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People were idiots. Fucking idiots. Salieri was pissed enough to be cursing. And drinking. Where had he gotten this wine anyway? He took another swig from the bottle. If Rosenberg laughed his way one more time he was going to—Something. He wasn’t sure what.
The lady fawning over him giggled in his ear. “We can get a glass”
“No need, its empty.” He stood up from the couch on unsteady legs, “And I’m leaving”
There were protests after him. But no one noticed him taking another bottle of wine. He was halfway through that one before he ran into Mozart.
“Excuse me Maestro”
Salieri giggled, “Excuse? You? What for? You!” he pointed at the surprised man’s face “You don’t ask to be excused. You are a mad ‘genius’” He bowed unsteadily, copying Mozart’s signature flourish, “So pardon me Sir”
“Salieri, my friend are you alright?” Those dark brown eyes were gazing at him in worry, and hands were reaching for his wrists.
“I’m fine!” He tried to turn away and ended up collapsing onto the smaller composer, “You’re so tiny”
“You are so drunk. Let’s get you home.”
Salieri mumbled a protest, nuzzling into Mozart’s hair, “Your stupid hair with the stupid dangly parts”
“Yes.” Mozart began to drag the drunk composer in the general vicinity of his apartment. “Can you even remember where you live?”
Salieri reared up, glaring at Mozart, “Of course I do! At court, in the Emperor!”
Mozart laughed so hard they both nearly fell, “You do not!”
“I do! In his pleasure, no, wait. I mean. He—Popularity. That’s where I live.”
The response, while incredibly incoherent, actually made a fair bit of sense, in a melancholy way. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to live for them.”
“And end up starving?”
There was silence between them for a few blocks, during which time Mozart had to keep Salieri’s hands in appropriate places and keep them from both tripping when the drunk man tried to entwine their feet. It wasn’t until Mozart had gotten them both into his rooms and more or less dumped Salieri on his bed that either spoke.
“I didn’t mean it”
“Hmm?”
“I admire you” Salieri took another swig from the bottle, which had somehow managed to survive the trip “You stuck it in their faces. You don’t care what they think. You only care about music.”
“I think you’ve had enough” Mozart tried to take the bottle away but Salieri clutched it to his chest, rolling away and off the bed.
“No! Mine!” Salieri danced away, almost falling over his own feet a few times and sticking out his tongue.
“My friend you’re being ridiculous”
“You’re always ridiculous.”
Mozart shrugged, “True enough, but you really should sit down.”
The other composer peered at him “Are you trying to get me into bed with you?”
“What? Of course not! I wouldn’t--
“Because its working”
Mozart found himself with an armful of composer once again as Salieri laughed himself at him, propelling them both onto the bed and dropping the bottle to the floor.
“Salieri—“
“Shhhh” He just nuzzled into Mozart “People are fucking stupid”
“My friend!” Mozart sounded astonished “I didn’t know you knew that kind of language”
“I do,” Salieri assured him, sitting up to look him in the eye again.
“Alright, why are people stupid?”
“Because” Salieri went back to hiding his face against Mozart. “You’re comfortable. I don’t want to leave.”
The chest under his head lifted in a sigh, “You don’t have to.”
“I can stay? And stop caring about them?”
“Of course”
There was some shifting around until Mozart was on his back, head against the pillows, Salieri curled around him, head on his chest. Mozart stroked a hand through his hair until they both fell asleep.
Mozart woke up the next morning to an empty bed. It hurt a little, but—knowing Salieri—he was just embarrassed about everything that had happened and had left before he needed to confront it. That was fine. Mozart just hoped that he’d return.
Two weeks later Mozart came home to find Salieri sitting outside his door with a half-full bottle of wine. They talked all night about how music called them. They spent a lot of that time cuddling, once Salieri finished the wine bottle. It happened again a week later. They wrote music drunk. They cuddled. As soon as a full bottle of wine was in him, Salieri couldn’t stand to let go of Mozart. It was nice, Mozart enjoyed feeling the other composer’s body relax around him; he just wished Salieri could do it when sober.
The weeks went on, Mozart composed where he could, Salieri talked the emperor into patronizing Mozart again. Mozart and Constanze drifted apart, the latter spending more time composing—and cuddling a drunk Salieri—than chasing women.
“Do you miss it?” Salieri asked one night, just as Mozart was on the cusp of sleep.
“Miss what?”
“Women, sex”
Mozart shifted, uncomfortable. “I used to think I would miss it, if I ever had to stop. But I haven’t.”
