Work Text:
The canopy of trees sway above them, shielding supple skin from the sweltering heat. Nonetheless, they’re both flushed pink and red, cotton shirts wavering idly in the occasional mild breeze.
“Darling, I’m bored.” Valdo drags his eyes away from the woman with the bright red hat, his love infinitely more interesting than any people-watching. Jaskier pouts down at him, and Valdo smiles back. He’s got one leg slung over the other, and he stills the lazy side-to-side swing of his legs to give Jaskier his full attention.
Class is out for the weekend, and they’d planned a nice picnic at one of the trees along the outer-walls of the busy academy. Now, the wine’s run out, the murukku all gone. The vegetables remain untouched, as they will remain till one of them takes it upon themself to give it away to a neighbor. They both hate celery with a passion. The crinkle of paper adds to the chattering quiet. An unfinished songs lays scribbled on the page. Valdo’s own sketchbook and paints remain unopened; he’d been content to bask in the sun, head rested in his lover’s lap.
One of Jaskier’s palm rubs over Valdo’s chest, hand slipping beneath the thin material of his shirt to thoughtlessly feel the soft of his skin. Valdo still places a hand over the back of Jaskier’s through his shirt, and Jaskier allows him to lead it out and twine their fingers together.
Held by his face, Valdo kisses the back of his lover’s hand; Jaskier hums quietly.
“I’ll paint you, then,” he says after a moment. Jaskier’s smile grows fond.
“Again, darling? I can’t blame you, though, I am a supreme and prime model, aren’t I?” Valdo laughs, nipping the side of Jaskier’s hand before he sits up.
“I’ll paint on you, I meant.” Jaskier perks up significantly and Valdo unpacks his paints and brushes. “A heart, ‘cause you’ve got mine whole.” And he’s dragged into a kiss, impassioned and loving.
“You’re more of a romantic than I am,” Jaskier says. Valdo think that Jaskier’s enough of a romantic to be perfect.
A heart. Valdo takes his lover’s hand into his own, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder now. Jaskier fingertips are callused; so are his, he thinks sillily. The charcoal outline is easy enough to sketch, as anatomically proper as a couple rounded triangles and two cylinders that sprout from the top of them can be. Jaskier watches, legs kicking as he hums. Likely something to do with his newest composition. Valdo thinks it’s beautiful already.
Jaskier shudders at the first stroke of paint. The brown is beautiful against his skin, like the wavering form of firewood through flame, and Valdo mixes in deep red til it tinges more rust-red than chocolate-brown. He drags the paintbrush with gentle, sure strokes, like painting make up onto a lover’s lips. Like painting a heart onto the back of their hand.
“Good?”
“So good, my love.” The words leave Jaskier in a rush, like he’s breathless. The sun no longer burns into the air around them, clouds giving poor Oxenfurt some reprieve. Valdo barely notices as he traces the outlines of the heart with a thin brush and black paint.
A final touch of white, highlighting, animating, and Valdo washes his brushes and wipes off his hands before pressing a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s wrist. He moves carefully; Jaskier doesn’t move at all.
“It’s beautiful, darling,” he breathes. He flexes his hand just barely, and the heart pumps a beat.
“All art is beautiful it’s painted on a beautiful canvas, en thangam.” Jaskier’s expression is so soft and adoring. Valdo feels a deeper blush creep up his face.
He looks back to his hand, flexing it carefully to watch the realistic painting beat, and looks up Valdo after a moment.
“Let me paint you.”
Valdo smiles, and thinks fondly at how much of a disaster this is going to be. He hands Jaskier his paints and brushes, and Jaskier takes his wrist into his lap. He opens a precariously balanced bottle of purple and gets to work.