Chapter Text
ii. la chenille (andante)
It is a pleasant afternoon, with the autumn wind unusually temperate especially during this time of the year, and to top it all off Robert is sitting down beside Felix.
Well, to be exact, they are seated on the piano's bench, as they are playing a four-hand arrangement of Bach's Goldberg Variations. Currently, they are in the aria da capo segment. Felix closes his eyes in reverie as he plays the treble part, keeping the melody light and serene as it should be, whilst Robert opts to keep his eyes open for the whole time, pretending to be overly fixated on the black and white keys of the piano. But sometimes the urge to look at Felix would become simply too irresistible, causing him to screw up his performance and land on the wrong chords. When he finally errs five times in a row, he internally curses, wishing that Felix would just feign ignorance and continue playing obliviously.
But of course that does not happen at all.
"There seems to be something bothering you, Robert," Felix murmurs with his eyes still closed, calm as ever. "Tell me what it is."
The brunette ducks his head sheepishly. "What makes you think that something is bothering me? You are deeply mistaken, my dear friend. I am perfectly fine."
Felix lets out a small huff of laughter. "Sure you are," he teases as his dimples become achingly visible, lips slightly curved into a small smile. "That's why you keep on landing on the wrong keys even though you played these very same notes at the beginning perfectly."
Damn it. "Well, it's just that… the thought of playing together with you still greatly unnerves me," he blurts out. And that rings true.
To his relief, Felix buys his omissive excuse. "And why would you be?" He finally opens his eyes while he retains the cadence of the piece. His very large and very brown eyes look over to Robert in confusion. "We have already spent so much time together. What is with this unnecessary reservation, mein Freund?"
And that also rings true. It has already been weeks since Felix has finished painting Robert, and Clara was absolutely delighted with how the portrait turned out. Ever since then the both of them have been idling around back and forth across Robert's apartment, the Mendelssohn Bartholdy household, and sometimes even the local tavern. They spend their time playing chess, or billiards, or perhaps like this moment, playing four-hand arrangements on the piano.
Felix, Robert says to him albeit only in his head, if I did not have any reservations whatsoever then butterflies shall certainly spring forth from my palms without pause. Is that what you want? The feelings that I have painstakingly buried shall also be unearthed for you, and for the whole world to see. Is that what you want as well?
Obviously he dares not to say that aloud, and what he sputters out instead is, "Even though you refer to me as your friend I shall always feel inferior to you." He tries to keep up with his companion's playing, averting his gaze from the latter.
"What absolute Quatsch," Felix counters. "You are a fine komponist, and you are definitely not inferior to me." They are both silent for a while, with the melody incarnated beneath their fingertips as the only sound in the room. After a while Felix continues in a smaller and more thoughtful voice, eyes focused on the keys, "I like your works… they are subtle, yet you could always sense the emotions bubbling forth just beneath the surface."
Robert ducks his head even lower. He is not used to compliments, as he has been estranged by his peers ever since his days of youth because of his unique ability. And to finally receive praise— from a virtuosic composer, no less— he's not sure if he deserves it. Nevertheless, his palm still tingles in response, and he also tries hard to repress the butterflies in response. He could practically feel the tips of their dainty legs tapping insistently on his skin. But fortunately goodwill is on his side today, and the butterflies decide not to come out. He's becoming an expert at this, keeping them at bay and all. It's an excruciating task that he mastered out of necessity since he is around Felix so much of the goddamn time. His hard work finally pays off.
But goodwill abruptly abandons him just the same. Just when he already gets a little more confident with playing, his right hand brushes at the briefest of moments with Felix's left one. To his horror, not one, not two, and definitely not three, but four butterflies promptly emerge from his hand and merrily make their way towards the object of their affection.
Scheiße.
Said object of affection looks on with wide eyes as the amber-colored creatures circle around him adoringly. He then whips his head Robert's way, sending him a gaze that the brunette suspects is brimming over the top with questions, none of which he has half the heart of answering. Their performance remains uninterrupted nevertheless.
