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Jaskier knows that when he gets like this, he should just let it go. When the chords sound wrong and the words have lost their power, when his voice feels flat and he has been singing the same notes over and over again until they have lost all sound and meaning. He should stop. Just get up, breathe, walk around, get a hug from Lambert, get a snack because he’s not been good at keeping up with those, and just step away from his guitar for a moment.
But the thing is, he can’t. This is important, his fingers are itching to play and there is this pressure in his entire body that this has to be good. He wants to do this, he wants to spend his life making music, bringing words to life and creating pictures and emotions where before there was nothing.
Singing, writing, playing — it’s everything to him. And stepping away feels too much like walking away. He fears that if he leaves in frustration, he might just never come back.
It’s… honestly a shit show sometimes. And it never gets easier.
Maybe he should quit it. He won’t make it anyway, nobody will want to listen to his songs, nobody will want to be sung awake with a song about pirates and harmonise with him. There are so many talented people who don’t get it wrong, who don’t sound flat, who don’t cower before the camera like he does some days.
He knows that’s wrong, knows his brain has reached the point of fatalistic hyperbole, but he can’t fight it.
“I suck,” he tells the ceiling, guitar resting on his chest where he flopped down on the bed. “I suck, I suck, I suck.”
He should change the words, switch chords from a major to a minor, should find better rhymes, clever rhymes, something that hasn’t been there before, something unique, something Jaskier.
Frustration mingles with panic and desperation, and he sits up to gently place his guitar on the floor, leaning it against the wall before he can dramatically flop down on the bed face first.
If he groans into the pillow and clenches his fist in the blanket, then that is nobody’s business but his. Sometimes all you have to do is be louder than the racing thoughts stumbling over each other in your mind.
He lies there for a while, sighing and groaning and screaming with tears of frustration springing to his eyes. His own song is stuck in his head and he hates it, has heard it too many times and is fucking tired of it now.
Thankfully, that is when his spite kicks in and he sits up before he realises it, wiping away the wetness on his cheeks as he rolls out of bed and decides to leave the blasted room with its looming insecurities.
In search of distraction, he heads downstairs, following the noise of Lambert washing the dishes in the kitchen, the clang of silverware a welcome noise for once. Jaskier stops in the door to admire his love for a moment, his eyes trailing over those broad shoulders clad in a white t-shirt for once. The urge to bury his head between those shoulder blades is strong, but something makes him stop. Something soft and gentle, something…
Lambert is singing, he realises. He is singing his song.
The very same song that has just made Jaskier’s throat ache, first with strain and then frustration, falls from Lambert’s lips with ease and familiar affection. It washes over Jaskier, melts away all the panic and frustration and it feels a bit like the first time he realised he loved Lambert.
A bit like the first time Lambert said, “I love you.”
A bit like the day he had asked Jaskier to move in together.
He’s singing. And suddenly it’s the most beautiful song Jaskier has ever heard.
Frozen as he is in the doorway, Jaskier can only stand there and stare. And, most importantly, listen. He’s not even sure Lambert is aware of the song while he is reaching for dishes to wash up and dry — it’s a habit he got from Jaskier, and it’s a blessing because Lambert does have the most beautiful singing voice. Eskel once told him that his brother always used to love singing but he never did it around the house and very rarely in the garage, and that it all changed because of him.
But to hear Lambert sing his song? The one he’s been working on, the one he’s been rambling about, asking for rhymes and all that, but still one he has never shown Lambert in full? The one he’s been so insecure about because it’s so close to his very heart that it has to be perfect to the point where he can’t stand it?
To hear those words be sung so gently, so naturally, parting from Lambert’s lips like old friends, it makes Jaskier’s world shift, just slightly. It’s brighter now, clearer, even though his vision is blurry because—
“Hey there,” Lambert says, barely looking over his shoulder, just sending a gentle smile in his general direction before he resumes with the dishes. Jaskier knows the rules: If Lambert is interrupted during chores, the chores will simply have to do themselves because all focus and energy will be gone.
