Chapter Text
Firelight shines over them both, warming their skins. Her child is warm under her careful hands as she works oil into his soft skin. “You’re so sweet,” she hums. Her child kicks, small fingers clenching into small fists. He’s trying to hold the air, she smiles, to hold the world close to his heart. “Nila, nila odi vaa,” she sings, a slow smile splitting on her face. Her child mimics it, face flush as he coos and kicks. “Nillaamal odi vaa,” Her voice holds such fondness. If her son is to become anything, he will be a lover. She will teach him how to keep his soul kind, his heart warm, and his eyes bright. He reaches for her Thaali, and she slips it under the cross fold of her Sari before he can catch his fingers against the smoothed edges of the gold pendant or the gold chain that takes the place of manjal thread. “Malai mela eri vaa.”
She’s careful to redress him, adorning him with the softest cloth in the lands. Her child’s eyes slip closed, small lips parted and mouthing words he does not know yet. His coos sound like her lullaby to her ears, like golden bells chiming in the wind, like streams bubbling under cloudless skies. She hums along with him. “Malligai poo kondu vaa.”
He’s placed in her vast bed, and she surrounds her child with pillows. He sprawls out on his back, still warm from his bath, and falls into an easy sleep. “Goodnight darling Val,” she whispers. She blankets him with a thin cotton cloth of violet and gold and lays down next to him.
Her wife finds the two of them sound asleep, black unruly heads of hair splaying out in their slumber. Ammaum kolanthai. She presses a kiss to the beauty mark at the corner of her wife's lip in greeting and joins their evening sleep.
Valdo wakes to the sun warming his face and his lips part in a yawn. The bees must be awake too, he thinks with excitement, and wanders out of his room to the kept bees in the back. The dirt under his bare feet is packed after decades of use, his Amma says. Valdo’s sure his Amma's right; he’s only five, and she’s probably a hundred. Right? She has a black dot at the corner of her lip that Ma always kisses and that probably means she's a witch or something. Can witches even be as pretty as his Amma? He shrugs and realizes doesn’t care all that much as he wiggles his toes in a patch of cool clover on his way.
The huff of her smoker greets him.
“Good morning, Vaal,” she grins. “How did my little monkey sleep? You slept in today, darling.”
“I’m not a monkey! And I don’t have a tail, Amma,” he complains.
“No, but you are trouble,” Ma says, bringing out two brass tumblers of tea. Amma carefully sets the bees back in their home and takes off her gloves. He watches with a cocked head as she carefully grasps the rim of the metal cup.
“Can I have some too?” he asks, eyes shining. Ma always makes the best tea, and she presses a kiss to his curls before slipping back indoors with an ‘of course.’ He misses the wink she throws at Amma, too distracted the way his sleep-frizzed hair tickles his face before becoming enraptured by the frog that chills in the cool water of their water pump at the edge of the wild flowers that grow around their home.
“Careful, puppy, it’s hot,” she grins, handing him a metal cup with a cloth wrapped around it. It’s warm against his hands as he grasps the tumbler and peers into it. The tea is clear and steaming. It also looks an awful lot like the pot of hot water before Ma pours the rice in. Ma also makes the best rice, but Amma makes the best lamb gravy; it’s really spicy and Valdo loves it with sesame oil. Amma also makes the best payasam, but Ma makes the best kozhukattai with the sweet filling that makes his teeth all black so he’ll call it a tie.
He takes a sip of the tea, eyes lighting up. “It’s so good,” he says, warmth still on his tongue. “Mm,” he hums, taking another sip. “Thank you, Ma.”
“Is it? I’m glad, Valdo,” Ma says, her voice breathless and shaky. His parents look like they’re on the brink of bursting out laughing, sharing looks and pinching their lips together. Valdo squats back by the mud puddle the frog rests in and sips his tea, ignorant to his parents’ laughter and fawning over how gullible as he observes his new friend, Aiya Frog.