Great, just great. Now he's done it. Felix is finally aware that Robert is a Schmetterlinger, and not only that, he's also aware that the man likes him. A stellar job of hitting two birds with only one measly stone. Now what shall he do?
He opts to remain silent and avert his companion's gaze, waiting for the other to be the first one to speak. He does not wish to see the appalled look that Felix surely has on his face. He is gathering up all the dignity he has left and prepares for the imminent rejection that he is sure to receive, akin to a condemned man who is about to obtain his death sentence.
But strangely enough, it never comes. They just continue playing the aria, with Felix as poised as ever and Robert's accompaniment now clumsy courtesy to his nerves. Felix doesn't comment on his lackluster performance like he did earlier, and it makes the brunette spiral down deeper into anxiety. Why, damn it, won't Felix utter even a single word to him? Is it too much to ask what his fellow composer thinks of him now? At this point, rejection would be better than not getting an answer at all. Or perhaps, he is too repulsed to speak—
And then Felix finally responds, in a way that Robert never imagined him to have. As the black-haired man brandishes a tremolo, not one, not two, and definitely not three, but four butterflies emerge from his hand and make their way towards the object of their affection.
Which happens to be the man sitting right next to Felix.
It is his turn to stare wide-eyed at the newly-formed winged creatures fluttering around him enthusiastically. He realizes that he has actually seen them before, for he can't be mistaken with their telltale black color with rich blue patches. He remembers surmising that they are beautiful, and he remembers being grateful for their presence during that chilly October night.
Robert puts two and two together, and is blown away beyond words from what he was able to discover. Wait a minute, his ever-doubting subconscious intervenes, Felix can't possibly take a liking to me, can he? Why would he yearn to be with a mediocre Dummkopf like me?
It feels as though his rapidly beating heart is stuck in his throat. He finally takes the risk of glancing at Felix, amazed at his discovery, but this time it is the black-haired man's turn to duck his head sheepishly with a sheepish smile plastered on his face to match. Robert hastily turns his head when he senses that Felix is about to look at him as well. And then they begin this rhythm of missed glances sostenuto, for quite a while as they yearn to look at the other in the eye yet paradoxically strive to shy away all the same.
But then a change of tempo is always inevitable, and they finally meet eye to eye, warm brown irises into silvery-gray ones. The resulting atmosphere is more electrifying than any symphony opening weaved by the great masters, causing them to abruptly look away but with each man now sporting a wide and silly grin on their face. They continue playing without uttering a single word to each other, as amber-colored butterflies now freely emerge from one man's palms whilst the same creatures albeit the shade of night flutter from the other's.
Neither man knows how they ended up sitting closely to each other elbow to elbow.
"Chopin is spectacular," Robert mumbles to Felix out of the blue.
Felix smiles slyly. "Oh, is he now?" he responds as he continues etching on his paper.
They are seated in front of each other. Robert props up his elbow on the armrest as he perches his chin atop his hand, striking a pose reluctantly as Felix draws his likeness with a pencil. He's not sure himself why he agreed to such a thing again— maybe it's due to those large brown eyes that have the tendency of drawing Robert in and making him abandon all reason. Now, those same eyes wander freely all over him, taking in every detail in order to etch it perfectly into their owner's memory. Robert is not certain whether he would like Felix to still continue whatever it is he is doing right now or scream at him, begging him to look away elsewhere towards something more worthy of his attention.
The only sound coming forth from the room is the incessant yet slightly muted scratching of the pencil's graphite tip onto the thick paper. Combine this with Felix's intense gaze at his subject and Robert is guaranteed to hitherto slowly slip away from his sanity. The least he could do is to speak up in order to distract himself.
"He certainly is," Robert insists. "Chopin values his pieces' souls above anything else, and he makes sure that each and every one of them is heard by the audience. He gives them haunting melodies that strike the listener unawares… truly a genius worthy of praise, hats off."
