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“Tell me, what do you think heaven is like?” Salieri said out of the blue one day, looking into the quiet streets of Vienna, hands resting on the edge of his teacup. Mozart blinked, unsure of what to say. He was already surprised by Salieri asking him out on a drink, but a theological question? What on earth sparked such a question?
Deciding to go with false confusion, Mozart answered, “What, does the pious Antonio Salieri fear not going to heaven? Weren’t you a church boy?”
“Mozart, please.”
“Come on, you may be an old man but you’re not going to die soon! If you’re so worried about it, I’ll even compose a requiem for the oboe just for you⁓” Salieri only sighed before turning properly to him, eyes tilted downwards. Then, lifting his teacup, he took a long sip, emptying it, before setting it down and standing up.
Ignoring the insult, Salieri said, his voice going soft, “I am not worried for myself, it’s the Emperor.” But, of course, it was the Emperor, not that Mozart could blame him for being so attached. The Emperor had a strange attachment for Salieri that he could never figure out why, but still, the Emperor did support the arts quite a lot, and if he was dying, they might all be in trouble.
Taking himself a bit more seriously, Mozart too stood up, grabbing Salieri’s hand and grasping it. “The Emperor’s not that much older than you, Salieri. If you’re not going to die soon, he won’t either,” he said quickly, words slurring into each other. Salieri only gave a soft smile, picking up Mozart’s hand and setting it aside.
“I hope you to be right, Mozart.”
“Of course I’m right! I’m me!”
“That’s why, well… I wanted to gallantly come in and grant Maria’s wish… I just wanted to show that I could act as a mentor to Mash.”
“...”
“I guess I’m not cut out to be a teacher. It seems I can never match Salieri…”*
“Hey Amadeus, can you teach the children how to sing? You were a brilliant musician, weren’t you?” Ritsuka asked, running up to him.
Amadeus blinked before giving a crooked grin. “For all my brilliance, I’m afraid I have one fatal weakness, my genius is too great to be taught to others,” he said, shrugging with his palms up.
“You can still try, right? The children’s choir really needs a teacher and I can’t ask Liz or Nero….”
“Hahaha! If I tried to teach them, I’d just confuse them. I’m not exactly that guy, y’know.”
“Eh? Who? Can I summon them?”
“I sure hope not! If that guy saw me running around like this, he’d shove his baton in my mouth and tell me to stop drinking! Master, I do have to run, Maria is calling⁓,” Amadeus said, mouth quirking before running off.
“Hey, wait! Tell me that guy’s name!”
“I loved him. I envied him. I yearned for him. I respected him, admired him, looked up to him…”
“So...to bear the honor of being the one to kill that great prodigy, I could ask no greater gift of God!”
“Still, that said…”
“...I feel like...he once told me something... Something...much more important…”**
“Master, surely you can not be serious.”
“What’s with all you musicians refusing to teach!”
“Antonio Salieri may have been a teacher, but I am not him. I am the avatar of death, destined to kill the one beloved by God.”
“One lesson! Just one! I’ll even let you kill Amadeus afterwards!”
“...Very well, though I can not promise I will be very good.”
“Let's just say it was an unexpected miracle! It really, really was Mr. Salieri!”
“That being said, yeah, it might have been worth it to endure the pain in the dark.”***
“Hey, remembered when you asked me what heaven would be like? Guess I’m finding out now!” Mozart said, laughing before breaking into coughs. Clutching his hand, Salieri said nothing, only holding onto it tighter. “Salieri, come on, you’re going be as silent as a confessor when I’m on my death bed?”
“...You are not going to die,” Salieri muttered out, “stop being dramatic.” Mozart smiled, lifting his hand to pat Salieri’s head. Salieri smiled back, though his eyes were still clouded with despair.
“Y’know… I’m jealous of you, the Emperor adored you, you’re the court composer… If it wasn’t for the situation in France, you would’ve never come back to Vienna.”
“Mozart….”
“Ahahaha… What good is being a genius if you can’t even pay the bills? Promise me one thing Antonio.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t you ever write a opera comique.”
“....Okay.”
“I’m serious! Don’t you ever commit a crime against the art form of opera as grave of that!” Mozart said loudly, throwing his hands into the air, before going softer, “Though, can you promise me something else too?”
“Is it going to be—”
“No! Just promise me, okay.”
“If you say so…” Salieri paused for a moment before continuing, “I promise.” Shifting himself forwards, Mozart pulled Salieri towards him, letting their faces only be separated by a couple of centimetres.
“Treat yourself better, my friend, indulge in what life can offer you! You’re constantly hesitating and for what? You’re already a better man than I am and much more successful, yet I still have overheard your conversations with Count Rosenberg about your worries. Da Ponte might’ve called you agreeable but that’s because you’re not letting your music upstage the liberto!
“Passavity might be helpful in court but you really do let it go too far. Salieri, at this point you’re being bullied for being too easy. You don’t have to be like me, but you still should stand up for yourself. You are an Italian, aren’t you?”
“....I…”
“And,” Mozart brushed his lips on the corner of Salieri’s mouth, “don’t you dare die anytime soon, one of us has to live past 50.” Upon contact, Salieri’s face turned red, blushing profusely. Laughing at his expression, Mozart exclaimed, “You really are a fake Italian who blushes at even the faintest amount of romance!”
Collapsing onto Mozart’s chest, Salieri mumbled, “Shut up.”
“Maybe you are an Italian after all hahaha⁓.”