Frogs croak as evening falls, the weather warm and humid. Valdo is fourteen years old and he is desperately in love. His braid bounces against the small of his back as he jogs to catch up with her, an arm’s length of Jasmine piled in his gentle hands. “I’ve brought these for you,” he smiles. The girl blushes bashfully, and somewhere behind him, his parents cheer him on.
“You’re doing great, darling!” his Ma hollers.
“At least better than your Ma did.” Valdo bites back a groan, unwilling to listen to his Amma’s story of her courtship when he’s literally right here trying to—
“You’ve got this, sweet thing!”
Valdo briefly considers digging himself a grave then and there, it’d be less embarrassing. Until something brushes against his cheek, at least. The girl pulls away and Valdo is sure his smile is more charming than awkward. Or at least he hopes so. “You’re really pretty,” he says, and holds out the length of flowers.
“So are you,” she replies, decidedly less awkward than he feels. “Turn around for me?” She holds out a singular rose that must be larger than his palm, and feels her tuck it into the base of his long braid when he turns for her.
She turns for him, and Valdo is careful as he positions the string of flowers around her double-braids. Amma whistles, fingers ringed under her tongue as Ma claps. “Goddess,” he mutters. The girl laughs and takes his hand. Together, they run towards the vast pond behind the Temple of Lillit with pavadai and veshti catching at their ankles. Tomorrow, most of the town’s children will learn under traders or head for Oxenfurt. Today, they learn custom and courting as the air fills with laughter and impressed cheering.
Oxenfurt is wondrous.
He studies painting, too in-love with the world around him to do anything but capture it. Amma had told him that they’d raised him to adore with his soul and being, and as he watches leaves shift in the breeze and feels the pleasant weather against his skin, he thinks they've succeeded. The world is beautiful, and Valdo dedicates his life to its preserving moments. Painting brings out something in him that will not stop and will not slow. He knows it’s love.
College is surprisingly easy, if easy means being driven to the bone. Valdo learns so much he could likely sparse out the meaning of life on a sunny evening with two black coffees and Margret’s apple tarts by his side. Of course, they compare not to the beauty of his parents’ sweets that always managed to disappear within a day no matter how much they'd made.
For now, he sighs, back aching as he bends over the table and rewrites the verse for the fifth time. Paint lines his nails where he hasn't managed to wash it off; there’s a dollop somewhere, his clothes having suffered the aftermath of a wrist flick too harsh, but he’s not sure where exactly. Hasn’t got the time to think about it or the desk-load of homework that awaits him in his dorm. The competition is close. Valdo is no musician, he doesn’t really know what rhymes with what but…
There’s a boy. There’s a boy who’s loud. And bright. And very pretty. And smart. The list goes on but in simpleton terms, Valdo is enamored. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, and Bard-In-Training. Valdo personally thinks he’s a better singer than all of his professors combined, which only makes it more difficult for him to court him. To court is to show interest in a lover’s passions, to show dedication and commitment to their goals and interests. For Valdo, that means crossing out the same lyric for the fifth time. Sadly, goat is not the best rhyme for boat in a romantic song detailing sailing off into a horizon with your beloved.
He’ll figure it out. But for now, he pens a letter to his mothers talking about his paintings and new learnings before delving into a rant about his woes and his love. He slips in a painting of Oxenfurt’s walls under a sunset, a landscape study he’d done last night in practice for a new shadowing technique, and seals the envelope shut. Valdo doodles a frog on the front page before twisting his hair into a loose braid and and turning back to the lyrics.
Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, and Bard-in-Training hates Valdo with more than words can express. He’d sneered at him after the competition, but Valdo isn’t sure why. He’d won first place, surely that should impress him? Perhaps he’s rejecting Valdo, but it sure is an awful way to do it. He replies to taunts, of course, giving back as hard as he gets, but sadness still grips him. Maybe Jaskier just hates him. Maybe Valdo’s just bad.
He unhooks the gold rings from his ears, and slips the lithe chains off his neck in preparation to wind down for the night. An envelope from his hometown sits on his desk, splattered with paint from his early morning cloud practices; he’d been saving it for this evening when he’d come home overjoyed at Jaskier accepting his courtship. But Jaskier only seems to hate him even more and Valdo loses the last dregs of his energy and he slips out of his plum doublet and breeches. He grabs his sketchbook instead, laying down onto his cot at the corner of the minuscule room.
