awkward and slow as aching muscles stirred, and then flopped down onto his back. Lambert took the invitation, stroking the hard line of Eskel's jaw to his neck. He enjoyed the contrast of stubble and smooth scars against his fingertips, and then the change to stretches of softer bronze as he reached Eskel's uneven collarbone. Broken falling from the comb when he was a bastion boy, he'd told Lambert many winters ago. Eskel sighed, "Thought cats and elves hated water. He's both."

"Always was a contrary bastard," Lambert said, dipping his hand down between Eskel's tits. The ties on Eskel's shirt were broken, had been for a while. Lambert had convinced him to put off the repairs for two reasons, both of which were gloriously firm and furred beneath his palms. He rubbed in wide circles, brushing a nipple, and smirked when Eskel arched into the touch. "Randy old man."

"'M old, not dead, keep touching me like that and I'll have to do somethin' about it."

"Tough talk from an old dog. If I scratch you just right, your leg gonna start kicking?"

"Smart arse." Eskel cuffed the side of Lambert's head and grabbed his wrists. Lambert coiled up, teeth bared in glee, as he prepared for the fight. If he could wind Eskel up enough, he might even get him to drop his sensibilities and fuck here in the open. All sweat, and low growls, and firm, cushioned muscle. Really would scandalise the neighbours. Lambert clamped his thighs around Eskel's head and snickered.

A shadow fell across them, blocking out the dappled sunlight. "Puppies, puppies. I can't leave you for five minutes, can I?"

Lambert stopped scuffling with Eskel and looked up, more fool him. While Lambert was distracted by the glistening body before them, Eskel curled up and nipped at his tit hard enough to make him yelp. Lambert slapped an offended hand to his chest and glowered, "You cheatin' mother–"

Aiden grinned at them as he dumped his wrapped catch in the shade nearby. Eskel was squirming, vision obscured by the cushion, the press of Lambert's thighs and his own hair, so Aiden dropped over his hips to keep him still. Aiden's trews were wet from the river, already riding low, and Lambert could make out the contours of his thighs and everything else on offer; it made his mouth water. Eskel probably felt it too and if he didn't, then Aiden made sure to drive home his point with a slow, long roll against the burgeoning hardness of Eskel's crotch.

Eskel stilled, his hands sliding up Aiden's thighs, and Lambert pulled the cushion away so they could both admire the sight before them. They stared in silence, mouths agape, and Aiden smirked. "Cat got your tongues?"

"Nah," Lambert said, his own crooked smile reflected back. "Want it?"

Aiden leaned forward, keeping his hips pressed close to Eskel's so that he could enjoy the effect he was having on the big wolf. "Don't mind if I do."

Lambert kissed Aiden slowly, savouring the taste of him, the lazy, gentle passion that matched the heavy heat of the afternoon. A warm knot built in his gut as their tongues slid together, Lambert's fingers tracing Aiden's slighter jaw to his slender ear studded with metal and fragile chains. A mark of their bond, of Aiden's dedication to two men who had found him wandering and lost, and given him somewhere to drop roots, build his nest.

Lambert had teased him at the time–fuckin' Aen Seidhe marriage customs, for Witchers, what was he thinking?–but had thoroughly bought into it when he had seen a soft look in Eskel's eyes. Last time he'd seen that look was when he caught Eskel watching him sleep one early morning. Unbridled adoration. Heady shit.

There was a hitch, a soft gasp of pleasure punching out of Aiden as Eskel lifted a little from Lambert's lap to suck and kiss Aiden's chest, too tantalisingly close to ignore. Big hands slid down Aiden's waist to grip his arse, Eskel's hips rolling up insistently, and Aiden's mouth fell from Lambert's to rest on his shoulder with a low, longing groan. "Naughty puppies," he rasped.

Lambert licked the arch of Aiden's ear, toying with those silver decorations. "Shouldn't start something you're not planning to finish."