"I suppose so," Felix agrees as he still works on his illustration. "I remembered attending one of his performances at the Salle Pleyel while I was visiting Paris, and there truly is no other musician like him."
"Aside from you, that is," Robert adds. "You are from a different world altogether."
"Ach, here you go again with your flattery." The black-haired man finally stands up and hands over the sketch to Robert. "Bitteschön. I have finished it."
Robert also rises from his seat and gently takes the drawing from Felix. "It's amusing how you scold me for flattering you, and yet you also do the same thing to me." He takes one long look at the portrait before returning it to the artist. "You have drawn me with beauty, that of which does not belong anywhere near me."
Felix places the drawing on a table. "But you really are far more captivating than what you credit yourself for," he murmurs in a thoughtful voice as he steps closer towards his companion.
The brunette also steps forward, until the both of them are only centimeters apart. "And I'm also sincere about what I said earlier," he persists as he maintains his gaze at his companion. "Herr Chopin may strike at his listeners unassumingly, but you… your damn music follows me everywhere, Felix. They won't quit me even in my sleep." To prove his point, butterflies flap merrily from his palms.
Felix looks on at the dainty flyers and smiles bashfully. "Oh, my fellow Schmetterlinger. No need to get so worked up." But despite himself, butterflies also emerge from his own hand, this time the color of ink. He cups the side of Robert's face and runs his thumb on the brunette's plump cheek adoringly.
"Why Felix, you're burning up," Robert exclaims out of concern as he clasps the hand caressing him. "Do take a rest before you catch a fever."
An indifferent Mendelssohn just replies, "My dear, every moment is like a fever dream when I'm with you."
Robert is about to volley back a sly remark, but before he has the chance of opening his mouth Felix silences it with his.
He takes quite a while to process the rapid turn of events at first. And when he does finally realize it, he gasps through the kiss. Felix pulls him even closer, with one hand still holding on to the side of the brunette's face as the other grips tightly on his shoulder.
Surely this must be just one of my deranged dreams, is it? Robert's ever-in-denial thoughts supply for him. Because I can only dream of tasting those sweet lips that will never belong to me.
But no, this is reality, and he tries to tell himself that. A rapid stream of butterflies burst forth furiously from his palms— likewise a similar amount of those winged creatures also emerge from Felix's hands.
It's as if Felix is reassuring him that yes, these lips could belong to him, and he also makes it clear that he wants Robert's lips to belong to him and him alone. The brunette surmises that in a way, he is like the butterflies that come out from his palm. Robert has finally found the flower that gives off the sweetest nectar there is. And what's intriguing is that he did not approach the flower, but rather, the flower approached him. He hasn't felt this euphoric ever since he last kissed—
He comes to his senses and he immediately pushes Felix away.
"Clara," he sputters out, panting, to his dazed companion.
He does not need to elaborate further, for they are both aware that one word could already suffice. That one word alone is powerful enough to prevent them from pursuing the folly that they are committing even further.
And Felix knows this. He stares at the butterflies that emerged from Robert's hands when he said her name; which, of course, did not go anywhere near him. He sighs— a long, defeated, and pained kind of sigh as he sets down his gaze forlornly on the floor. "Yes, I understand. I am deeply and truly sorry for what I have just done."
"Keine Angst," Robert reassures him. Yet truth to be told, he is not sure himself if everything is fine, nor will everything be the same again. He clears his throat. "I'm afraid I must go now, Felix, and think over matters."
The black-haired man just nods weakly, still refusing to take his eyes off the floor.
With a trembling hand, Robert gently pats Felix on the shoulder as a gesture of parting. He lingers when he senses that Felix melts under his touch. And then he reluctantly lets go then walks away. He fetches his coat and finally leaves the room.
When he is about to close the door behind him, he hears Felix sniffling. He suddenly feels the urge to barge inside once again and wrap Mendelssohn in his embrace, wiping away his tears as he does. But he knows better than to do that.
