Work Text:
Ludwig drummed his fingers on his wineglass, his eyes drifting along the velvet curtains and half-empty row beneath him. Already people were gathering in the yard in front of the stage, jostling around each other. A confused aroma of Florentine colognes and rosewater perfume lingered in the soft din of talk beneath chandeliers giving off light the color of chapel ceilings.
Gilbert hurried into the box, straightening his collar and going to the low table beside the rail to pour himself wine.
“And you were so certain I wouldn’t be on time.” Gilbert settled in the burgundy velvet seat beside Ludwig. “I’ve never appreciated your skepticism,” he said with a little flourish of a his brocade justaucorps.
“My sincerest apologies,” Ludwig said. Gilbert scoffed at him. Ludwig idly twisted his wine stem, turning the opera pamphlet over in his hand. It was one of Mozart’s operas: Mitridate, re di Ponto. The Prussian court theatre Ludwig’s family frequented pounced on any pieces by burgeoning, talented composers, as if hoping they could be credited with “discovering” them.
Ludwig had never seen one of Mozart’s operas. He hadn’t heard many libretti in Italian, either, as the theatre followed Gotttsched’s aesthetics and showed mostly “moral” German compositions. Ludwig shifted through the cast; the roles of Sifare, Arbace, and Farnace were filled by castrati on hire from Italy. Castrati were another unknown in this performance, as the theatre turned its nose away from them, too.
Ludwig squinted to read the synopsis, his eyes flicking back and forth between the print and stage. The Italian performers held themselves with less taut a posture than Ludwig was used to. Their movements were more languid, following each push and pull of the melody beneath them. Ludwig’s eyes continually wandered towards the soprano castrato, Sifare. Ludwig had heard hundreds of beautiful voices while attending the opera, each one of them with individual intricacies. Yet his had a particular beauty to it, a warm resonance that could be felt in the marrow. Ludwig caught himself leaning forward to see him better.
“Lord, those Italians are quite the seductors,” Gilbert muttered halfway through the first act. “Look at them. Don’t they know a thing about German propriety? I wish they had had some Italian women sing.”
Gilbert’s constant interruptions made him an awful opera companion, but tonight Ludwig was glad for any interruption to stop fawning over that foreign man. Once or twice Ludwig worried Sifare had spotted him, but that couldn’t be. Sifare—or whatever his name really was—couldn’t possibly see Ludwig with the stage lights in his eyes.
Ludwig went to refill his and Gilbert’s carafe in the atrium during intermission, and was waiting beside some painting bedecked with seraphs when someone tapped his arm. Probably an antsy Gilbert asking why Ludwig hadn’t gotten the wine yet. But when Ludwig turned, it was not Gilbert at his shoulder. It was Sifare, the singer he had been staring at. Ludwig gripped the carafe. How could he have possibly seen Ludwig looking? It didn’t matter now. Ludwig scrambled for a proper apology or some lies.
He laughed at Ludwig’s expression, breathless. His cheeks were flushed, too. He must have hurried to get here.
“It wasn’t my intent to startle you,” he said. His speech carried a similar cadence and lilt to his singing. “I can’t be seen, would you go over there with me?” He pointed towards the nook under the stairs. Ludwig nodded, his knuckles bloodless on the carafe. His pulse beat at the top of his throat, constricting his breath and making him dizzy.
Sifare stood beneath the stairs. “Stand in front of me.” Ludwig did, blocking him from the surrounding crowd. Sifare offered his hand. “Hello.” Ludwig shook it, his hand half-numb from gripping the carafe. “You seem surprised,” he added with amusement.
How could I not be? “If you saw me staring at you, I sincerely apologize.”
“I didn’t come here for an apology. I came to see if you were interesting,” he said. “You’re certainly handsome. At least, from here. I didn’t quite make out your face on stage, because I couldn’t go staring at people without badly affecting my performance. But I’m good at knowing when I’m being admired.” He winked. “I assume you’ve already gone and looked up my name.” He gestured to the pamphlet in Ludwig’s breast pocket.
“No.” Ludwig turned it over, but Sifare grabbed his hand. Ludwig started.