"Oh, I'm gonna finish," Aiden pressed a firm palm into the centre of Lambert's chest and forced him back against the tree. The smile he flashed was all white teeth and charm. "Just getting started."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Eskel's a lecturer at the local university and is recovering from the mugging that left his face mutilated. Aiden, the archivist that works at his side, suggests a haircut. After months of hiding from the world, it will make him feel better. Aiden knows just the barber for the job.

Warnings/Tags: modern AU, anxious Eskel, references to depression, implied future polyamory, touch sensitive.

Pairings: implied Aiden/Eskel/Lambert

Eskel’s seriously wounded after a vicious mugging in the streets of Cambridge. It took several surgeries and a whole lot of physical therapy to patch his face back together, but he was still left with grizzled scars. The right side of his face is still mostly paralysed, and he has difficulty smiling, or laughing, or eating. He becomes depressed but tells everyone around him that he’s fine. Just busy.

But after a difficult lecture, Eskel had signed off work. He's been a recluse since then. Hair and beard growing unkempt; he's too worried about catching the scars and doesn't trust anyone to help him. His friend Aiden arrives with some food shopping, and Eskel finally tells him he feels lost. Like he's too far gone and doesn't know how to get out the hole he's in.

Aiden suggests that a haircut and a shave would be a good start. A small step. If Eskel feels presentable, he'll feel less intimidated by the world outside. Eskel has never been a vain man, but he's always had personal standards and pride. Finding those again might help provide the first rung on the ladder.

Aiden's a good friend. He works in the library on campus as an archivist, and Eskel got to know him during his many hours spent buried in manuscripts. They're close. (In fact, Eskel had considered asking him out before... well, he became unfuckable and unlovable). It's because they're close that Eskel confesses his anxiety. What if the barber catches the scars? They hurt all the time but catching them makes his entire head and neck spasm. The headache lasts for hours but the reminder of how broken and weak he is, that stays for days.

It just so happens that Aiden knows a good barber. He's one of the best in the business. He has the steadiest hands Aiden's ever known and has cut the hair of footballers and celebrities. People travel for miles around on special occasions so that he can work his magic.

Eskel jokes that he's no celebrity, might not even get to the chair, would Aiden's friend waste his time? Aiden smiles knowingly, "He will for me."

The deal is that Eskel must leave his flat and attend the salon. No personal visits. Aiden's not entertaining the Hermit Lifestyle. Tough love. So Eskel puts on a big coat, a beanie, some sunglasses, and heads outside for the first time in months. The barber - salon, apparently - is in the swanky part of town, surrounded by gentrified coffee shops, "charity" bookshops and one-off boutiques. Eskel nearly turns back to the car about five times in the short walk from the multistorey.

The receptionist does a double-take as they arrive, but he’s professional enough not to stare at the Man Bear with the grizzled beard for too long. He recognises Aiden and gives him a dazzling smile. "He's expecting you, upstairs, to the left." Aiden grabs Eskel by the coat sleeve and hauls him off. They pass a room filled with hairdressers and their clients, abuzz with sound, and head up a spiralling staircase to the uppermost level.

The sound of cheesy Britpop guides them down a short corridor to a comfortably sized room with tall potted plants. A huge, floor to ceiling window floods the room with natural light and provides a dazzling view of the Cambridge cityscape. There's a single chair before a tall mirror, and a man stands by a cabinet of dyes, bowls, brushes and scissors. He is... not what Eskel expected. Short black hair, slightly receded, a speckled grey-red-brown beard, and two scars down the right side of his face that Eskel stares at despite himself. Aiden spreads his arms, "Lamb!"

Lamb - Lambert, Eskel learns later - pats Aiden on the side of the face like he's petting an excitable puppy and walks right past. He stands before Eskel, his arms folded across a lean, muscled chest. "Hat and glasses off, Bono. Let me see what I've got to work with."

Eskel's hackles are up, but he does as requested. Aiden takes the coat, the hat, and the sunglasses, and gives Eskel’s bicep a little squeeze. Eskel misses the appraising glance Lambert gives to his chest and arms, but Aiden doesn't. He hides his smirk by heading off to hang the coat up.