The next day Salieri was sitting outside of his door without a wine bottle anywhere in sight. Mozart opened his door without a word. Salieri hovered, moving around the room with tense shoulders, talking too fast, arms held closely by his side. The next time he moved close, Mozart leaned his head against his side for a moment. At the next pass Salieri brushed against him. It took another half hour, filled with aborted attempts, but Salieri finally curled up next to Mozart on the bed. Sides pressed together, they mocked Rosenberg until they fell asleep.
Mozart woke up with a warm weight suffocating him and black hair in his mouth. He smiled; Salieri had stayed.
When Salieri woke up, he could feel the bright smile that was aimed at him. “Shut up”
Mozart laughed, low and warm and just kissed his forehead, “Good morning to you too, Maestro Grumpy.”
They laughed together, before separating, Salieri leaving with one last, lingering smile.
Mozart’s rooms became their safe place. They talked about music and life.
When Mozart and Constanze broke it off for good, Salieri held the younger man and lent him the money to pay off Mother Weber. That night they ended up in such a tangle of limbs they couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Salieri realized he liked things better that way.
As safe as they were, Mozart’s rooms were not the best, full of drafts and rats. And the genius couldn’t always afford to eat and buy paper and ink. Salieri was saddened, but not surprised to find Mozart in bed one day, sick with a fever.
“You’ll shake it off and be back to writing soon.”
But neither he, nor anyone else, could keep Mozart in his bed and away from composing. And the fever raged on, burning the young genius up. Mozart stopped leaving his rooms, sitting at his table, wrapped in a blanket composing. When his hands began to shake too much he dictated his music. His cheeks hollowed and his eyes took on an unearthly glow. Constanze, who had gotten over her hurt and become friends with Mozart, wrote in desperation to his sister, who hastened to Vienna.
Upon seeing her brother for the first time Nannerl was distraught, he was gaunt and his eyes seemed to look beyond the living and into the land of the dead.
“No, no, I need to compose, my music”
“You need to rest.”
“No, no”
But, in the end, Nannerl prevailed, and Mozart was confined to his bed. She nursed him, offering him broth and medicine, doing everything she could, but still Mozart deteriorated.
Salieri knocked softly on the door that he had come to know so well—had become accustomed to opening—and waited in trepidation. He had heard that Constanze had written to Mozart’s sister and said sister had come to nurse him. He’d heard nothing since.
Nannerl opened the door, looking curiously at the well dressed man before her.
“Hello mademoiselle, I am Antonio Salieri, a friend of Mozart”
“Oh yes!” She opened the door wider, “He calls for you sometimes, but I did not know how to get a message to you, please, come in.”
Salieri stepped within the room, eyes going straight for the bed where Mozart lay shivering. “He’s not getting any better, is he?”
Nannerl shook her head, “If we could afford better rooms, maybe, but—“
Salieri nodded.
“I also have to return to Salzburg briefly to take care of some business, but I don’t want to leave him alone again he might—“ She swallowed, “If I leave again he might be gone before I get back.”
It felt like a brick hit his stomach, “You mean he’s”
“Dying. Salieri my brother is dying and I cannot do anything to stop it.”
They stood together, silent, until Mozart stirred into wakefulness.
“Salieri?”
“I’m here Mozart,” he stepped forward, coming to a stop by the bed.
“I’ll leave you two alone, do you mind watching him for a while?”
Salieri nodded distractedly at her, reaching for Mozart’s hand.
“How are you my friend?”
“Come here,” Mozart tugged weakly at their joined hands until Salieri sat on the bed next to him. Mozart laid his head on his lap. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to intrude” Salieri used his free hand to card through Mozart’s hair.
“Mmm,” Mozart nuzzled into his leg, “You wouldn’t be, Nannerl won’t mind”
They sat in silence for a time, Mozart drifting off to sleep while Salieri thought. By the time her heard Nannerl’s feet on the stairs and started to extricate himself from Mozart, he had the beginnings of an idea.
Nannerl peaked around the door, pleased to see Mozart fast asleep, “He hasn’t looked that peaceful in a long time.”
Salieri gave her a small bow, “Would it be alright for me to come again tomorrow?”
“Of course, your visit seems to have done him good.”
They said their good byes and Salieri returned to his rooms to plan his idea.
Once again, Nannerl left them alone for a few hours. Mozart stayed awake a little longer, and dictated a few lines of music to Salieri.
When Nannerl returned Mozart was asleep. Salieri stood and moved towards the door, “Maestro?”
“Yes?”
“Will you look after him? My business cannot be put off any longer, I am leaving tomorrow. I know its very sudden but—“
“Of course I will. I had intended to offer the both of you my rooms for the duration of Mozart’s sickness. They will be warmer and better suited to his recovery. With your permission, we can move him in tonight.”