“Apologies. But don’t look at my stage name. I want you to know my real name, but you must keep quiet about it.” Ludwig nodded. His breaths were still shallow, uneven. When Ludwig was beckoned nearer, he stopped breathing altogether. “My name is Feliciano Vargas.” The whisper kissed Ludwig’s ear. “Who are you?”
“Ludwig Beilschmidt.” Ludwig’s voice was higher than usual. “You… Again, I didn’t mean to stare, only…Only you’ve incredible talent; your voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard.” Feliciano smiled, laying the back of his hand against his cheek.
“Oh dear, Herr, you’ve made me blush.” Feliciano sighed and leaned back against the stairs. “Now I know your name. Could we meet after the show? I’ll be dreadfully tired, but I’m never too tired for wine.”
“Y-yes. But… I’m here with my brother. You shall have to wait until he goes. I’ll be here once he’s gone.”
“Wonderful,” Feliciano said. Why was Feliciano even interested? Someone like him, surely he didn’t need to solicit people from his audiences. Anxiety pricked Ludwig’s skin.
“Wait,” he said. “Why… I don’t understand why you’ve come to speak with me.”
Feliciano inclined his head. “Well, you’re very good-looking, and you clearly think I am too, so I thought perhaps we could see if we also find each other interesting.” Why had Ludwig had to ask that? Now he must seem clueless, but it was difficult to rationalize that this stunning performer was intrigued by him.
“And why did I catch your eye?” Feliciano asked.
“You’re… well, you’re quite lovely, and your voice is… beyond words. Again, I apologize for staring.”
“I like being stared at,” Feliciano said. “Besides, it comes with the job, does it not? Anyhow, I’ve only been in Prussia two nights, so I haven’t a clue where one gets wine in this town. Perhaps you could show me afterwards?” Ludwig nodded, still stunned into silence. “Thank you. I’ll see you tonight, Hr. Beilschmidt.” Feliciano pressed a soft kiss to Ludwig’s hand, smiled at him, and slipped into the crowd.
Ludwig leaned against the stairs and hid his face in his hands, struggling to breathe normally. Considering his miserable impression of stunned silence and empty aghast, he was lucky Feliciano had expressed any interest at all. But he had. Ludwig allowed himself one small grin before regaining composure and refilling the carafe.
“Took quite a bit. What where you up to?” Gilbert asked.
“Stepped out for some air,” Ludwig said. Hopefully Gilbert would assume his red face was from the cold. Ludwig cleared his throat and refilled his wine glass. Now he was not so much unfocused on the opera as he was craving its end, when he could see Feliciano under the stairs again.
Ludwig stood with everyone else at the opera’s end. Feliciano was near centre stage for his bows, which were received by a sea of chants from people in the yard, though a few bourgeoisie families remained rigid in their boxes. Feliciano knelt before the stage lights and feigned catching their affections. He even touched their hands and tossed them little kisses, sparking a ripple of mutterings from the boxes that swelled when the contralto castrato copied Feliciano.
As Feliciano stood up again, he turned to the Beildschmidt’s opera box. Gilbert waved to him, and Feliciano waved right back with a grin. He lingered for Ludwig’s sake, but Ludwig was too anxious to move, and Feliciano pivoted away to avoid suspicion. If Gilbert hadn’t been there, Ludwig would have smacked himself across the forehead.
Back in the atrium, Feliciano mingled amongst the crowd with the other performers. A few people muttered behind their hands or opened fans about Feliciano and the other Italian castrati, but most were delighted to shake their hands and congratulate their performance.
“I’m going to stay and practice my Italian,” Ludwig told Gilbert, who nodded. Once Gilbert was no longer visible in the crowd, Ludwig hurried to the stairs. Feliciano roved through the crowd towards him, accepting affection and delight from anyone who offered it. By people’s reactions, Feliciano’s mere existence seemed enough to enchant them. Ludwig doubted he could enchant anyone, neither through his love of rule-following or a stream of academics. How could Feliciano give Ludwig any mind at all?
Feliciano had dressed down from his costume and put rose geranium oil on his beck where his stiff collar had left a red mark. It glittered along the curve of his throat in chandelier candlelight.
