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Gottlieb Stephanie was a man of patience, just like his mother. All things come to those who wait, she had told him so many times during his childhood.
But when it came to Mozart, he was mainly desperate.
That until he saw Antonio Salieri in the hallway on his way to rehearsal.
"Maestro Salieri!" he called, running towards him.
The man stopped and turned around, surprise on his face. "Good morning, Mr. Stephanie. To what do I owe the honor?"
"I need your help."
He raised an eyebrow but politely gestured him to continue.
"Could you please wake up Maestro Mozart?"
Salieri's face fell immediately, but he kept a stoic pose, true to form. "I beg your pardon?"
Stephanie let out a long sight. He probably sounded devastated. "I— I tried everything to wake him up, Sir. Make noises. Shake him. Hell, I even pour cold water on him once. He barely moved, that was crazy, I thought he was dead— anyway, not the point. You see, he has to rehearse soon and—"
"What does it have to do with me?"
Stephanie took a step back. Salieri had always scared him but now his tone was terrifying.
"I thought…" He cleared his throat, trying to sound convincing. The man was his last resort, after all. "I thought you could try, Maestro. It might work, with you."
Salieri stayed silent a moment. It lasted so long that Stephanie wasn't sure if he had heard him at all. He was about to repeat his request when Salieri finally spoke.
"Why me?"
His voice was strangely hoarse.
Stephanie hesitated. "I'm… not sure. He seems to listen to you."
Salieri looked doubtful. "…Does he, now."
"Yes!" he assured. "I'll always remember the first time we met! You said one word and he stopped joking around at once."
"I—"
"Maybe that's your voice, I don't know. But… please?"
Stephanie couldn't decipher what was happening on Salieri's face, but his eyes were filled with many different emotions.
Without uttering a single word, Salieri finally turned around and walked away. The librettist could only watch him disappear in the hallway, his hopes vanishing away with each one of his step.
With a resigned sigh, Stephanie slowly made his way to rehearsal, thinking about excuses he could use to explain Mozart's absence to the musicians. But a few minutes later, to his utmost surprise, he caught sight of a half-sleeping Mozart roaming like a ghost in the hallways but nevertheless heading to the music room.
He couldn't imagine what Salieri had done, but it was very efficient.
The first time Salieri found himself in front of Mozart's door, he was still trying to figure out why in the world he had accepted Stephanie's request. He told himself he felt empathy for the musicians waiting hopelessly for their unprofessional Maestro. Or maybe he felt pity for Stephanie's desperate face. But deep down, he knew it wasn't true. He just wanted to see Mozart. Admitting it felt like acid in his throat.
With a resigned sigh, he knocked twice on the door. Hearing no answer from inside, he then let out a quiet, barely noticeable ‘Mozart’.
Still no answer. Disappointment slid through his heart. That's utterly useless and I'm making a fool of myself, I shouldn't even be here.
He was about to give up when the door violently opened. In front of him appeared a disheveled, out of breath but wide awake Mozart. It only took one glance for Salieri to notice he was also half-dressed, and the sight of the man flustered him to the depth of his core. He felt himself blushing to the tip of his ears and quickly turned his face.
"Mozart," he greeted but to his dismay, his voice sounded choked.
"Salieri, what are you doing here?"
"Mr. Stephanie asked me to—" He cleared his throat. "You're late for rehearsal, Mozart."
Without another word, he promptly turned around and walked away, trying to hide the jolts of his hands and his fast-beating heart. Mozart couldn't hear his heart, could he?
The second time Salieri found himself in front of Mozart's door, he was still pondering why he had returned. The images from the day before were still vividly painted in his mind and the blush on his face was starting to creep up again.
He knocked twice on the door and was expecting the same scene as the previous day. Instead, the door opened right away and Mozart appeared all dressed up from head to toe, and seemingly awake for hours.
"Salieri, my friend!" the man greeted him, a big smile on his face.
Salieri only politely nodded as an answer. If he was ready, why was he still in his room?
"Are you going towards the music room as well? We should go together!"
Not even waiting for an answer from Salieri, Mozart grabbed his hand and led him in the hall towards the music room.
Salieri didn't like the sensation of Mozart's hand clenching his own.
Or maybe he liked it too much.
Time went by but every morning was the same. Some days Salieri didn't even have the time to knock on Mozart's door that he was already waiting for him behind it, ready for their walk towards the music room.
On their way, Mozart kept blabbering about his day, his nights, about his ideas, about everything he could think of. Salieri was annoyed. Annoyed to enjoy his presence so much, annoyed to like his voice, annoyed to be thrilled hearing about his upcoming compositions. He barely talked during that time (Mozart talking for both of them), but deep down he knew he wouldn't have missed this morning ritual for the world.
