Work Text:
Sometimes, just before he’s about to go to sleep, Chopin wonders what his bed was like when Liszt slept in it. That fateful week, when Chopin had left for the countryside to escape the bad air of the city. And when Liszt, with all his arrogance, had had an affair with Marie Pleyel.
In reality, he should hate the man, but he can’t, it’s too difficult. To begin with, he felt dirty. He shouldn’t have allowed Liszt to have his keys, it was a mistake.
Then, all he could think about was Liszt, laying in his bed. What did he think about his bedroom? Did it seem comfortable to him? He wasn’t sure. Had he held Marie in his arms, in his bed, before falling asleep?
Now Chopin thinks that he would like to know how it feels, being in Marie’s position. Would Liszt hold him like he had her? He wants to know the shape of his body. How it would feel against his. Would Liszt take care of him like he did his women?
As with the majority of things, Chopin only experiences nice things when he is sad. So, it is when he is ill that Liszt finally decides to take any notice of him.
Chopin can barely finish the concert and when he stands, he sways in a sickly fashion. Liszt can’t stand that no one is coming to help his friend and he rushes to keep him upright on stage. Sweat runs down Chopin’s forehead as Liszt squeezes his forearms. He feels dizzy and cannot stop himself from resting his head on the other’s shoulder.
In the carriage ride home, Liszt holds his hand and tells him over and over that he will be alright, that nobody will mind that he has had to finish his concert early. Chopin barely listens to him, trying to concentrate on breathing in as much air as possible.
On arriving at the flat, Liszt takes Chopin to his bedroom, untangling him from his coat and his shoes. With aching bones, Chopin falls onto the bed.
“Do you need anything else?” asks Liszt.
Chopin remains silent. He has his back to Liszt, who is standing on the threshold.
“I need you…” he says. “I need you to stay.” He wants Liszt to lie in his bed. He wants Liszt not to ignore him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so direct.”
“It’s nothing, Frédéric.” Liszt sits on the edge of the bed. “I know that you get lonely. You don’t have a girlfriend… It's a real shame. What do you want?”
“Hold me. I can’t sleep with this pain in my chest.
He shuffles under the blankets until his chest meets Chopin’s back. He cradles Chopin against him to make sure his trembling body warms up. At peace, Chopin hums satisfied.
“Thanks, my friend,” he says. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” says Liszt, stroking his hair. “Go to sleep.”
Chopin does so, content in finally knowing what it feels like to have Liszt in his bed. Liszt treats him like a lover. With a lot of respect. And, for a day, Chopin can pretend that he is.