“I’m glad to see you again,” Ludwig said, happy this conversation had begun better than the last. “You’re truly a wonderful performer, I appreciate you coming to our theatre.” Feliciano smiled, and Ludwig offered one back.
“Why, thank you very much,” Feliciano said. “Shall we go have a drink?” Ludwig nodded, and he left the theatre with Feliciano beside him. The evening drizzle had turned to snow, falling so fast that once they reached the bar a fine film of white had settled across the rooftops, on the shoulders of Ludwig’s coat. Feliciano shivered.
“Snow is always a surprise where I live,” Feliciano said. He spoke of his home along the seaside with an ache in his voice. Steely winter tides, a run-down olive grove, a small citrus orchard where he would lie in the grass and saturate himself in summer.
“I love singing, and all the traveling, but often I do miss my home,” Feliciano said.
“I hope you can return soon,” Ludwig said, holding the bar door open for him. Inside the bar, they warmed up with red wine and traded stories. Ludwig failed to contain his delight when Feliciano expressed interested in his anatomical studies and hope to attend the newly-opened university in Bavaria. The more they spoke, the more Ludwig grew heavy knowing this night would end and he would likely never see Feliciano again.
“Thank you for having a drink with me,” Feliciano said. “It’s lonely work, traveling town to town. I don’t ever spend much time with anyone but my company.” Feliciano sipped his wine. “I didn’t ask, do you go to the opera much?”
“About once a week,” Ludwig said. “Music, for a lack of a better word, charms me. Utterly. It’s… forgive me if this sounds ridiculous, but I feel as if I fall in love with it over and over again.” Ludwig blushed a bit and took a drink of wine.
“I know that exact feeling,” Feliciano said. “Although, I get lonely carrying on a romance with music. It’s made me lonlier than I’d like to be.” Feliciano rested his chin on his hand and sighed. “But that’s why I enjoy speaking with people like you. Hearing you say you adore my voice, it makes the loneliness worthwhile.”
“You deserve such compliments. I appreciate you sharing your talent. It’s a gift to opera, to art itself,” Ludwig said.
Soft kisses of rouge formed on Feliciano’s cheeks and nose. “Oh my, thank you,” Feliciano said. “I did tell you you would make me blush with that talk. Do go on.”
Ludwig flicked his glass. “I… well…” His flushed deepened to burgundy.
“Shall I compliment you now?” Feliciano moved his glass aside and leaned nearer. “When I saw you staring at me in the theatre tonight, really saw your face, I thought Adonis had decided to grace the theatre with his presence. Adonis broke a goddess’s heart, imagine how a poor mortal like me suffered when I saw you.”
Ludwig studied the table, smothering his ridiculous smile. “You’re kind.”
“Kind?” Feliciano laughed. “If that’s what you take from that.” Ludwig raised his eyes.
“People don’t typically speak to me like this.”
“No! Really?” Feliciano shook his head. “How could that be true? You’re good-looking and fascinating, that’s a dangerous combination. And while I barely understood a word you said about university, I adore your enthusiasm.” Feliciano sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. “I don’t suppose you’ll invite me to spend the night with you. I’ve heard most Prussians don’t approve of that sort of behavior.”
“Well, I don’t suppose most Prussians have been granted the opportunity to spend a night with Orpheus himself.”
Feliciano stood, pulling his coat on. “Then come along, Eurydice.”
Ludwig scoffed. “I wouldn’t consider myself your Eurydice. Certainly you wouldn’t greet death for me.”
“Certainly I would. I would greet him like an old friend, if that’s what it took to bring you home to me.”
Ludwig reddened, holding the door for Feliciano.It had stopped snowing, and night deepened as Nyx gathered the black folds of her skirts over the heavens. Feliciano cast his eyes up to the stars while Ludwig regained his composure. Never in his life had he brought a stranger back to his bed, and if he had ever imagined it, that stranger wouldn't have been anything like Feliciano.
They walked through the mix of snow and frosted gravel towards the Beilschmidt’s brick manor house, lights still on in the curtained downstairs windows. At the end of the lane, under stars and pale moonlight, Feliciano drew himself close to Ludwig. His hands came to rest on Ludwig’s. While Feliciano’s fingertips were cold, his palms were warm, and his touch was lovelier even than his voice, like honey-sweetened wine. Feliciano met Ludwig’s eyes.
