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Jaskier giggled and swirled the rich burgundy wine around in his glass. His hair fell in front of his eyes and Valdo reached over to tuck it behind his ears. He hadn’t anticipated drinking into the early hours of the morning with his rival but, despite all their griping and bickering, Valdo had always been a loyal friend. Well, most of the time. Sometimes, the Troubadour of Cidaris could be a royal pain in his ass, especially when he was seducing Jaskier’s partners away from him. The problem was, and had always been, that they were just too similar. Their tastes in music, fashion, women… it had always been the same. So their rivalry had been only natural, stealing lyrics and rhymes off each other from the day they met. Although, Jaskier would never admit to it. He liked to maintain he was the superior bard, and thus he would never need to stoop so low as to steal the works of Valdo Marx.
In truth, Valdo was an incredibly talented composer and lutist. He’d earned his place in court through his own merit and the life of a court musician suited him. Jaskier couldn’t think of anything worse. He loved his life on the road with his witcher, travelling the Continent. It was possibly the worst case of wanderlust the world had ever seen and it was completely and utterly incurable. Jaskier was doomed to walk the path until his legs gave out and he died in a ditch somewhere.
Or maybe Geralt would dump him off at Oxenfurt for the winter one year and never return. It was probably a kinder fate, and Jaskier was a good professor. His students adored him.
If only it weren’t for all the damned paperwork. That was why they had started drinking in the first place, both bored out of their minds from all the endless marking. One glass had turned into a bottle which had turned into two bottles and now Jaskier was really quite squiffy.
And Valdo was gazing at him with rich chocolate brown eyes, freckles dusting over the bridge of his nose and into the well-trimmed salt and pepper beard that covered his cheeks.
“Why do you have to be so handsome?” Jaskier whined, pouting at his friend. “Gods, it would be so much easier to hate you if you were ugly.”
Valdo chuckled, that annoying sneering laugh that Jaskier wanted to hate and yet he found oddly endearing instead. “I could say the same about you, Julian.”
Jaskier snorted. “‘m nothing special.”
“Oh but you are just divine,” Valdo breathed, his fingers cupping Jaskier’s cheeks, “Your eyes, gods, Julian. Do you have any idea how gorgeous your eyes are? Like cornflowers, bright and shining in a field of grass.”
“Stop being an arse,” Jaskier grumbled, taking a long sip from his glass.
“Melitele’s tits, you really don’t believe me?”
Jaskier scoffed.
“Oh, Julian, you are- you are simply beautiful,” Valdo breathed, his eyes boring down into Jaskier’s with such intensity that Jaskier felt as if all the air had left the room.
“You’re drunk, Marx.”
“And alcohol has a pesky habit of making us so frustratingly honest, it’s the true folly of man.”
Jaskier swallowed, his tongue flicking out between his lips as he gazed back at his former rival’s face. He truly was so incredibly handsome, and Jaskier was desperate to know if those freckles were just painted across his face, or whether there would be an entire tapestry beneath his clothes. It was always the best kind of adventure, exploring a new partner’s body, learning every little thing about them, and oh, how Jaskier wanted to make Valdo sing.
Alcohol really did make one honest, and so Jaskier had no qualms about finally pressing his lips to Valdo’s in the flickering candlelight far beyond the witching hour. The taste of his favourite wine was on Valdo’s lips, and the faint hint of smoke as their breaths mingled, a soft sigh in the dark.
To the outside world, the infamous rivalry between Marx and Pankratz was far from over, but they could have this moment, alone in each other’s arms as the night slowly turned to day.