Lazy drags of charcoal shape a face and in it, Valdo finds himself drawing his, as Jaskier calls them, “bardic rival.” Valdo isn’t even a bard, he’s just stupidly in love. Perhaps he’s just plain stupid. Ma and Amma likely have an answer for him in their letter, but he’s too tired right now. He slips his eyes closed and imagines that the half-finished painting of two lovers sailing into the horizon completes itself over the course of a night, a small smile on his face at the silly, hopeful thought. Tomorrow he has Calculus II, Coloring III, and The Art of Shadow and Animation.
Whatever shitstorm today had been, tomorrow will be better. He falls asleep with his sketchbook open to a half-finished drawing of one Jaskier the Bard.
“You’re obsessed with me.” Valdo slams his sketchbook shut, turning to face Jaskier. There’s a grimace in Jaskier’s voice despite the smugness on his face. “I thought you hated me. Maybe you do, you don’t have to love me to be obsessed with me.”
Valdo does love him, but that’s another subject entirely. He’d been supposed to be practicing detail and realistic drawings but he’d somehow filled the page with sketches of Jaskier. Of Jaskier singing, smiling, grinning, pouting, dancing— and Jaskier had seen the large notebook absolutely covered with charcoal replications of his face.
“What do you want, Jaskier?” How long has he been at this. Two years now? Three? He still does not understand what they have between them, does not understand if he should quit or not.
“Why do you keep trying to outplay me?” Jaskier runs fingers through his hair and Valdo has never seen a sight so beautiful. “You’re an artist. Why do you play the lute, and only in competitions I’m in? Has to be more than your obsession, I don’t see you stalking me.”
“I’ve been trying to court you.”
Jaskier looks so shocked that Valdo is helpless to a slight wince. Has he really been that awful? He keeps his gaze steady as he runs his necklace through his fingers.
“You call that courting? I’ve been trying to court you for the past fucking,” the bard throws his hands up in frustration, “forever! What you’ve been doing isn’t courting,” he states.
“Yeah it is. I show interest in your passions, show you that I’m dedicated to supporting you.”
“You were one-upping me!”
“It’s part of it, I have to impress you.” Valdo feels his breath hitch, finally registering what Jaskier had said earlier. “You’ve been trying to court me?” He hadn’t noticed, he’d certainly never seen Jaskier’s lute-calloused fingertips be smudged with paint.
“That’s not courting, not in Lettenhove, you’ve got to quiet down to court someone, let them have the spotlight with their interest. Be proud of then and what they’re doing.” Is that why Jaskier had never missed a single one of Valdo’s exhibitions? And not to simply spite him with his presence? He clears his throat. There’s obviously been some misunderstanding between them, and he fights the blush that threatens to rise, still disbelieving that Jaskier liked him back.
There’s a silence that passes between them as they process what they’d said. Jaskier snaps his head up, lips parted. “You’ve been trying to court me,” he says, voice breathless. “I’ve been trying to court you.”
Jaskier’s palms are warm against his cheeks and the press of his lips is harsh against Valdo’s.
Valdo doesn’t think he’s ever shared a kiss so perfect. Amma is going to lose her mind when she tells her about this. Ma’s going to be proud that her son’s apparently as awful as courting as she is.
“The end is approaching,” Jaskier bemoans.
“We’re only graduating, Jaskier.” His hands are warm as he trails them up Jaskier’s sides, thumbs massaging the soft skin he passes. “A new adventure awaits, darling.” Jaskier shifts from above him, and rises. His arms bracket Valdo’s shoulders, palms pressing into the shifty mattress below them.
He looks down at Valdo for a moment longer, brown hair ruffled and cheeks tear streaked. “I’m going to miss this,” he says, and flops back onto Valdo’s chest.
“Fuck,” Valdo chuckles, the breath knocked out of him. “You’re awful. Nothing’s going to change, we’re only going to be doing this on the dirt floor rather than a shitty bed.” He wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, hugging him close to his chest.
