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Crumbling sidewalk shifts under his legs as he walks, the tattered old walkway as familiar as the thump of his lute against his back. Cars slog along, one tire on the road and three tires in the death bed. The Dandelions that grow on the creases of the sidewalk are nice, at least.
Jaskier makes his way toward town, bardic outfit donned and bardic charm on despite the desolate streets. He loves downtown, though he kinda hates it too. His darling lute, of course, he loves with whole heart, soul, and being.
He jogs across the street, flipping off a driver who’d threatened to run him over. A loud honk blares as the driver shouts a few choice words about Jaskier’s mother. She’s dead anyway, and Jaskier’s poor so he walks a little faster to his busking spot.
The junction between St. James and Main, where people of all unholy backgrounds walk at a bustling speed. There are people in business suits and knotted ties, others in jean-jackets and jean-jeans, which Jaskier thinks is quite rad. Denim on denim? Tacky is his middle name; Jaskier adjusts his chemise collar. It’s navy blue against the sky-color of his doublet and breeches.
A bard in the 21st century. He doesn’t get much respect outside of the cosplaying community, but busking is a quick way to make money for another meal. He has work in a couple hours, better hurry and get the show started.
The sound of lute and song fills the air. It makes him pause and his brows scrunch ‘cause his lute is on his back and he’s not at his junction yet, still a few yards away but there’s a voice that’s crooning to a small crowd. To his small crowd, taking his money. He can’t see who this rival bard is over the heads of the many incredible, highly generous, and completely amazing patrons that stand in the way, but whoever’s playing at his spot, oh, he’s going to tear them to shreds.
He pushes past bodies, uncaring for no doubt the many diseases he’s just exposed himself to as he makes his way to his spot.
The bard dons a deep purple outfit with fine stem green and marigold yellow embroidery. His shoes are golden damask-cloth, curling upwards into a heel to give him height. They taper at the toes and expose his ankle. Suddenly, Jaskier feels very, very hot in his unbuttoned doublet.
His hair is black and falls jaw-length, skin dark and buttoned doublet glows against his skin like mystical purple firelight; Jaskier finds his mouth is dry. Both in fury and unexpected admiration. No one takes his spot, but also, the bard is very, very beautiful. He has sloped cheekbones that Jaskier wants to brush his lips across, curly, wavy hair that he wants to tangle his hand in. And he wants to strangle that gorgeous neck ‘cause he’s taken Jaskier’s fucking spot. Jaskier immediately sets him in enemy status.
It’s not graceful for a bard to stop a performance, be it through jealous interruption or otherwise. Jaskier stretches a shit-eating smile onto his face, gives his hair a ruffle, and confidently takes position next to the bard who fucking towers over him in his dumb but incredibly pretty shoes. He’ll simply have to out-play him; Jaskier is the best singer on his street, his title is unchallenged and he’s going to keep it that way. And after he beats him, maybe he’ll ask him where he got those shoes because yes, please.
He bows, and sets down his obviously more floppy muffin hat beside the other bard’s obviously less floppy muffin hat. He smiles at his crowd, glances at the other bard with a barely hidden glare, and begins playing on the next beat.
The bard beside him, oddly enough, grins at him, white teeth flashing as he dances along to the now-theirs song. Jaskier bites back a scowl and sings louder, dances quicker. The other bard is suspicious, to say the least. Jaskier knows what his grandmother had told him long ago: pretty people can’t be trusted. And the other bard is delectable, his voice like a faerie’s and Jaskier would certainly be in love if the man wasn’t currently trying to steal Jaskier’s job.
His smile makes Jaskier’s knees weak, and he turns away back to the crowd before locking them firmly in place.
Jaskier’s going to win this, the witchcraft of the other bard’s eyes be damned, he’s going to win this.
They dance around one another; the bard is seemingly oblivious to the duel, which only serves to piss Jaskier off further. Somehow, he manages the quote-unquote lyrics “fight, motherfucker” between the verses of The Old Maid’s Castle and the other bard grins at him, tongue poked between his teeth and cheeky joy on his face as he winks. Jaskier’s going to lose his pants mind.