"There a jawline under that beard?" asks Lambert, extending a hand and raising his eyebrows to ask permission. Eskel grunts, jerks his head in a nod, and is startled when Lambert runs his fingers through his hair with an appreciative hum. He tugs the tie free, whistling as Eskel's mane falls over his face. "Lots to work with." Eskel isn't quite sure what he means but follows Lambert to the sinks anyway.

Eskel's massive form squishes into the chair and he feels far too much for the salon. Too big, too ugly. This was a bad idea from the get-go. He's a bundle of tension right up to the point that Lambert's fingers are in his hair. There’s no splashing, no hot water on scarred skin. Lambert massages shampoo and conditioner into Eskel's neglected hair and Eskel near falls asleep after a small noise of surprise. The pleasure of a gentle touch after so much pain is enough to make him float, and his hands relax where they had clenched on the arms of the chair.

Lambert hums along to the cheesy pop which, now that Eskel muses, doesn't fit the torn black jeans and black t-shirt greaser image that Lambert's presenting, but the thought floats away like so much smoke on an errant breeze. This is heaven.

Eskel startles when Lambert taps his shoulder, "Changing scenery, Bono." Lambert leads him to a slightly bigger chair that Eskel doesn't feel like he's about to crush. And there are the scissors, the combs, all the implements Lambert’s going to need to sheer Eskel back to a normal visage. Eskel's crippling anxiety as his mind conjures all the pain heading his way and he bunches up, glancing at Aiden in the mirror. Aiden gives him a thumbs up from where he’s lounging on the tattered leather couch and Eskel averts his eyes, waiting.

Then Lambert's fingers are in his damp hair again, stroking idle circles just behind Eskel's ears as he squints into the mirror. He doesn't even realise he's doing it, but Eskel can feel the goosebumps running down his neck, and his nerves ease a little. "What’s the usual style?"

Eskel opens his mouth, speaking’s still a bit embarrassing because he hasn't quite worked out the slur yet, and he hesitates as the words form.

Aiden swoops into the rescue and ambles over. He shows Lambert a picture from Facebook. Lambert guffaws. "Fuck, haven't seen curtains like that since the nineties," Lambert meets Eskel's gaze in the mirror, still playing with his hair. "Not happening. Make over time. New hair for a new you, Bono."

"Eskel," Eskel finally corrects, because... it's an easy win over that smug, toothy smile and the shivers (of pleasure) running over his shoulders. When did he become so touch starved for fuck’s sake? Lambert’s smile gets a tad bigger and he nods before disappearing briefly.

He returns with a black bag of utensils tied to his thigh and sets to work. As Aiden promised on the walk over, his hands are impossibly gentle. If Eskel didn't know better, he'd say that Lambert’s lingering with his fingers on Eskel's scalp, his neck. Showing Eskel that there’s no need to fear any discomfort.

As Lambert works, he chats about any inane shit. Teases Aiden who is leafing through a Men's Health magazine on a nearby sofa - "window shopping are we? Uh huh, yeah" - and lets Eskel sit without disturbance. Eskel knows he isn't being ignored; he's grateful that he's only being given two things to manage. Lambert's touch and his own anxiety. Conversation would be far too much.

Lambert’s so effective, so tender with his ministrations, that Eskel dozes off. He hadn't slept at all last night worrying about this, but now he’s here, skilled fingers carding through his hair, he can barely keep his eyes open. It feels like Lambert’s cutting away months’ worth of something else. Something heavier than a whole lot of hair.

"Wakey wakey, big man. Need to show you the artwork." Eskel startles again, blinking at Aiden who's propped nearby, and glances in the mirror. He's still got the huge beard, but his hair is... alright, it's a lot better than the curtains. Neat and short at the sides, longer and quiffed up on the top. No centre parting, no ‘weird’ bangs.

Aiden grins. “Trust you to take the fuck boy out of the fuck boy fade. Lookin’ good.”