He closes the door, realizing more than ever that the world indeed is a cruel place.
To my dearest R. Schumann,
I know that I am not in the position to say this after what I have done, but I hope that all is well with you. Perhaps you wish to never speak, see, nor even read any of my letters again, and I understand that. Truly. Yet if Divine Providence would have it, granting me a measly chance of you reading this letter, I would like to say this:
I am immensely, devastatingly, and sincerely sorry for what I did the previous day. I have no right to make advances on a respectable gentleman such as yourself. And what's more, you already belong to Frau Wieck, and I loathe myself for coveting what isn't mine and will never be mine. I'll be damned at the judgment of the Lord. I should have behaved better courtesy of my good upbringing, lest the lessons of my dearly beloved parents all be in vain.
It may be exasperatingly unreasonable of me to ask you of this, but please, I still want us to be on good terms, if you will have it. I want to go back to the way we were before. I want to go back as it was. There's still so many things we've yet to do, and there's still so many matters that we've yet to discuss. We still haven't talked about the nightmarish orchestration of Herr Berlioz yet, for crying out loud! I can't bear to lose an invaluable companion like you who reconciles deeply with my interests. And perhaps you'll be cross with me for saying this as well but I shall still write it down nevertheless—
I am immensely, devastatingly, and sincerely in love with you. It may seem unlikely but it's true. I don't know why God cursed me to be like this— wasn't punishing me with butterflies already enough? In any case, I am sorry for the inconvenience that I have caused you.
Do me a favor, Robert, and also burn this letter in the scorching flames— in the hopes that my feelings for you will also be reduced into unrecoverable ashes that can no longer be put back together again.
Und bleiben mir gut
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy
Und bleiben mir gut— stay true to me. It's the first time that Felix uses that sign-off in his letters for Robert. Per usual, there is an illustration at the bottom of the correspondence. It's an image of a tiny Felix sitting on the edge of a dock near a riverbank, and he props his chin up his palm as he looks on forlornly at the clearing. Little Felix has black butterflies flapping around him. At the sight of butterflies those same creatures emerge from the brunette's hand as well. Robert presumes that the black-haired man really did go to the river earlier.
He sighs in resignation as he forcefully slams his head on the surface of his writing desk out of sheer frustration. Why must the both of them suffer like this? He carefully places the letter on a pile of Felix's well-kept correspondences and then proceeds to write a response. After a while he becomes disheartened with how he has written out the message and lays down his head on the desk to think it over.
A lone butterfly decides to accompany him and perches atop his bottle of ink. Seeing how he has no one else to talk to, he starts conversing with the winged creature.
"How about you, my dear friend?" Robert whispers toward the amber-colored flyer. "Do you think that my letter for Felix is simply too pretentious? Shall I start over then?"
For a moment, the butterfly remains still, as if it is seriously considering Robert's question. After a short while it flaps its wings slowly, which the brunette takes as a 'yes'. Not long after, the butterfly is joined by its newly-sprouted comrades and they fly away somewhere else.
Maybe the letter is too formal, Robert surmises. How can I be so distant, when Felix practically laid bare his feelings at my feet?
He notices just now the dampness of the paper that he is resting on. He is alarmed when he finds out that it is his own doing, and he doesn't know since when did his tears start to fall from his eyes. To his dismay, the letter that he has written is utterly ruined, and his teardrops cause the ink to bleed. Oh well. Now he doesn't have any choice but to start over. He wipes away the tears from his face, crumples the paper, and tosses it aside— but it hits an unfortunate butterfly.
"Sorry," Robert mumbles sheepishly. The butterfly flutters all over his face as an act of vengeance, and he gently casts it aside. He gets a fresh sheet of paper and starts writing.
Dear F. Mendelssohn:
Good day. I hope that all is well with you too. What do you mean that you are not in the position to ask for my well-being? And also, what's with this nonsense about not reading your letters? You are my dearest friend, Felix, and I always want to know what's going on inside of that extraordinary mind of yours, even though only a small fraction of it could be revealed in your letters.