And it’s fine, it’s all good, Jaskier can wait, he can wait until Lambert is done before he kisses him senseless or cries into his shoulder or does both at the same time just because emotion is flooding him and he can’t quite place it. It feels like he’s feeling everything at once and still nothing at all. Nothing but this never-ending love, this ever-present notion that Lambert is it. Lambert is the one, Lambert is the person he is meant to be spending the rest of his life with.
Doing the dishes in the kitchen, singing Jaskier’s songs before he asks if Jaskier has eaten yet and then give a long-suffering sigh while he sets about making dinner.
Insecurities have no place in his life, his mind, his heart, Jaskier realises. Not when there’s Lambert who will always catch him, always save him even when he isn’t even aware of it.
He tries not to make a big deal of this realisation, tries to open his mouth and say something innocuous, comment on that fine piece of ass that is on display even in these black sweat pants. But he finds that he can’t. There are tears in his eyes and he tries to blink them away, his throat is closed up and he tries to clear it, but all effort is for naught when Lambert eventually turns around with a confused and mildly worried expression.
“You good?” he asks, his favourite I Love My Man Boobs mug still dripping with water and soap as he reaches for the towel to dry it.
Yeah, Jaskier wants to answer, but what comes out instead is, “You… That’s my song.”
“Huh?”
“You were… You were singing my song.” Heat is rising to Jaskier’s cheeks as he speaks because maybe it feels stupid to be so hung up on that, to make a big deal out of a silly little song.
It’s not just that, though, and he knows.
“Oh! Yeah, well,” Lambert chuckles and scratches the back of his neck with his wet hands, giving him an almost shy look. “I’ve been singing it at the garage all week now so Geralt and Esk can’t hear it anymore. They even threw nuts and bolts at me today, so if you catch them not talking to you about your song once you drop it for real, you can blame me. Or blame them for having no taste at a— hey, what’s wrong?”
There’s real concern in his eyes now and he discards the mug and towel, dries his hands on his pants as he approaches Jaskier slowly.
“You’re singing my song,” Jaskier says again like an idiot, and he sounds almost hysterical to his own ears. He can see the confusion so very clearly in those eyes now but he can’t fucking explain.
“What the— Of course I am,” Lambert says incredulously. “It’s a great song, why’s that… What’s going on, Jask?”
“Nothing,” he mutters and shrinks because he feels so stupid for making him worry, feels stupid for making a bigger deal out of this than it has to be. He doesn’t want to talk about his frustrations, doesn’t want to go on the same old rambles that have been Lambert’s steady companion for weeks now. The man deserves a break.
Unfortunately, though, the man knows him better than Jaskier is used to, and something in his eyes softens as he sighs, standing right in front of him now. “You doubting yourself again, you beautiful, talented idiot?”
Jaskier pouts. “No?”
It’s not convincing, not even a little bit, and Lambert only raises one unimpressed eyebrow.
“Maybe?” he admits then, and is rewarded with strong arms wrapping around his shoulders as Lambert gently pulls him against his chest.
“Idiot,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’re a great musician. The lyrics are brilliant and symbolic enough to be worth exploring but not too much to be pretentious. Your rhymes are unique and smart, you could do a whole linguistic and literary analysis or whatever you call it on those — and you have, so I am right and you have to shut up. And the emotions you put into these songs just…”
He loses track of his words and just ends his flow of words with a hearty sigh that has Jaskier huff a laugh into his chest. Lambert answers in kind before pulling back so he can meet Jaskier’s eyes.
“You know I think you’re brilliant, but if you need me to tell you more often, that’s fine, I can do that. Or if you need anything at all, you just ask. A pep talk? Done. Recording something? Man, I’ll rent you an entire studio for a day and then watch you be all excited before you attack me with the audacity of being so fucking talented. Anything at all, yeah? Just… I won’t tolerate any slander of your music.”
