Chapter Text
The situation was terrible in its very own right.
Beautiful sequences of notes floated in the air, played slowly and cautiously in a way that sounded almost overly considerate, until they were interrupted by the sound of hands crashing frustratedly against multiple keys of the piano at once. Hissing in pain, Salieri rubbed his sore hand, bordering between cursing himself for his outburst and savouring the sting as some deserved punishment for his idiocy.
The sheet music in front of him blurred as he stared at it, his own writing suddenly appearing almost foreign and he ran his hands over his face in an attempt to dispel the creeping fatigue - he hadn’t been sleeping well, no more than a few hours on fortunate nights in the past week or so, and it was beginning to affect him more than he would have liked. Frustration burned right under his fingertips and stretched over his arms to linger in his chest, coiling violently whenever he put his fingers back onto the keys of the piano and inevitably exploding after a few moments of attempted playing.
His right hand just wouldn’t move in the way that it should. The remains of dark bruises still sat right around his knuckles and although the doctor had said he would be fully recovered soon, such recovery also took a considerable amount of rest. Rest, consequently, took time and time was something he didn’t have at the moment. What sat in front of him was the draft of his current project, an opera composition for an important client that he would have to finish soon. Though there was really only one part missing from the composition, that part also proved to be one of the, if not the most important part an opera could have - the last act, the ending scene and everything in relation to it - and while it existed in rough shapes and forms in his mind, he lacked the means to play it, to form the melodies with his own hands and to listen to what he kept imagining. He could write it down, and quite potentially it would even sound reasonably refined, but there was an anxiety high-strung in his chest that prevented him from accepting such a solution. In the end he would only be able to perfect it if he could actually play it, and yet that seemed impossible in his situation. And he refused to accept anything less than perfect from himself.
No matter how hard he tried to push himself, how cautiously he attempted to play the notes and how much he willed his fingers to move faster and more precise when it was necessary, they just weren’t yet able to move in the right way - always lacking a bit of coordination, always being a bit too slow, always missing some notes whose keys rested too far apart.
Sighing, he rested his fingers atop the keys again, willing his heart to resume a relatively calm rhythm and taking a couple of deep breaths before he commenced to play once again. For a few minutes all seemed to go well, better even than the last times, and the melody floated just right in front of his closed eyes. He clenched his jaw as pain shot up his hand, fingers not quite ready to stretch as much as he needed them to, and still he continued with brutal discipline. There were simple resolutions to keep him going, the urge to prove himself, the need to receive praise for his work, the bare obligation to not fall behind Mozart in this odd competition that they had. Was it a competition, though? Certainly not to the other composer - of course, Mozart would never see Salieri as competition, he had no reason to. It stung and still Salieri knew that he wasn’t fighting for the first place in all this, he was merely fighting not to be forgotten.
After the past weeks he was hardly sure what the thing between him and Mozart was at all, since even plain rivalry seemed to no longer be the right definition. Though he was reluctant to call what they had a closer bond in any way, there was no denying that it had become warmer in some way or form - they had talked, mainly about music; they had sat together, mainly next to each other; they had walked together, mainly to and from rehearsals. Some easy routine had formed, that Salieri had first despised and now felt almost thankful for on certain days. Of course, as much as he had tried to prevent it, somehow Mozart had managed to worm his way into his life, and at this point Salieri was uncertain if he could remove him from there again without bringing upon him some greater evil, some instability that couldn’t be fixed by what he knew.
The thought of Mozart combined with the transition of the piece into a faster tempo caused his fingers to stumble again, wrong notes turning harmonies into grotesque dissonance and causing hopes of success to pummel back onto the harsh grounds of reality. He wouldn’t be able to finish this piece, certainly not in time, and all the work he had put into it, hours upon hours of work, would be for naught and approval would evade him, like a sheet of paper in the wind that one longs to catch but that never quite stays within reach. He was destroying himself for yet another thing that would end up at the back of a shelf or under piles of sheet music just like it.