One day, Stephanie forgot to ask Salieri to go wake up Mozart.
He still went anyway.
He wasn't sure why.
On a Monday morning, after a busy weekend of receptions, a tired Salieri went as usual to Mozart's room. This time though, Mozart wasn't waiting for him. It was odd.
He knocked twice and received no answer. Frowning, he knocked again and called his name but was surprised to hear no reaction from Mozart.
He weighed up the pros and cons of leaving the composer to his lazy fate, but thinking about all their morning walks warming his heart, he decided against it. Instead, he recalled what Stephanie had told him. About how he had entered Mozart's room without being invited in. About how he shook the man awake or even poured water on him. Surely Salieri could do that as well.
The door seemed unlocked, so he gathered his courage and entered.
The room was illuminated by the windows ajar, casting soft light on Mozart's resting face. He was lying in bed, wrapped in blankets, and facing the door.
Salieri took a glance look around and couldn't help but feel that the room smelled and looked just like Mozart himself. It made him feel calm and relaxed as if he was the one swathed in a warm blanket.
Shaking the thoughts away, he cleared his throat, trying to get Mozart's attention. He watched the composer slowly open his eyes and smile at him.
"Good morning, Antonio," he purred in a sleeping voice.
"It’s almost noon, Mozart."
"Still considered ‘good’."
"You have to rehearse soon," Salieri reminded him flatly.
"I don’t want to go!"
"Don’t be such a child. Plus you do want to go." Salieri recalled their previous conversations during their morning walks. "You enjoy rehearsing, you keep repeating that."
"But I’m tired! Five more minutes."
"Get up."
"Make me."
Salieri pictured himself grabbing Mozart by the hands to force him to get up, resulting in the man landing against his chest. He threw off these thoughts away. Instead, he sighed, trying to calm his pounding heart. "Mr. Stephanie won’t be happy."
"He’ll live."
"He’ll stop asking me to come to wake you up."
It got Mozart’s attention. He half sat down, blankets forgotten around his waist. "That’s why you came? Because he asked you?"
"At first, yes."
At soon as the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them instantly.
"At... first?" Mozart asked, disconcerted.
"I—" It was safer to tell the truth. "He stopped asking a couple of days ago."
"Why come, then?"
"I… still don’t have the answer to that question."
They stayed silent, but eventually, Mozart extended his hand. "Help me?"
Salieri tried to not think about his face blushing. "You can do that on your own."
"I’ll just stay in bed, then."
Salieri sighed again, defeated and weak against the man. "Fine."
He got closer and took Mozart’s hand, but the next thing he knew was how he found himself in bed with Mozart’s weight on top of him, holding him tight.
"What are you doing?!" Salieri blurted out, trying to escape from his grip.
Mozart snuggled him tighter and rested his head against the crook of his neck. "You’re stuck now, meaning I won’t have to go anywhere."
"That’s not serious—"
"Sleep is important."
"So are your rehearsals."
He looked up, meeting Salieri's eyes. "I meant yours."
"—What?"
"You don’t sleep enough, Antonio. Everyone can notice the bags under your eyes." As to punctuate his words, he slowly raised one hand towards Salieri's face, tenderly touching the place he mentioned with the tip of his index.
Salieri could feel his face burning up even more but he didn’t move at the contact. It felt too good. "I have things to do."
"You won’t do them well if you’re tired." Mozart's gaze seemed lost in his dark circles. He gently stroke Salieri's cheek, thumb ending against his slightly open lips.
Warmth spread all over Salieri's body and he let out a shaky breath. "I guess—"
Mozart stopped his careful ministrations, surprised. "Yes?"
"I guess I could use a small nap."
Since the first day he had asked Salieri to wake up Mozart, Stephanie would reiterate his request every time the composer was late for rehearsal. He didn't know what kind of miracle was happening in the bedroom but Mozart would eventually appear in the music room and always in a good mood. He could only assume it was Salieri's doing.
Soon enough, he noticed that he didn't need to ask Salieri anymore. It seemed like the man was doing it on his own initiative.
One chill Monday morning though, Mozart was nowhere to be found, and it appeared that no one had seen Salieri either.
Annoyed, Stephanie approached Mozart's room with a big jar of cold water, ready to try again his old method to wake up the man.
To his surprise when he opened the door, both Mozart and Salieri were in bed, huddled tightly against each other under the blankets, peacefully sleeping.
Retreating silently, he closed the door, deeply blushing.
Making his way to rehearsal on his own, he tried to think about excuses to explain the men's absence.
He also made a mental note to never enter Mozart's bedroom ever again.