Eskel’s glad that his beard hides the blush on his face, even if the pink in his ears is more than visible.

"Aiden says you've got a jawline that'll cut diamonds. Shall we find it again?" asks Lambert, both hands planted on Eskel’s shoulders.

The nerves in his face haven't quite got to smiling yet, so he frowns. Aiden knows not to take it personally, but Lambert glances at Aiden for reassurance. Fuck, he's actually... trying? Eskel swallows, nods, and grips the hem of his shirt, turning it over and over as Lambert assembles his weapons of choice.

The sight of the straight razor almost makes him leave. It's a legit fucking knife after all, but Aiden hasn't left; he rests a palm on Eskel's shoulder as Lambert leans the chair back and wraps the towel around Eskel's neck. He doesn’t need to say anything and Eskel appreciates the warm weight of his hand as Lambert prepares the foam.

Lambert uses an old-fashioned brush of badger fur rather than the bristly, artificial monstrosities sold in supermarkets. Eskel can feel the foam and the brush crackling on his scars, but it doesn't hurt. Not like the shop-grade crap he used all those months ago and ended up sobbing on the bathroom floor.

Lambert does the broken side first. Aiden's hand slips into Eskel's - no room for shame or pride here, Eskel's shaking - and strokes his thumb over the back of bone-white fingers. Lambert is phenomenally skilled. His hands don't stutter or stray, Eskel feels the blunt edge of the straight razor resting occasionally, but never the sharp one. Bit by bit, Eskel lets the tension coiled in his body begin to ease.

Lambert takes his time but he's efficient, wicking away the hair, cleaning the razor in the water and wiping away excess on his apron. He doesn't go over each area more than strictly necessary - after so long, even unscarred skin is tender - until the right side of Eskel's face is completely hair free. "Tilt your head the other way."

Eskel lets out a long breath, gazing at Lambert with eyes full of relieved tears. Lambert doesn't say anything, just tilts his own chin to the right to emphasise his instruction. Eskel obeys. Now that the bit he had been dreading has passed, Eskel all but melts off the chair. Lambert touches the left side of his face far more, cupping his chin, smoothing his thumb down the strong jawline revealed once enough of the growth is gone. Eskel can feel the cool touch of the air conditioning on his skin, and his eyes slide shut again as Lambert works.

"Well, damn, you weren't lying," Lambert remarks softly to Aiden.

"I know," Aiden sighs, "imagine staring at it for hours at a time... for years."

Eskel looks into the mirror again he’s speechless. He glances from Aiden, who is staring wistfully at Eskel's reflection, and Lambert who is admiring the real thing, smoothing his thumb up Eskel's jaw and down his freshly shaven throat. Eskel is a little bit taken aback by what he wants that thumb to do, but he can’t order his thoughts beyond startled bewilderment.

Lambert leans so close as he trims Eskel's sideburns that Eskel is certain he can feel Lambert's lips. He wouldn't mind. He hadn't kissed anyone, been kissed, in far too long and suddenly the desire’s there again; a small spark in a dizzying maelstrom of positivity. Hadn't bothered him before, not when there was always the possibility, but...

Once he’s happy with the balance of Eskel’s trim, Lambert wipes the remaining foam and moisture away with the towel tucked into his waistband, then adds some aftershave to the unmarked side of Eskel's face. "This side needs moisturiser. I’ve got some out back. Specially for broken skin, and you need to make sure you top it up and use some sunscreen too. They’ll burn easily for the first few months, even on colder days." Lambert disappears with a final pat to his shoulder and Eskel is left to stare at himself in the mirror.

He doesn't look like him. Just as he was afraid, he wouldn't. The hair? It had saved him from dealing with the fact that the face he'd looked at for thirty years was gone forever. It was never coming back. It's more than the pain. The slur. The broken teeth that made it difficult to eat without drooling. Eskel had always been sure of himself, what people saw, how they reacted. But not now, now he wasn't sure whether people would react with disgust, or pity, or... or...