The crowd’s obviously enjoying their incredibly one-sided duel; coins litter the small space in front of them and they clap along while humming the choruses.
The Old Maid’s Castle,
She killed the king, what a hassle,
The old Queen, they say, live in the walls,
But the Old Maid is the ruler of them now!
The cheer and applause is roaring when they finish, business skirts walking away after hipster high buns toss another coin to the pile of dollar bills, quarters, dimes, and pennies. Jaskier is out of breath, his throat a little hoarse. The other bard, whose skin glows beautifully deep orange as the sun sets, remains irritatingly unfazed after their arduous performance. They bow to the leaving audience.
“That was incredible!” the other bard says with a grin. Jaskier smiles in return. He has to admit, it was spectacular. They were evenly matched; he’ll have to play dirty next time. “Hi!” The bard takes a hopeful step closer, posture open and face flushed just slightly red. “My name’s Valdo. Valdo Marx. I just moved here,” he smiles. Jaskier is forced to lock his knees lest he swoon at the boyish dimple that settles into the corner of the bard’s wide grin.
“Jaskier. Master Bard of Main and St James,” he shakes his hand. “This is my spot, no room for rival bards here, thank you.” Straightforward is best, yes, no need for misunderstandings between them.
Valdo’s expression falls into a frown that’s irritatingly close to a pout. “But I was here first.”
Rivals, Jaskier sneers to himself, always whinging.
He finishes packing his lute and swings it over his shoulder. He squats by the cash and starts splitting it evenly. Evenly enough. “You were here first today. I’ve been here since,” he flaps his hand, not caring to look over his shoulder, “the beginning of time.”
The other bard whistles lowly. “And you’re still here?”
Bastard. As if Jaskier hasn’t tried every fucking music produces in the entire fucking Continent. He grits his teeth. “Look,” he stands, turning to him and ignoring how stupid pretty he is. He hasn’t got the time for it, not when he’s so mad, “This is my spot. This is my audience. I was here first. ” His finger digs into the man’s still-buttoned-up doublet, deep plum purple surprisingly soft under his fingertip.
The other bard cocks his head. “But I was here first.”
“Today.”
“It still counts!”
Jaskier sighs. Nemeses, is he right? His new rival is already proving to be a pain in the ass. It’s a shame that this is a rite of passage for bardlings, because he very much hates this man a very fucking lot.
“It doesn’t. Anyway,” he pockets his money, lute swung over his back. “I have to get to work. See you never, Maldo Varx! ”
-
Work has him dead on his feet. But music is money, as depressing as it is. Jaskier buttons up his blouse and tucks it into his yellow skirt. He looks in the mirror, draping jewelry around and down his neck, and slides rings onto his fingers. His hair is artfully tousled into its fringe as usual, and his feet ache as he slips into his Dandelion flats with tufts atop the toes. He looks good; just ‘cause he feels like Death doesn’t mean he has to look like Him, Gods.
Dusty cement, weeds, shoving through businessmen, etc.— he walks the usual route, and hears the voice long before he gets to the small crowd.
It’s that Jaskier is too tired to deal with this. It’s not the thought of Valdo’s deep brown eyes and broad grin that keeps him from pummeling through the crowd and strangling him, no it’s definitely the idea of making an extra buck for dinner this friday and not getting time for murder. He can’t even afford a coke, thinking about hiring a lawyer has him mildly sweating with panic.
He puts on his, as he likes to call it, performance face, and pushes past the crowd. Valdo grins in greeting when he spots him, and begins strumming beginning chords on his lute. Surprisingly, it’s one of Jaskier’s favorites. He’ll have to admit, the other bard has good taste in music, even if he’s got a shitty attitude and is bad at everything in existence ever.
The song’s mostly an instrumental piece; Jaskier starts strumming alongside him. The crowd begins clapping along as the beat grows faster, and Jaskier relaxes, truly getting into one of his favorite pieces in all his music knowledge.
He glances at Valdo, signaling the cue.
Valdo starts screaming. Screaming in tune, but it’s screaming nonetheless, raw, primal roaring along to the luteten beat. His voice is melodic and hoarse at the same time, and Jaskier feels goosebumps rise on his skin. Jaskier tunes in with the le-le's, feeling the rhythm ring in his chest before they delve back into strumming.