As if the situation weren’t bad enough as it was, a knock against the front door of his house disturbed the silence that had now fallen over the room, quickly followed by another series of energetic knocks that revealed to Salieri just who was behind the door as clearly as though someone had announced the visitor. He had already retreated to the privacy of his own home to avoid disturbances just like this, by him in particular, but it seemed that he was no safer here than he would’ve been in the palace’s music rooms. What would happen if he just didn’t open the door - nothing, most likely - and he wondered if that was a comforting or distressing thought.
The following knocks drew him from his thoughts and while trying to compose himself he got up from the chair and approached the front door. Each footstep seemed to harbor some sense of finality, mainly because Mozart was, at times, irritatingly hard to get rid off once he had latched onto someone and because Salieri feared that such would be the case once he opened the door.
He opened it anyways, partly since some part of him seemed strangely and inexplicably welcoming towards the prospect of seeing Mozart, as if his presence would distract him from his failure in some way - it certainly would serve to do the opposite, as Mozart’s genius usually did. It would distract him for a moment only to then remind him of every flaw in his own creations and every form of musical artistry he would never be able to reach. It was an admiration that was equally coloured in jealousy as it was in reverence, and said combination managed to confuse Salieri in some profound way each time he heard the man’s music.
Once the door was open, surely enough Salieri was met with the bright presence that was Mozart, whose face immediately lit up upon seeing the Italian.
“Salieri! You weren’t to be found anywhere at court so I thought I’d pay you a visit in hopes of finding you here,” he spoke and eagerly walked past Salieri as he stepped aside to allow him to enter. There would be no use in trying to get rid of him at that point. Once inside, Mozart’s gaze flickered towards his hand, before he met his eyes again, a hint of sympathy and concern lingering in the look. “I heard you injured your hand, it is not some permanent damage, I hope?” Though Salieri’s mind liked to pick apart every sentence in search of malicious intent, there seemed a genuine, almost nervous hesitance in the question.
“No,” he answered curtly and cleared his throat, biting back the urge of responding with a more unkind comment. “It’s merely some bruising. Irritating, but not much more.”
Relief flooded Mozart’s features, and for a second Salieri allowed himself to appreciate the openness in which the Austrian displayed his emotions. It was hardly a guessing game with him, especially once one had spent some time with him.
“Oh, thank God.” His brows furrowed rather suddenly, as if he had become aware of some great troubling thought. “Come to think of it, what happened to your hand? There isn’t-”
“An accident. It was an accident.” Tearing his gaze away, Salieri swiftly changed the topic. “But certainly you haven’t come to discuss my hand, have you?”
Though he appeared briefly taken aback, Mozart quickly jumped on the new direction of the conversation. “I heard you playing, are you working on something new?” His gaze shifted excitedly to the piano and the sheets strewn around on top of it.
“Yes, an opera.” Salieri tried to keep the unease out of his voice.
“May I take a look?”
Not that he waited for an answer to that question as he walked over to the instrument and picked up one of the sheets. Salieri’s heart rate sped up uncomfortably and he followed behind him, snatching the sheet from his hands and then busying himself with gathering the remaining papers as quickly as he could.
“It isn’t finished.” The edge of anxiety felt too obvious in his words, the former barely extinguished discomfort reignited by the presence of the other man, and he inhaled sharply to get a grip on at least his behaviour again.
“But it is beautiful! The way you matched the violin with the rest of the orchestra in that part was incredible, I’m certain whatever you have left in store for the rest of the piece will be as marvellous as the part I’ve seen. Really, Salieri, I mean it, even in its unfinished state the emotions are so clear with every note-”
While Mozart rambled on, Salieri had taken a few steps away from the piano and the other man, clutching the stack of paper to his chest as he kept his back turned to him. Though the words were kind, they only rubbed salt into the wound that Salieri had only just opened shortly ago - the grim truth that he wouldn’t be able to finish any of it. That there was nothing left in store and that nobody would ever hear any of it no matter how good it could be.
“Salieri? Are you alright?”