Jaskier huffs and buries his face into the crook of Valdo’s neck. “We’ll have to make money. I refuse to let you sleep on the ground, heart,” he mutters. Idle kisses press up Valdo’s skin, Jaskier’s lips settling at the base of his jaw before nuzzling back into his comfy spot.
“How noble of you,” Valdo smiles. Jaskier’s hair is soft and frizzy under his hand as he pets through it, and Valdo feels so very lucky to have his lover in his basest form draped across his chest. There is no pretending here, no performing. Just the two of them, and the wet of Jaskier’s tears against the warmth of Valdo’s skin.
“We’re going to be alright, darling. I’m not leaving.” Jaskier’s chuckle is wet and he sniffles before clinging tighter to him.
“How’d you know?” He pulls back to look at him, and Valdo takes the opportunity to press a brushing kiss to his lips.
“You’re predictable.”
“Am not!” He looks truly and properly affronted, and Valdo laughs before rolling them over. He straddles his lover’s waist and leans forward, the necklace chain that wraps around his neck brushing against Jaskier’s chest. “You’re predictable and you’re awful.” Jaskier shows him exactly what he feels about that by nipping at Valdo’s bottom lip and pulling him down for a kiss. The feeling of his lover’s chemise is soft against Valdo’s chest.
Tears dry and no more take their place.
“Ma! Over here,” he waves into the crowd. Amma tugs at Ma’s sleeve, and Valdo watches their faces light up before they wade through the bustling crowd over to them. Jaskier smiles brightly and grips Valdo’s hand tighter. An awful, wonderful habit of his whenever he’s excited, Valdo smiles. Their twenties were quick to come, and graduation had come impossibly quicker. Today, he stands here before his mothers with his lover’s hand in his and a diploma in the other.
“I’m so proud of you,” Ma coos. Amma sniffles, adjusting his earring till the jewelry is right-side-up again.
“You’re so grown up, puppy” she mutters. Ma wipes away Amma’s tears with a smile. “You were so small, trying to hold the world.”
“And now he’s going to paint it, aren’t you Vaal.” Valdo smiles, leaning downwards so Amma can fix his perfect hair. She tucks a nonexistent strand behind his ear.
“I am.” Jaskier rubs a gentle thumb across the back of Valdo’s hand and he straightens. “Amma, Ma, this is Jaskier. Jaskier,” he smiles at his lover, at his family, “these are my parents.”
“Oh, he’s adorable,” Amma says. There’s delight in her voice as she cups Jaskier’s cheeks. “Congratulations, you two. How did the courting go?” she asks, a laugh barely held back in her voice.
Ma rolls her eyes. “He had to have done better than me, you did raise him after all.” Valdo rubs a hand across the back of his neck as Jaskier guffaws.
“Actually, I thought he hated me,” he smirks. Traitor.
“In my defense, he was as bad at courting me too!” Amma raises a brow at Valdo before her delving into a wide grin. He’s never going to live this down, his family is going to be teasing them until the day Valdo dies. Somehow, the thought makes him feel exceptionally warm.
Valdo’s stomach flutters as Amma whistles lowly as Valdo presses a shy kiss to the back of Jaskier’s hand. Neither of his parents have changed over the years, as silly and loving as they’d been two decades ago with hearth and oil warming Valdo’s skin. Their hair is graying and their smiles are as comforting as they’d been since the day he’d gotten stung by his first bee. Jaskier gives Valdo’s hand a gentle squeeze, and Valdo realizes he’s crying a moment too late. He’s drawn into a hug by his mothers and Jaskier is pulled in soon after.
Marriage is grand, Valdo thinks. Not ‘cause of all the riches that surround him, fruits glimmering under the reflection of gold and ruby, but rather because he is with his lover and is about to welcome him into his family. Forever.
The thought makes his throat dry, and Jaskier smiles that knowing smile they give one another. Three years of failed courtships and five of holding one another’s soul, and now they’re about to become husbands. Valdo swallows, watching as Jaskier walks towards him in his silks and jewelry. He looks so good, so lovely in Cidaris’ traditional clothing. Like he was made for Valdo, like Valdo was made for him.
