Chapter Text
What a sublime, tranquil morning.
Such is the course of Chopin’s train of thought as he goes about in his and Mendelssohn’s shared apartment. The weather is so pleasant and temperate that even the usually morose composer could not resist breaking out into the smallest of smiles. It makes him want to go towards the piano to let loose the newly-formed melody that is gainfully teasing the depths of his current consciousness.
If only he did not have breakfast to prepare. And a table to set.
Nevertheless, he enjoys his task, and sets a large empty plate at the center of their modest dining table. This is where the freshly-baked bread would be placed when Mendelssohn finally comes home from the pâtisserie. Next, he places two jars of fillings, one marmalade and one strawberry jam, beside the bare platter. And then he sets their individual plates and glasses opposite from each other.
Just when Chopin has finally put down the forks and knives, the door busts wide open, and with it comes an angry-looking gentleman carrying a bag of baked goods on one arm. He mutters irritated nothings under his breath as he slams the door shut with a loud thud that reverberates uneasily like a broken chord within their abode.
Chopin, the delicate little flower that he is, winces at his partner’s brash movements. Mendelssohn wasn’t like this when he left the apartment earlier, was he? He was even all smiles and dimples as he strolled out the door, humming one of his beloved’s nocturnes. Now he enters the same door with the deepest scowl possible on his face, forehead creased grotesquely, dimples nowhere to be found.
He is hissing a rapid succession of words incessantly, suspected to be in German and suspected to be curses, with such venom and spite that Chopin dares not attempt to decipher their meaning. Perhaps he had an unpleasant encounter on his way to the pâtisserie, or perhaps the pâtissier has remarked unkindly about his distinct bread preferences again? Whatever the answer is, Chopin does not know of it, and he could only gaze helplessly at Mendelssohn as he forcibly hangs his scarf on a rack and stomps begrudgingly into the kitchen.
Nevertheless, he kisses Chopin on the forehead gently when he passes by him. He perches the bag atop the table and places the bread on the empty plate. Chopin fills both of their glasses with orange juice, and with that they finally sit down and eat their breakfast.
The room is eerily quiet, save for the faint clinking of the silver utensils onto the porcelain plates. Mendelssohn is overly fixated with spreading the jam evenly on his second slice of bread, frown omnipresent on his face, whilst Chopin never strayed his concerned gaze away from his fellow composer even as he is gulping down his drink. He realizes in dismay that his companion will not disclose anything to him lest he asks for it himself, so he takes matters into his own hands as he cautiously places his glass back on the table.
“It’s not like you to lose your temper,” he remarks in a soft feathery voice.
Then and only then does Mendelssohn look up at Chopin. He offers him an apologetic smile. “Yes, yes, I know. Do forgive me for being in such foul spirits today, Frédéric.” And with that, he resumes with his business.
Chopin nods, but he is dissatisfied. That was not the answer that he was looking for. He clears his throat nervously. “Care to tell me what has been bothering you this morning?”
“Oh I’ll tell you what’s been bothering me this morning,” Mendelssohn grumbles as he drops his silverware on the plate with a loud clatter. He leans one arm onto the table as he massages his temple with closed eyes, and lets out a deep and strife-stricken sigh. “I came across an old flame of mine on my way home.”
“Oh?” Chopin is mildly intrigued and reaches for his glass.
“Yes,” Mendelssohn continues as he jabs his fork at the bread yet again. “And he’s still as infuriating as ever. He kept on saying how he’s a better man now. How he’s earning a lot more money and is in possession of a large estate.” He cuts his food so fiercely that the knife is threatening to cut the porcelain into half. Even his ears have started to turn bright pink. “You know what was the most despicable thing of all? He proudly declared that his— his manhood has gotten a lot bigger than the last time we had— can you believe such a thing? Does he take me as a fool— are you alright, Frédéric?” He asks out of concern after seeing Chopin choke on his drink. He hands him his handkerchief.
“I’m fine,” Chopin croaks between coughs and accepts the handkerchief. What a very spirited former lover, he thinks. He pats the spilled beverage off his face and discovers in dismay that even his crisp white shirt has been tainted by the orange liquid. He sighs. His newly-formed melody would have to wait much later in the day, it seems.