With a start he returned to the present, finding that he had dropped his notes on the floor. Fantastic. “Could you, could you just stop?” He managed to wrench the words from his throat just so, as his airways seemed to gradually grow more narrow. Lowering himself to his knees he began gathering up the notes, growing more desperate with each paper that refused to immediately part from the floor. He knew the feeling well, the gradual ache spreading through his chest, the way that air seemed to no longer reach his lungs, the growing dizziness - normally he would excuse himself to calm down, but his notes were more important, he couldn’t just leave them here.
“Salieri. Antonio, stop.”
It was the use of his first name and the sudden warmth of a hand on his shoulder that made him halt. The warmth travelled down his arms and suddenly he felt his hands enveloped by another pair of hands and only in comparison to their steadiness did he realize that his own were shaking like leaves in the autumn wind.
“Antonio, you need to breathe.”
Right. Of course. The first breath he sucked in through the invisible barriers that seemed to have formed between his throat and his lungs made him aware of the burning sensation in his chest - a sensation that only made his breath speed up again. It was a vicious cycle.
“Antonio, there, wait, can I-.” He let go of his hand, and the loss of contact almost sent Salieri into another panic but suddenly he felt himself being maneuvered into a different position, resting against Mozart as the latter began talking again. “Just try to go at the same tempo as me, alright?” And simultaneously he began tapping a simple rhythm on the back of Salieri’s uninjured hand. ¾ time. Like a waltz.
Slowly but steadily Salieri’s breathing returned to normal, but even then neither of the two dared to move for what felt like hours to Salieri.
“Are you back with me, Antonio?” Mozart asked softly and Salieri very harshly was reminded of the position they were in and how embarrassing the whole thing was.
He pulled back from Mozart’s embrace and both cherished and cursed the distance that returned between them. “Yes, yes. I, I apologize for all this,” he spoke quickly, willing his voice to be as steady as possible.
“No, no, none of that. It is me who should apologize, I shouldn’t have looked at your work when you weren’t ready to share it, I am so sorry.” The hand of the other came to rest on his shoulder once again and Salieri shook his head.
“It is not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Dejectedly, Salieri stared at the sheets of music still scattered over the floor and he sighed, wondering if he should even bother gathering them up.
“I can’t finish it.”
“What do you mean? You can’t finish the opera? Are you out of ideas?”
The assumption drew a bitter chuckle from Salieri. “Oh, the ideas are there. Everything is - the melodies, the story, every note and pause.”
“Then why?”
Salieri lifted his bruised hand and finally met Mozart’s worried gaze. “I can’t play, not correctly. It works for the slow parts but as soon as things need to be faster, more elaborate, my hand can’t keep up with my mind. And I can’t finish this, without having heard it, at least once.”
Understanding dawned on Mozart’s face and he gently took hold of Salieri’s hand, brushing a thumb over the bruised knuckles delicately and furrowing his brows. Some spark suddenly formed in his eyes, the corners of his lips turning upwards in a conspirative smile. “I have an idea.”
“Oh?”
“I will be your right hand.”
“What?”
“You can’t use your right hand but you have the music in your head, so, you compose and I'II will help you play it - by taking over the part of your right hand.”
“I am not sure that that will work very well.” Salieri frowned, but Mozart brushed it off, gathering the sheet music and getting up, extending a hand to help Salieri do the same.
“You can’t keep pushing yourself, you need to rest your hand. And you won’t know if it works unless you try it.”
Weighing his options, Salieri found he had quite few of them. He could either present an unfinished work, abandon the whole thing altogether or take Mozart’s offer.
“Fine.”
The aspect he had left unconsidered in all this was how small piano chairs were when they had to accommodate two persons, and so he soon found himself back within very close proximity of the other composer, shoulder against shoulder as Mozart seemed to wait for him to present him with some sort of guidance. Playing with Mozart not only by his side, but actively playing with him was a nerve-wracking concept. God, even just presenting his compositions to the other was accompanied by a certain level of doubt and anxiety each and every time. His works were hardly good enough in their finished form, but showing Mozart the first drafts, beyond that even, the raw nature of composing them, it felt surreal. Certainly this would make Mozart see that Salieri really didn’t have even half the talent he was praised for.