Aiden hugs Eskel's head to his chest as the tears fall. They tingle down the scars where the nerve endings are raw, sensation disappearing now and then whenever they run over a patch that had gone numb.

Lambert hangs back. He got the tub in a handful of seconds, but he remembers what it was like after the car accident that gave him his own scars. Sometimes you just needed space to take stock. When Eskel's calm again, Lambert saunters over to offer the moisturiser and a card. "My bill," he says.

Eskel reaches for his wallet but stops short and looks at the 'bill' in confusion. It's a phone number and the address of a swanky little restaurant two streets away. Lambert's price is dinner and a coffee. With Aiden. When Eskel looks up in disbelief, Lambert shrugs. "You're hot. See you at the weekend." And with that, he just wanders off, not giving Eskel a chance to decline, or self-deprecate.

Aiden gathers their belongings and herds Eskel down the stairs and out into the street. Eskel's permitted his coat and sunglasses, but no beanie (Aiden says it'll mess with the wax, but really, he just wants to side-eye the new haircut).

They head home and it's the first night since returning from hospital that Eskel doesn't drink himself to sleep on the sofa. In fact, that night yields more than one first. Once they’ve devoured a curry and watched the evening news, Aiden leans in close and places a soft kiss on Eskel’s jaw. “There you are.”

Eskel blinks, humming softly in question.

“The man I’ve been crushing on for years,” Aiden says, his expression more than a mite bashful. “Thought I’d lost you under all that fur.”

Eskel doesn’t have words, but he does have a warm feeling in his chest, and he uses it to fuel the courage he needs for a deeper kiss. It can’t be raw or passionate, Eskel’s face twinging a little as his lips part to let Aiden’s tongue slide between them, but it’s more than he ever thought he’d enjoy after his injury, and that hope he had abandoned sputters to life. They part, a little breathless and coy, and settle down to fall asleep in each other’s arms.

[pressedinthepages]

Well shit man. I remember reading bits and pieces of this on Twitter I think? And I completely fell in love with it. SO NOW I AM ALSO STILL VERY IN LOVE WITH IT ❤️❤️❤️

Eskel's a lecturer at the local university and is recovering from the mugging that left his face mutilated. Aiden, the archivist that works at his side, suggests a haircut. After months of hiding from the world, it will make him feel better. Aiden knows just the barber for the job.

Warnings/Tags: modern AU, anxious Eskel, references to depression, implied future polyamory, touch sensitive.

Pairings: implied Aiden/Eskel/Lambert

Eskel’s seriously wounded after a vicious mugging in the streets of Cambridge. It took several surgeries and a whole lot of physical therapy to patch his face back together, but he was still left with grizzled scars. The right side of his face is still mostly paralysed, and he has difficulty smiling, or laughing, or eating. He becomes depressed but tells everyone around him that he’s fine. Just busy.

But after a difficult lecture, Eskel signed off work. He's been a recluse since then. Hair and beard growing unkempt; he's too worried about catching the scars and doesn't trust anyone to help him. His friend Aiden arrives with some food shopping, and Eskel finally tells him he feels lost. Like he's too far gone and doesn't know how to get out the hole he's in.

Aiden suggests that a haircut and a shave would be a good start. A small step. If Eskel feels presentable, he'll feel less intimidated by the world outside. Eskel has never been a vain man, but he's always had personal standards and pride. Finding those again might help provide the first rung on the ladder.

Aiden's a good friend. He works in the library on campus as an archivist, and Eskel got to know him during his many hours spent buried in manuscripts. They're close. (In fact, Eskel had considered asking him out before... well, he became unfuckable and unlovable). It's because they're close that Eskel confesses his anxiety. What if the barber catches the scars? They hurt all the time but catching them makes his entire head and neck spasm. The headache lasts for hours but the reminder of how broken and weak he is, that stays for days.