“Anyway,” his companion resumes in a milder manner, “If he thinks he can win me over with material things, then he is wrong. And besides, I already have you, and I shall need nothing more.” He smiles at Chopin affectionately. “Money means nothing for revolutionaries, does it not, my liebling?”
“Indeed,” Chopin asserts, still blushing from Mendelssohn’s previous statement.
Mendelssohn seems to have calmed down after that and has retained his good spirits. It’s as if his raging episode did not take place at all. When they are finished with breakfast, they clear up the table and wash the dishes together. After that, Mendelssohn finally goes into his study. Chopin washes his stained shirt, then heads to his piano when he has hung the linen to dry.
Business as usual.
What a horrible, infuriating morning.
Such is the course of Mendelssohn’s train of thought as he shuffles his feet begrudgingly into his study. His head keeps coming back to that unpleasant encounter earlier. That despicable man was out of his mind for proposing such a thing to him! And what nonsense that idiot spews out of that mouth of his! If he didn’t hate him enough before, well, he certainly did now.
He sighs. He does not want to think of it any longer, lest he loses his composure again. Instead, his mind drifts off to Chopin, and thinks about how the Pole’s eyes would sparkle when he catches something of particular interest to him, and the heart-wrenching melodies that he teases out of the piano’s ivory keys with those lovely fingers of his.
By the time he reaches his desk, his mouth already twitches into a smile, and it is already all the motivation he needs as he sits on his chair and starts reading his mail for the day. But his scowl returns, deepens even, upon seeing the seal of the first letter that he picks up.
It is from Wagner.
He mutters under his breath curses that his scholarly and devout grandfather would certainly not have been delighted of. Can this day get even worse? The morning hasn’t even passed, God damn it! What does this bastard want? Repulsively, he tears open the envelope that reveals the gnarled and hasty penmanship of the composer. He reads it out of spite.
To my most loathed contemporary, Herr F. Mendelssohn,
Geehrt meister komponist: It has come to my attention that you have arranged a piece for piano and orchestra of your rendition of the Shakespearian masterpiece ‘Ein Sommernachtstraum.’ Yet I shall give you no satisfaction in thinking that I eagerly keep track of your most recent works. Herr Gagneux, the esteemed owner of Salle Favre, was the one who made it known to me. He offered to pay me a handsome amount of five thousand francs if I choose to conduct it, provided that you yourself will be the konzertmeister for the performance as well. And unfortunately he shall not accept me lest you also take part in it.
That is why, begrudgingly, I offer you a hand at partnership. I suppose that Herr Gagneux would also pay you reasonably for this.
Furthermore, the owner would also be very much delighted if the pianist is a distinguished persona. Perhaps you could convince Herr Chopin to tag along, since you have this… this bond between the two of you.
Again, I really do hate working with you, and I swear by the gods that I shan’t work with you ever again, but the pay is too large to resist.
Come to my château in Richelieu at once and we shall discuss the further details.
Perpetually seething with disgust towards you,
R. Wagner
Mendelssohn taps his fingers on the table at a ¾ tempo whilst contemplating on the contents of the letter. Wagner is a rude pompous bastard, per usual. He only cares about the money, per usual. Yet Mendelssohn ruminates a bit further over the latter idea and frowns even deeper.
Because, as you see, even revolutionaries need a bit of money to survive.
He’s been low on funds as of late, for the demand of his services are trickling to a halt recently. Having a relatively large commission would mean that they could manage their shared apartment better. It would also mean that he could finally purchase that handsome silk shirt adorned with pearl buttons that Chopin has been woefully eyeing on every time that they pass by at a certain tailor’s shop on the street (the Pole denies being interested in it. How typical of him).
So he sighs deeply and shifts in his seat as he sets Wagner’s letter aside to make way for today’s remaining correspondences. He would have to persuade (or even woo) Chopin into going along with him so that they could finally head to that prick’s château in Richelieu.
Business as usual.
Chopin finally sets down his quill, pleased with himself. The persistent tune that was relentlessly repeating itself over and over again in his head earlier in the morning has been written as a fleshed-out waltz. He rises from the piano bench to set aside his new score for keeping, and sits back down to refresh the flow and melody of his piece. He savors every note, every pedal movement, every tremolo, as the music travels around the room like a gentle breeze blown by Zephyr himself.