“It is alright, Antonio. Show me how you make your music.”
Salieri felt inclined to send a prayer to some higher power there and then.
“Alright, so-” He put the half-empty music sheet in front of them, reminding himself of where he had left off and then envisioning how he wanted it to continue. “In the same key.” He scribbled a few notes, thankful that his hand was still capable of at least that. “Then a slight crescendo and then back to the former dynamic but with-.” He added more notes and caught Mozart nodding along. “Alright, until here for now.”
He counted down and they began playing, and for just a few notes it sounded perfect to Salieri, but then their synchronicity had a hiccup and they ended up on mismatched keys, causing them both to stop once they realized it was beyond salvation.
“This might take some practice.”
While the optimism in Mozart’s voice was infectious, after what had to be their seventh attempt Salieri began despairing once again, and this time he wasn’t even certain whether he should look for the fault in himself or somewhere else. Something about the situation as a whole had him unable to completely allow himself to sink into this new way of playing, and the fingers of his right hand still twitched restlessly whenever they reached certain parts of the composition.
“Perhaps this won’t-”
“May I?”
Salieri was cut off by Mozart reaching for his hand and resting his own hand atop it, and albeit with a questioning frown he gave his assent. “Yes, but what-”
When Mozart gently moved his hand to lay on his leg, Salieri could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but Mozart barely acknowledged the indecent position they were in at all, merely keeping his hand atop Salieri’s for the time being so the Italian wouldn’t react by pulling it away again.
“Now, just do what you did before.” He smiled reassuringly at Salieri who just so managed to tear his gaze away from their hands in favour of staring incredulously at Mozart.
“What I did before?”
“Yes! Just let your fingers move as we play.”
“That-, alright.”
A few seconds passed in silence.
“Should we begin, maestro Salieri?”
The slight tinge of teasing didn’t go unnoticed and Salieri was sure his ears must’ve turned several shades redder as he quickly cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.”
And so they began again and though it took Salieri some time to adjust to the position and to allow the fingers of his right hand any kind of movement at all, during their third attempt some final resolve within him began to crumble and he let his fingers move freely. Something about Mozart’s company seemed to overrule his inhibitions and after that moment the music finally flowed with a new found smoothness, as though it were being played by only one person.
They fell into a rhythm, time passing oddly fast after that and Salieri hardly noticed as the minutes and hours ticked by, suddenly subject to a new kind of eagerness that outweighed even his initial worries about playing with Mozart. There was a calmness in the way his hand moved over the keys and in the way the fingers of the other one rested on the fabric of Mozart’s garments, and there seemed to reign some mutual understanding of the music in the small space between the two of them. It was all too comfortable and yet Salieri couldn’t bring himself to care.
Salieri hardly had to give any written or verbal guidance anymore,and everything appeared to happen through some previously unimaginable bond, how they switched scales, went from crescendo to decrescendo, from minor back to major, all in a rhythm only palpable to them.
When the last piece came to an end, they both slowed down.
“And then, pianissimo.”
“And, arpeggio.”
“And-”
The last note fell in perfect unisono and silence fell in the seconds after that, far from tense or uncomfortable, but somehow strangely warm and natural, tinged with the usual contentment of finishing a piece. The joy of the feat felt even more profound to Salieri this time, after already having given up on the work altogether.
When Salieri began to move his hand from Mozart’s leg to write down the last parts they had just played he found it held in place by Mozart’s own hand, much like when the Austrian had first introduced the idea. Questioningly, he turned his head to look over at him, and met his gaze. They seemed closer now, had they moved or had he simply never looked into his eyes until now. When Salieri began to turn away in avoidance of the intensity of the situation, Mozart brought his other hand up to rest against his cheek.
“Antonio, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Yes?” And after a heartbeat’s time. “Wolfgang?”
That seemed to erase any remaining reluctance as Mozart crossed the distance between them and pressed his lips to Salieri’s.
And the world shifted into consonance.