“Are you alright, Val?” Jaskier’s palm comes to cup Valdo’s cheek.
He wraps gentle fingers around Jaskier’s wrist, holding his hand in place.
“Perfect.” He’s breathless and Jaskier’s grin is dizzying. The scent of flowers is thick in the air, ghee- and sugar-rich sweets cloying. It’s heaven. “‘Can’t believe this is happening.”
Jaskier smiles, pressing their foreheads together. “I can. Been enamored with you since I saw you. And I know for a fact,” he pauses, leaning forward so his breath ghosts Valdo’s lips, “that I am a catch.”
Valdo hums, lips moving closer. Their kiss is gentle, and it still proves to take his breath away.
“They’re waiting for us,” Jaskier says. “Ready, darling?”
“Since the day I saw you, heart.”
They’re married to the sound of buzzing bees in Valdo’s back yard. There are too many people to count, but Jaskier’s palm is warm against his and Amma’s and Ma’s love fills his heart. It’s a beautiful day to promise his soul to a man who’d already had it long ago. He fumbles as he ties the Thaali behind Jaskier’s neck, and if Jaskier actually drops Valdo’s in his attempt, neither of them say anything about it. Amma and Ma, he suspect as they hide laughter, aren’t going to let either of them live it down anytime soon.
Posada is beautiful this time of year. Flowers burst in each crevice they find space to grow in, and the lulling breeze sways the trees that canopy the small town. Ironically, the people that inhibit it are worse than the muck that line Valdo’s ratty boots.
“Promise me you won’t interfere.” Jaskier has a plan, he always does. Clever and cunning and incredibly stupid. They’re either about to get thrown out for this or be showered in rotting food. Jaskier’s entire plan is based on the latter.
“I promise I won't interfere. But you owe me painting privileges.” Valdo tilts his chin up, stubborn.
“Where?”
“Shoulder-blade.” Jaskier fights a grin and puts on a sigh. He adores when Valdo paints his skin, especially when Valdo delves into his spiel about painting beauty on a beautiful canvas.
“Deal. Sit still,” he mutters and claps Valdo on the shoulder before heading off toward the corner of the tavern and elevated, rotting wood that Jaskier has deigned to call a stage. Valdo tucks his hands under his thighs as his abortion song kicks into the chorus. He watches with gritted teeth as the tavern-goers hurl insults at his husband, and watches as it turns into molding bread when it doesn’t deter him. Valdo adores his husband. How fucking stubborn he is, yowling at the top of his lungs.
He’d offered to sell the jewelry he wears, but Jaskier had vehemently refused, citing that he’d rather starve than take away what it stands for. Valdo smiles at the thought. He doesn’t know how he got so lucky.
Jaskier plops himself into Valdo’s lap with a groan and chugs the shitty Valdo he hadn’t touched for that very reason.
“Is that bread in your pockets, or are you just happy to see me?” he murmurs; Jaskier’s laugh is a little unhinged and then they’re digging into the molding bread. Jaskier hums under his breath as he chews, a new song in the making. He’s going to get his canvases and brushes soon, they’re saving up for the damn expensive materials, but till then they’ll be having a blast wandering across the continent hand in hand, heart in heart, soul in soul—
“Val.” Jaskier is suddenly quiet, and Valdo follows his gaze to somewhere behind him. His hand tightens around Valdo’s, and he is so excited by whatever he sees that he is still with it.
Valdo turns to look behind him and notices a man in the corner. He has hair as white as silver and he imagines it’d be hell to mix up that color, the color of the moon, but so damn worth it when it’d shine against the black of his armor. His eyes are stark yellow, and Valdo knows that Jaskier has already begun composing a song about them. Jaskier looks down at him from where he’s perched on Valdo’s lap, and Valdo meets his eyes as the same want passes through them.
Jaskier grips Valdo’s hand even tighter, and his Thaali slips out from his unbuttoned doublet to rest against the painter’s chest.
Geralt of Rivia turns to meet their eyes.