A smile split Nannerl’s face, “Really? Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“What’s going on?” Mozart sat up in bed, woken by Nannerl’s excited chatter.
“Maestro Salieri is bringing you to stay in his rooms while I’m away!”
“Really?” Mozart looked to Salieri, who gave a slight bow, “It’s the least I can do. We can move you whenever you feel up to it.”
“Can we go right now? Anything to get out of this bed.”
“But you are not packed—nevermind, Maestro, I will pack his things if you will help him move.”
“Let me call a cab.”
While Nannerl fussed around gathering clothing and music scores, Salieri wrapped an arm around Mozart’s waist and helped him into the cab. The ride passed quickly and Salieri helped first Mozart and then Nannerl down from the cab.
Inside, Salieri led them into a small room off the side, where he’d set up a bed and desk. “Here we are”
Mozart collapsed gratefully on the bed, “Thank you my friend.”
“Of course.”
“I will head back to you rooms, brother, I leave in the morning, but should be back in a week,” Nannerl kissed her brother on the forehead, “Get well”
As soon as she was gone, Mozart held his arms out to Salieri, “I have missed you.”
“Let me get you something to eat first. Do you need help getting ready for bed?”
“Awww, are you banishing me back to bed so soon? I’ve hardly seen anything.”
“You need rest.”
Mozart tilted his head, “You’re as worried as she is.” A coughing fit racked through him and Salieri rushed to his side.
“Of course we’re worried. Get into bed; I’ll make you that soup.”
Voice still raspy from coughing, Mozart still managed a last word, “I love it when you get bossy”
When Salieri returned with the soup, Mozart was already dozing off. He sat on he edge of the bed and lightly shook the other composer, “you need to eat, then you can sleep.”
“Don’ want to” Mozart’s speech was sleep and fever slurred, and he sat up, only to collapse against Salieri’s side.
“Just a little my friend,” Salieri spooned a little soup into Mozart’s mouth, waited for him to swallow, and then spooned a little more. He got a quarter of the bowl into Mozart that way, and then set it aside. He brushed a hand through Mozart’s hair, “You need to get better Mozart, you need to get better soon.”
The next day Mozart slept. Salieri mostly stayed in bed with him, working on a few compositions and cuddling. The next day Mozart’s fever was worse. The thin genius was sweating and shaking so badly that Salieri could barely keep a hold of him.
It scared Salieri, watching the younger man sweat and shake. He kept trying to get him to drink something, but all the liquid just dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
Around midnight things got even worse, Mozart started crying out in pain and was delirious. With nothing left to do, Salieri climbed into bed and wrapped himself around the other.
“Its okay, its going to be okay.”
Mozart held on, “Salieri?”
“It’s me, I’m here.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Shhh,” Salieri shushed him, “You’re not going to die. You’re going to live and compose and have stupid hair” Tears had sprung into his eyes at some point, “You’re going to be fine.”
Another fit of coughing tore through the other composer, and Salieri’s arms tightened on reflex, “You’re going to be fine.”
He couldn’t stop saying the words, muttering nonsense to the genius while the fever raged, waiting for the inevitable moment when everything would stop, because how could he survive this?
Salieri kept talking the whole night, until he didn’t even know what words meant. As dawn peeked in through the curtains, he heard a voice mutter back, “My hair isn’t stupid.”
“Mozart?”
Eyes that were finally clear looked back at him, “I am back my friend.” And he slipped into a quieter sleep, drenched in sweat as the fever broke.
Salieri closed his eyes in gratitude, kissing Mozart on the forehead and settling down next to him to rest.
Mozart spent two days sleeping, waking briefly to drink and eat, but this time it was the sleep of recovery, and by the third day he was well enough to bathe and emerge from the room.
Sitting at Salieri’s kitchen table, Mozart looked around with interest; Salieri’s rooms were decorated plainly, with only the things that were necessary inhabiting them, everything in its place. It made him wonder why Salieri had an extra bedroom set up.
“You made that room up for me, didn’t you?”
Salieri paused, carefully setting down his quill, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your rooms weren’t helping your sickness; you needed to be somewhere warm.”
They were silent together, “I guess they weren’t such a safe place after all.”
Salieri laughed, “we’ll have to see about getting them fixed or you could—“ he cut himself off.
“Could what-?”
This had not been planned, those words hadn’t been planned; Salieri looked up into warm brown eyes. Not planned, but heartfelt, “You could move in here. I have plenty of room.”
Silence. It dragged on for a moment, and neither looked away, “We can build a new safe place.”
Mozart smiled, “Together.”
“Yes,” Salieri reached across the table to hold Mozart’s hand, “Together”