You don't have to be sorry, for I am guilty too. I am guilty of loving you. I am guilty of loving Clara as well. It's all a terrible mess. I fear that between the two of us, God has cursed me more— not only did He also make me into a Schmetterlinger, but He forces me to choose between two people as well, either of which I would loathe to lose. If Fate didn't torment us like this, then I would take you in my arms right now and refuse to ever let go.
And I also tried running, Felix. Oh, believe me. I tried running away from you, but like I said your music always seems to hunt me down, and they always lead me back to you. I'd flee if I could, but I don't know how.
Furthermore, it is not your letter that needs to be burned, but rather, me. Burn me at the stake for my crimes, and burn me at the stake to finally relieve me of my misery.
Always true to you,
Robert Schumann
"Play something for me," says Felix.
Robert is more than euphoric to do so. Anything for his dear friend. "Fine then," he obliges, hovering his fingers above the piano's keys. "But don't make a fuss when it is horrible. You've been warned."
The corner of Felix's mouth twitches. "Must you really persist with your self-deprecation, Robert? It is already starting to get old."
The brunette shrugs apologetically. "Ah, well, I guess it's part of the charm."
Felix smiles at him fondly, double dimples ever-present. "I suppose it is." He pinches Robert's cheek affectionately.
Robert's face flush pink in embarrassment and he starts to play before anything else happens. It's one of the pieces in Felix's Lieder ohne Worte.
The black-haired man punches his arm in good nature. "Arsehole." He grins. "Play something you have written, silly."
"Owww." He meant to say that aloud both for the punch and the insult. Robert stops playing, the last chord broken, as he rubs the part where Felix had hit him. "Alright, alright." He shifts in his seat as he mulls over which of his not-quite-extensive output is worthy enough of being presented before the exalted Mendelssohn. After a while he decides to go for a modest approach— but still heartfelt nevertheless— one of the parts in his Papillons suite.
It's the seventh section in the suite, a waltz with a semplice marking— and, true to its description, it boasts not of a standoffish character but rather an unassuming demeanor. No fancy flourishes, no overly intricate counterpoints, just a simple melody that gets the message through clearly. As it should be. Its subdued and somewhat sonorous quality is a complete contrast to the warm and bubbling work that he played earlier, but in a way, he supposes that he sees his devotion for Felix in this piece. Butterflies emerge from his palms, as well as from the onlooking gentleman beside him.
Robert finishes after only less than a minute. It is a rather short piece, but he sees no point in extending a work if its message is already conveyed clearly, after all.
"It's beautiful, Robert," Felix murmurs in awe. "You take me with you to another world brimming with wonder when you play."
Robert could feel his companion's warm breath on his cheek. "I'd do anything to stay in that world for as long as I would like to, then." He gazes at the black-haired man.
Felix also turns his head Robert's way. Their faces are extremely close to touching. Slowly, Robert reaches out to caress Felix's cheek, and slowly, Felix holds on to Robert's arm. Robert leans in and kisses him.
The black-haired man also responds by taking his companion by the coat and pulling him closer. Robert makes his kisses lingering and deep, making up for his restraint at the time when their lips first touched. The two of them send forth a deluge of butterflies, both amber and pitch-black in color, across the room. The numerous clusters of butterflies hover about in a vigorous manner.
This time, Felix is the first one to pull away. They both catch their breaths as they grip on to the other. When his breathing has slightly calmed down, Felix sets down his gaze on the floor. The brunette notes how the golden light of the lazy afternoon sun reflects on Felix's long eyelashes. After a brief moment he raises his eyes to Robert's and gives him a wan smile. He pats Robert on the shoulder and leaves.
The next morning, Felix sets off for Berlin. Robert only finds out when Felix's carriage finally departs, and he doesn't know when his friend will come back.
Two years later and Felix still doesn't return.