“Won’t you kiss me?”
Ludwig touched Feliciano’s cold cheek. Feliciano uttered a soft, shivering breath and tilted his face up further. His thumb trailed up Ludwig’s pointer finger, gentle encouragement, and Ludwig kissed him. Feliciano’s hand tightened in his. The night washed over them like morning tide, when Phoebus and Aurora brought the day.
“Kiss me again.” Feliciano’s whisper brushed Ludwig’s lips. “Like you love me.” Ludwig kissed Feliciano as slow as he could bear it.
“Come inside, we’ll catch cold out here. Keep quiet, though.” Ludwig kept his hand in Feliciano’s as they hurried inside the back foyer. The extinguished chandeliers were ghostly amongst the shadow draperies and perfumed the air with candle wax and smoke. Polished hardwood creaked underfoot.
“Take your shoes off, the stairs squeak,” Ludwig said. Feliciano stepped out of them, pulling Ludwig’s hand as they hurried up the staircase to his room.
Ludwig closed the door, still steeped in incredulity. Feliciano’s hands brushed Ludwig’s cheeks, sweeter and more lovely than anything Ludwig dared dream of. Feliciano’s gentleness, the way he whispered Ludwig’s name—Ludwig wished he had left Feliciano at the bar rather than damn himself to encroaching heartbreak and longing. Yet he sunk himself deeper into damnation, for this sin was better than any salvation, this was salvation, deliverance from all evil.
“Feliciano, Feliciano…” Ludwig said his name again and again and again, like it were his favorite word in all the world.
“Ludwig, Ludwig,” Feliciano whispered back. His delicate knuckles trailed down Ludwig’s back while he caught his breath against Feliciano’s chest. It was snowing again. Smoke rose from chimneys. Several windows flickered orange and honey with candlelight. There was no noise but for their soft breathing and occasional creaks of floorboards settling.
“My, I’m exhausted,” Feliciano sighed. “Performance after performance, and you do require some keeping up with.” He ran his fingers through Ludwig’s hair. His nails grazed Ludwig’s nape, drawing a little rasp up Ludwig’s spine.
“I shall be sad not to see you again. I would have liked to fall in love with you,” Feliciano said. He cradled Ludwig’s head to his heart, its quickened beat revealing no secrets. Ludwig closed his eyes. Feliciano kissed Ludwig’s temple. “I can love you tonight.”
“I think that would anguish me more,” he muttered. Feliciano inclined his head. “Well, I’m not typically one for a tryst.”
“No?” Feliciano stroked Ludwig’s hair aside, seeing the ache in his expression. “Don’t cry over me, I want you to remember me happily.” Ludwig’s fingers curled above Feliciano’s heart. Maybe it was better that Feliciano was leaving. It could not be easy to love him when they had met like this; Ludwig might always see him as the stunning foreign singer, charming Orpheus, and love him like a god rather than a man.
Feliciano stroked Ludwig’s hair and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll come back to Prussia someday,” he whispered. “I’ll meet you at the theatre here in Berlin, and bring you anywhere you want to go. I swear it. I’ll love you with a love that’s more than love, and when you see me perform you’ll know that nobody else in that theatre means a thing to me, so long as I can move you to tears.”
Ludwig shut his eyes tight. “Don’t speak as such. You know it isn’t true.”
“You can’t prove that it’s not.”
Feliciano nudged Ludwig’s face up and kissed him. With that kiss Ludwig gave in to Venus, dreaming of summer with Feliciano. Kissing him under golden skies and gilt clouds when rose bushes bloomed in courtyards and night was warm.
“I’ll come back, Ludwig. I’ve never meant something more,” Feliciano whispered. He kissed Ludwig’s forehead and sang to him in a feathered undertone. His whispered song was far more beautiful than his song in the theatre, as it was for Ludwig alone. Feliciano drew the blanket over them both, twining his fingers with Ludwig’s.
Ludwig fell asleep in Orpheus’s arms, sung into dreams blessed by Venus.