Mouth opened wide, the music rips out of him and Jaskier feels alive. Valdo tunes in with the le-le’s and Jaskier must be losing his mind because they sound so damnably beautiful together. Passionate and vibrant, the onlookers clap and cheer despite the lack of lyrics. Valdo’s face glows, and Jaskier, as much as he hates him, has to admit that this is the most fun he’s had in a very long time.
It’s over all too soon, and they’re quietening and delving into the ending chords; Jaskier begins strumming their next piece. Valdo lets him take the lead.
“We're a' laid idle ,
Wi' the keepin' o' the bairn,” Jaskier starts. The song is angelic, and never fails to pull him into a sense of calm.
“The lad will nay work and the lass will nay learn
The lad will nay work and the lass will nay learn.”
The world slips away, leaving Jaskier with the sound of two lutes and his own voice as he sways back and forth. His eyes slip close at some point, song pouring out of him with smooth ease.
It’s a song of young homes; young children and young parents, a soft lullaby that the crowd adores. It’s nearly angelic in tone, and Valdo’s low humming and ah- ing make the song seem ethereal. Maybe he’s not too awful.
“Thou hinders thy mother at every turn,” he finishes. The atmosphere is so suddenly soft when he opens his eyes again. Valdo smiles at him, eyes kind, and they share a moment of quiet before delving into a next song.
By the time they’re done, the sun has been long set. Jaskier pushes back sweat-slicked hair, and collects his even share of the coin. The crowd, having changed but not waned over the day, finally slips into no one, leaving the two bards alone in the busy street after praise, applause, and coin.
“That was good,” Valdo smiles, lopsided. He’s flushed, and Jaskier is forced to admit to himself that he’s seen a sight rarely more beautiful than the way the other man looks under the plastic light of the street-lamps right now.
“It was,” Jaskier admits. “It was really good.” He settles his hat back on his head and turns to Valdo, who leans against the brick wall behind them.
“Your skirt is beautiful. And your jewelry, too; gold suits you well,” he smiles. It’s crooked, and Jaskier curses the way his rival’s grin melts his heart. He’s supposed to hate him, dammit.
“I thought I told you not to come back.” Jaskier settles his lute against his back, adjusting his skirt and blouse. “What’s a bard that can’t listen?” He cocks his hips, arms resting on his hips as he tilts his head forward in wry questioning.
Valdo pushes himself from off the wall. “I could ask you the same. Told you I wasn’t leaving.”
Jaskier sighs. “I need the money.” He doesn’t mention how much more he’s making with the newfound bard than if he were to perform alone.
“So do I,” Valdo shrugs. He’s wearing green today, the color of summer canopies detailed with fine brown thread. No heeled shoes, but his flats are a lighter shade of gold and shine brightly with fine embroidery silk.
“Find somewhere else, then.”
“I like it here,” he shoots back.
Having a nemesis is more difficult and annoying than Jaskier had thought it’d be. He groans.
“Why?” he asks, bemoaning his fate whilst asking Valdo. A two in one combo, he grimaces.
Valdo steps closer, till their chests are nearly flush.
“I like seeing you.” That makes Jaskier pause. He looks at Valdo, their heights surprisingly similar for how tall Jaskier is.
Valdo tilts his head forward, lips parted as he looks into Jaskier’s eyes. They flutter shut.
Valdo’s lips are as soft as gentle flame licking blackened wood, and Jaskier finds his hands on the other bard’s arms to hold him close to himself.
He steps back first, breathless somehow. Valdo has a deep red blush on his own face, the two of them suddenly, awfully shy.
“Well,” Jaskier starts, “I don’t like seeing you. So,” he turns around, “see you never, Maldo Varx,” he calls. Then, he walks into the crowd of people heading home, heart beating too quickly to be healthy.
As hoped, Valdo greets him with another song the next evening and doesn’t stop for every evening after. Rivals, Jaskier smiles to himself. They sing louder till the streetlights light up and the sun slips behind the horizon; they go home together, one hand in the other’s and love-dumb smiles on both of their faces.