Indeed, he is so deep into his rapture that he pays little or even no attention at all to a maid entering the room silently. With the assistance of the duster that she is carrying, the woman starts cleaning the room. She continues being like this for a few minutes. To be honest, Chopin does not mind the slightest, yet he finally draws the line when she opens the windows widely.
Before a second has even elapsed, Chopin could already catch a whiff of the congested air wafting up from the busy Parisian street. He starts coughing. This is bad, he presumes to himself. Opening the window is not to be recommended due to his tuberculous condition. He reluctantly halts his playing and faces the servant.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but could you just keep all of the windows closed? They give me a coughing fit, I’m afraid.”
Yet the maid just lingers by a window, lightly holding onto its edge. Light catches on the lovely curls of her closely-cropped, strawberry blonde hair. One could imagine that he is smiling.
“Oh, but darling, the sunshine is very pleasant today, is it not?”
Chopin freezes. She has the voice of a man. And Chopin would recognize that thin, light-hearted voice anywhere.
The maid giggles as she turns around. It turns out, the servant is indeed not a she but a he.
And that ‘he’ is Hector Berlioz, no less.
“You need some sunshine every once in a while, dear Frédéric! I thought I already told you that a good amount of times.”
Chopin leads backward to his piano defensively, out of instinct. “You… you…!”
“Oui,” Berlioz merrily responds, his grin getting wider and wider by the second, “It is I, Hector Berlioz.” He curtsies gracefully.
The Pole eyes him warily. Berlioz has a lithe, slender build— of course he could pass as a woman and fool just about anybody. Chopin also presumes, begrudgingly, that the maid attire fits him quite well. The shirt is well-ironed and crisp-looking; the bodice hugs his torso and waist snugly; and the corset protector is decent in appearance. Even his skirt and apron flows neatly downward like an amiable waterfall. He would be an immaculate-looking maid, save for his square jawline and protruding sideburns.
But enough of that. Chopin sighs out of irritation. “What do you want? I told you to bugger off and never set foot in my house ever again, did I not?”
“Aww. You could be quite stingy sometimes, Frédéric.” He strolls around the room. He lightly touches things that catch his eye, which irks Chopin, but he remains silent nevertheless. “I just missed you, is all.”
“Well I don’t care.”
Berlioz stops walking, looks at Chopin with a wounded expression, and sets a hand over his heart. “Is that how you ought to treat a former lover, my sweet?”
For it is true.
Berlioz is indeed Chopin’s former lover.
Chopin rolls his eyes. “Need I remind you what the word ‘former’ means? It means previous. Precedent. Of the past. We are called ‘former lovers’ for a reason, Hector. And please don’t call me that.”
“What, ‘my sweet’?” Berlioz teases as he saunters towards Chopin. “Give me one last kiss, then?” He pleads, closing in on the pianist. “I promise that you won’t ever get to see even the slightest trace of me ever again hereafter.”
“Go to hell,” Chopin hisses in disgust and looks away as he presses his back against the piano even further.
“Yes, yes, I’ll even go there,” the servant-clad composer rambles, clearly not getting the message of Chopin’s threat. “Why exactly are you adamant about kissing me again? It’s not such a difficult thing. I just press my lips onto yours, and you just press your lips onto mine… easy, no? Have you already forgotten how passionately we did it before?”
“Do fuck off, Hector.”
“Oh ho ho! It’s not everyday that you get to hear the benign Frédéric Chopin spew forth curses from his mouth, everyone!” Berlioz squeals in delight. Instead of being taken aback, he raises the hem of his skirt indecently and sits on Chopin’s lap.
Alarmed, Chopin pulls away even further. His hands crash against the piano’s keys and consequently creates a shrill and uneven chord that mirrors his own horrification. One could argue that he could just push away the deranged man and run away for dear life. Yet it was not that easy.
For once Hector Berlioz decides to latch onto you, you can never get rid of him— for better or for worse— until he decides to finally leave you alone out of his own free will.
So Berlioz puts a hand on Chopin’s shoulder as his other hand proceeds to raise the pianist’s chin. The ever-defiant Pole still refuses to look at him. Yet Berlioz pays it no mind and finally leans in, as Chopin squirms beneath him, praying to Divine Providence to save him from this predicament.
Divine Providence is merciful today, as the door opens to reveal an unsuspecting Mendelssohn.