Jaskier searches his eyes for any hint of sarcasm, but Lambert is entirely serious and genuine, and it takes him by surprise. Yes, Lambert had never been annoyed at Jaskier’s humming and singing, has taken the endless tinkering in search of the right rhyme, of just the right word in just the right place in stride and just offered grunts of assent upon question. But to hear him so passionate about it, so vocal, it’s… Invigorating. Endearing. And fucking hot.
“Anything at all, just say the word,” Lambert says, gentler now as he lifts Jaskier’s chin with a finger and leans in for a kiss that leaves them both smiling even through the tears.
“Can you… Can you sing it again? I can help you with the dishes, of course, sorry for interrupting, but—“
“’S alright, don’t worry about it. Yeah, I can sing for you.”
For you. Jaskier melts once more and leans in for another kiss. And another until they lose themselves in each other, their tongues dancing with each other until their lips are swollen and they have to break apart. Still, Jaskier is smiling, the heady feeling that comes with Lambert’s kisses is always a rush. A kiss is brushed to his nose, his cheek, his jaw, before Lambert steps away again and returns to the sink to finish washing the dishes.
Before Jaskier can protest, though, he begins to sing again. And his heart is full.
He plasters himself to Lambert’s back, feeling needy and raw and emotional but still content to be vulnerable around his love. Lambert leans back a little bit, just to let Jaskier know the hug is welcome and encouraged, and never once does he stop his gentle singing.
Not even when he has finished the dishes. He just stands there and lets Jaskier cuddle him, repeats the chorus of the song, then switches over to the next. Lambert sings and Jaskier listens, his eyes closed, that smile still firmly in place.
Then, suddenly, he has an idea.
“Lambi? Can we make it a duet? Can you sing it with me?” It sounds better when you sing it. He doesn’t say it because Lambert would give him shit for it, but he certainly thinks so, still feeling way too raw to be confident right now.
“Sure,” his love shrugs, aiming for nonchalant but Jaskier has felt the slight hitching of his breath and presses a kiss to shoulder to make up for it. “Let’s try that, see if it’s gonna make you believe in yourself. But you’re an idiot for thinking my lousy ol’ voice is the Secret Ingredient.”
Jaskier hums and buries his face in Lambert’s shirt. “Thank you,” he mumbles, and then pouts. “But stop calling me an idiot.”
Lambert turns in his arms and gives him a smug grin. “What, you want me to lie? You’re gonna have to talk with Vesemir about that first, though, I bet the old man’s gonna have something to say about—“
“Oh, shut up!” He laughs and shoves Lambert into the sink, but Lambert is a quick bastard and pulls Jaskier right along with him into a kiss that’s more laughter than anything else.
“Idiot,” Lambert whispers in between kisses. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
“Your idiot,” Jaskier promises and bites Lambert’s lips before he can retort, earning a half-growled laugh for his efforts.
“Mine, damn right. And now let’s go sing a song together.”
In the end, that is exactly what they end up doing. Jaskier takes Lambert’s hand and leads him to their bedroom where they lie on the bed together and sing quietly to and for and with each other. They don’t even look at each other, don’t make it a big deal as they keep their eyes trained on the ceiling, but Jaskier can hear the smile on Lambert’s lips and is sure that he doesn’t quite manage to contain his own.
But still, it is perfect. Their voices have always mixed well, but it’s a thrill now to realise just how good it sounds, and Jaskier takes Lambert’s hand, absently plays with with his fingers as they trade verses and lines and share the chorus. It’s a bit like a play and it brings with it a joy and ease that Jaskier feels he has lost for a while there when it comes to his own songs.
He feels very alive and very in love lying here, all his worries as good as forgotten.
And Lambert was wrong. He is the Secret Ingredient — to just about anything in Jaskier’s life.