It just so happens that Aiden knows a good barber. He's one of the best in the business. He has the steadiest hands Aiden's ever known and has cut the hair of footballers and celebrities. People travel for miles around on special occasions so that he can work his magic.

Eskel jokes that he's no celebrity, might not even get to the chair, would Aiden's friend waste his time? Aiden smiles knowingly, "He will for me."

The deal is that Eskel must leave his flat and attend the salon. No personal visits. Aiden's not entertaining the Hermit Lifestyle. Tough love. So Eskel puts on a big coat, a beanie, some sunglasses, and heads outside for the first time in months. The barber - salon, apparently - is in the swanky part of town, surrounded by gentrified coffee shops, "charity" bookshops and one-off boutiques. Eskel nearly turns back to the car about five times in the short walk from the multistorey.

The receptionist does a double-take as they arrive, but he’s professional enough not to stare at the Man Bear with the grizzled beard for too long. He recognises Aiden and gives him a dazzling smile. "He's expecting you, upstairs, to the left." Aiden grabs Eskel by the coat sleeve and hauls him off. They pass a room filled with hairdressers and their clients, abuzz with sound, and head up a spiralling staircase to the uppermost level.

The sound of cheesy Britpop guides them down a short corridor to a comfortably sized room with tall potted plants. A huge, floor to ceiling window floods the room with natural light and provides a dazzling view of the Cambridge cityscape. There's a single chair before a tall mirror, and a man stands by a cabinet of dyes, bowls, brushes and scissors. He is... not what Eskel expected. Short black hair, slightly receded, a speckled grey-red-brown beard, and two scars down the right side of his face that Eskel stares at despite himself. Aiden spreads his arms, "Lamb!"

Lamb - Lambert, Eskel learns later - pats Aiden on the side of the face like he's petting an excitable puppy and walks right past. He stands before Eskel, his arms folded across a lean, muscled chest. "Hat and glasses off, Bono. Let me see what I've got to work with."

Eskel's hackles are up, but he does as requested. Aiden takes the coat, the hat, and the sunglasses, and gives Eskel’s bicep a little squeeze. Eskel misses the appraising glance Lambert gives to his chest and arms, but Aiden doesn't. He hides his smirk by heading off to hang the coat up.

"There a jawline under that beard?" asks Lambert, extending a hand and raising his eyebrows to ask permission. Eskel grunts, jerks his head in a nod, and is startled when Lambert runs his fingers through his hair with an appreciative hum. He tugs the tie free, whistling as Eskel's mane falls over his face. "Lots to work with." Eskel isn't quite sure what he means but follows Lambert to the sinks anyway.

Eskel's massive form squishes into the chair and he feels far too much for the salon. Too big, too ugly. This was a bad idea from the get-go. He's a bundle of tension right up to the point that Lambert's fingers are in his hair. There’s no splashing, no hot water on scarred skin. Lambert massages shampoo and conditioner into Eskel's neglected hair and Eskel near falls asleep after a small noise of surprise. The pleasure of a gentle touch after so much pain is enough to make him float, and his hands relax where they had clenched on the arms of the chair.

Lambert hums along to the cheesy pop which, now that Eskel muses, doesn't fit the torn black jeans and black t-shirt greaser image that Lambert's presenting, but the thought floats away like so much smoke on an errant breeze. This is heaven.

Eskel startles when Lambert taps his shoulder, "Changing scenery, Bono." Lambert leads him to a slightly bigger chair that Eskel doesn't feel like he's about to crush. And there are the scissors, the combs, all the implements Lambert’s going to need to sheer Eskel back to a normal visage. Eskel's crippling anxiety as his mind conjures all the pain heading his way and he bunches up, glancing at Aiden in the mirror. Aiden gives him a thumbs up from where he’s lounging on the tattered leather couch and Eskel averts his eyes, waiting.

Then Lambert's fingers are in his damp hair again, stroking idle circles just behind Eskel's ears as he squints into the mirror. He doesn't even realise he's doing it, but Eskel can feel the goosebumps running down his neck, and his nerves ease a little. "What’s the usual style?"

Eskel opens his mouth, speaking’s still a bit embarrassing because he hasn't quite worked out the slur yet, and he hesitates as the words form.

Aiden swoops into the rescue and ambles over. He shows Lambert a picture from Facebook. Lambert guffaws. "Fuck, haven't seen curtains like that since the nineties," Lambert meets Eskel's gaze in the mirror, still playing with his hair. "Not happening. Make over time. New hair for a new you, Bono."

"Eskel," Eskel finally corrects, because... it's an easy win over that smug, toothy smile and the shivers (of pleasure) running over his shoulders. When did he become so touch starved for fuck’s sake? Lambert’s smile gets a tad bigger and he nods before disappearing briefly.

He returns with a black bag of utensils tied to his thigh and sets to work. As Aiden promised on the walk over, his hands are impossibly gentle. If Eskel didn't know better, he'd say that Lambert’s lingering with his fingers on Eskel's scalp, his neck. Showing Eskel that there’s no need to fear any discomfort.

As Lambert works, he chats about any inane shit. Teases Aiden who is leafing through a Men's Health magazine on a nearby sofa - "window shopping are we? Uh huh, yeah" - and lets Eskel sit without disturbance. Eskel knows he isn't being ignored; he's grateful that he's only being given two things to manage. Lambert's touch and his own anxiety. Conversation would be far too much.

Lambert’s so effective, so tender with his ministrations, that Eskel dozes off. He hadn't slept at all last night worrying about this, but now he’s here, skilled fingers carding through his hair, he can barely keep his eyes open. It feels like Lambert’s cutting away months’ worth of something else. Something heavier than a whole lot of hair.

"Wakey wakey, big man. Need to show you the artwork." Eskel startles again, blinking at Aiden who's propped nearby, and glances in the mirror. He's still got the huge beard, but his hair is... alright, it's a lot better than the curtains. Neat and short at the sides, longer and quiffed up on the top. No centre parting, no ‘weird’ bangs.

Aiden grins. “Trust you to take the fuck boy out of the fuck boy fade. Lookin’ good.”

Eskel’s glad that his beard hides the blush on his face, even if the pink in his ears is more than visible.

"Aiden says you've got a jawline that'll cut diamonds. Shall we find it again?" asks Lambert, both hands planted on Eskel’s shoulders.

The nerves in his face haven't quite got to smiling yet, so he frowns. Aiden knows not to take it personally, but Lambert glances at Aiden for reassurance. Fuck, he's actually... trying? Eskel swallows, nods, and grips the hem of his shirt, turning it over and over as Lambert assembles his weapons of choice.

The sight of the straight razor almost makes him leave. It's a legit fucking knife after all, but Aiden hasn't left; he rests a palm on Eskel's shoulder as Lambert leans the chair back and wraps the towel around Eskel's neck. He doesn’t need to say anything and Eskel appreciates the warm weight of his hand as Lambert prepares the foam.

Lambert uses an old-fashioned brush of badger fur rather than the bristly, artificial monstrosities sold in supermarkets. Eskel can feel the foam and the brush crackling on his scars, but it doesn't hurt. Not like the shop-grade crap he used all those months ago and ended up sobbing on the bathroom floor.

Lambert does the broken side first. Aiden's hand slips into Eskel's - no room for shame or pride here, Eskel's shaking - and strokes his thumb over the back of bone-white fingers. Lambert is phenomenally skilled. His hands don't stutter or stray, Eskel feels the blunt edge of the straight razor resting occasionally, but never the sharp one. Bit by bit, Eskel lets the tension coiled in his body begin to ease.

Lambert takes his time but he's efficient, wicking away the hair, cleaning the razor in the water and wiping away excess on his apron. He doesn't go over each area more than strictly necessary - after so long, even unscarred skin is tender - until the right side of Eskel's face is completely hair free. "Tilt your head the other way."

Eskel lets out a long breath, gazing at Lambert with eyes full of relieved tears. Lambert doesn't say anything, just tilts his own chin to the right to emphasise his instruction. Eskel obeys. Now that the bit he had been dreading has passed, Eskel all but melts off the chair. Lambert touches the left side of his face far more, cupping his chin, smoothing his thumb down the strong jawline revealed once enough of the growth is gone. Eskel can feel the cool touch of the air conditioning on his skin, and his eyes slide shut again as Lambert works.

"Well, damn, you weren't lying," Lambert remarks softly to Aiden.

"I know," Aiden sighs, "imagine staring at it for hours at a time... for years."

Eskel looks into the mirror again he’s speechless. He glances from Aiden, who is staring wistfully at Eskel's reflection, and Lambert who is admiring the real thing, smoothing his thumb up Eskel's jaw and down his freshly shaven throat. Eskel is a little bit taken aback by what he wants that thumb to do, but he can’t order his thoughts beyond startled bewilderment.

Lambert leans so close as he trims Eskel's sideburns that Eskel is certain he can feel Lambert's lips. He wouldn't mind. He hadn't kissed anyone, been kissed, in far too long and suddenly the desire’s there again; a small spark in a dizzying maelstrom of positivity. Hadn't bothered him before, not when there was always the possibility, but...

Once he’s happy with the balance of Eskel’s trim, Lambert wipes the remaining foam and moisture away with the towel tucked into his waistband, then adds some aftershave to the unmarked side of Eskel's face. "This side needs moisturiser. I’ve got some out back. Specially for broken skin, and you need to make sure you top it up and use some sunscreen too. They’ll burn easily for the first few months, even on colder days." Lambert disappears with a final pat to his shoulder and Eskel is left to stare at himself in the mirror.

He doesn't look like him. Just as he was afraid, he wouldn't. The hair? It had saved him from dealing with the fact that the face he'd looked at for thirty years was gone forever. It was never coming back. It's more than the pain. The slur. The broken teeth that made it difficult to eat with drooling. Eskel had always been sure of himself, what people saw, how they reacted. But not now, now he wasn't sure whether people would react with disgust, or pity, or... or...

Aiden hugs Eskel's head to his chest as the tears fall. They tingle down the scars where the nerve endings are raw, sensation disappearing now and then whenever they ran over a patch that had gone numb.

Lambert hangs back. He got the tub in a handful of seconds, but he remembers what it was like after the car accident that gave him his own scars. Sometimes you just needed space to take stock. When Eskel's calm again, Lambert saunters over to offer the moisturiser and a card. "My bill," he says.

Eskel reaches for his wallet but stops short and looks at the 'bill' in confusion. It's a phone number and the address of a swanky little restaurant two streets away. Lambert's price is dinner and a coffee. With Aiden. When Eskel looks up in disbelief, Lambert shrugs. "You're hot. See you at the weekend." And with that, he just wanders off, not giving Eskel a chance to decline, or self-deprecate.

Aiden gathers their belongings and herds Eskel down the stairs and out into the street. Eskel's permitted his coat and sunglasses, but no beanie (Aiden said it'll mess with the wax, but really, he just wants to side-eye the new haircut).

They head home and it's the first night since returning from hospital that Eskel doesn't drink himself to sleep on the sofa. In fact, that night yields more than one first. Once they’ve devoured a curry and watched the evening news, Aiden leans in close and places a soft kiss on Eskel’s jaw. “There you are.”

Eskel blinks, humming softly in question.

“The man I’ve been crushing on for years,” Aiden says, his expression more than a mite bashful. “Thought I’d lost you under all that fur.”

Eskel doesn’t have words, but he does have a warm feeling in his chest, and he uses it to fuel the courage he needs for a deeper kiss. It can’t be raw or passionate, Eskel’s face twinging a little as his lips part to let Aiden’s tongue slide between them, but it’s more than he ever thought he’d enjoy after his injury, and that hope he had abandoned sputters to life. They part, a little breathless and coy, and settle down to fall asleep in each other’s arms.