Work Text:
An encounter between them was something that was not supposed to happen, to keep both men's peace of mind, given the nature that comprised them both; Joseph had a habit of burying his pretty fingers in the ribs of others, moving viscera a little here, a little there, tangling veins and arteries, doing damage and then wiping the blood from his hands as if it were nothing; Antonio, on the other hand, smiled cynically when his throat was under the grip of a hand, mocking at the poor attempt to be controlled, affected, for his body was always on fire, waiting to burn whoever touched him for more than necessary.
Their first encounter was not natural, it was arranged, planned. The royal family wanted to preserve in photographs the concerts given by their orchestra, specifically of their most valuable trophy: the maestro, the violin virtuoso, being Joseph chosen for such a job, since his work compared to that of other photographers was exceptional. Joseph did not know at the time that he was photographing a possession, not a person.
The chase never happens, they are simply animals stalking unattainable prey. Joseph was hoping to find a weakness, he knows how people work, he knows how to break them with words; Antonio wanted him to get close just to find out how badly he could burn him.
(Antonio is not a person, he doesn't function properly as one. Joseph is a ghost, he doesn't approach others, he can't burn. Nothing happens at that point.)
/
It doesn't take long for a routine to develop, in the theaters where the orchestra plays, hours before the show, just the two of them. That's where the artist's dedication is quietly demonstrated: Joseph arrives early to set up a few cameras pointed at the stage, in places carefully planned so as not to disturb the audience. He checks them again and again, the angles, the light. Antonio arrives early to play his violin, hear how the walls receive his music and return it. The same piece, over and over again.
"I can't help but notice that you never look at the pictures I take of you," nor do you look at yourself in the mirrors, Joseph thinks. He doesn't say so; to reveal that he watches Antonio minutely would be a mistake.
Antonio was tuning his violin, looking away from it for a few seconds to look at Joseph. "I trust they're good enough... Not that I care much."
His subjects always check the photograph he takes of them, give suggestions, change poses and facial expressions, they want to be captured in the best way possible. Antonio seems to disdain the preservation of his image.
Joseph frowns a little, "You don't care about your image?" He asks, voice sharp as he slightly moves one of his cameras to get a better angle.
The sound of the violin being laid on the floor echoes through the theater, as Antonio sits on the edge of the stage, where a glass of whiskey awaits him. Joseph has lost count of how many glasses Antonio drinks before a performance. The photographer watches Antonio's throat, the Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he takes a large sip.
Antonio sighs, "I'm a musician, not a model. I wasn't made to be photographed, but to be listened to." He takes another sip, "That's all I care about."
Joseph immediately disagrees, "Photography is not about capturing just your physique, but your essence. If there are no photographs of you no one in the future will know you were a violinist." And Joseph has to hold back an offended gasp when he sees Antonio shrugging his shoulders, disinterested.
"Unlike you I don't think that far, signore Desaulniers." Another sip, and Joseph is surprised at how quickly he emptied the glass. "I'll perfectly sleep at night knowing that at least one person in the audience will truly hear my work today, and then the next day I'll try to accomplish that again."
Joseph stays silent, stopping the words to come out of his lips — how can a magnificent musician like Antonio aspire to such a meaningless existence?
Joseph can't comprehend him yet.
/
It is certainly disturbing how many times Antonio shows up while drunk.
"You should take better care of yourself, maestro." There are very few occasions when Joseph drinks, he knows how damaging it is. Witnessing Antonio who can't even make it through a day sober makes him feel like a witness to a crime. He shouldn't see that, he shouldn't see a man destroying himself.
Antonio chuckles, as he always does when he hears something ridiculous. "I play better when I'm drunk," if Joseph weren't so attentive to his voice he'd think it was a joke, but the words are honest. "That's when I'm the freest."
Joseph thinks that if he put his fingers between Antonio's ribs he would only find broken bones and rotting tissue, he thinks that alcohol is perhaps the only thing that fills the empty spaces where his organs used to lie. He doesn't function like a human being, he just plays his violin. But Joseph can't know for sure if Antonio is aware of that, as he has never heard the violinist talk about himself – he says there is nothing to say, the only thing that matters about him is the music and what he does with it.
/
Antonio doesn't look at himself in mirrors.
Antonio doesn't look at his photos.
Antonio disappears when the concert is over.
Antonio in the festivities in honor of the orchestra is only present for a while, then he locks himself in what Joseph thinks is his room.
The royal family gratefully declares his work as a photographer finished after a few months.
He does not see Antonio that day. Joseph keeps a few photos for himself, as some sort of souvenir.
/
The reunion takes place in a bar. It still doesn't feel natural.
"You look terrible," Joseph says, taking a seat next to the violinist at the bar.
"Ah, the photographer," Joseph is certainly surprised to be remembered, given that most of their time together Antonio was drunk— perhaps he could be a functioning alcoholic, though that's a pure oxymoron. Antonio can't function. "I didn't think you were the kind of man who'd be in a bar at this hour."
"I heard you'd be here, but apparently I missed your performance."
"Hm? Why would you want to see that? If I remember correctly you were never that interested in what I play."
Joseph orders the most expensive drink the barman offers him, "While my job was to take pictures of you of course I enjoyed your music at the same time." He says, and it feels slightly strange to admit it. "I just didn't feel the need to flatter you about it; you gave me the impression that you were fed up with so many compliments.”
Antonio chuckles, sweet and intoxicating sound that orbits around Joseph until melting in his ears. Joseph thought he had forgotten such a sound, but it is exactly the same as before, just like that dimple in the violinist's left cheek that sometimes appears in the photos Joseph kept for himself.
"Pointless compliments," Antonio corrects. "Compliments coming from people with ridiculous wigs and fancy clothes. They don't know what they are talking about."
"Yet such people had you playing for them in their orchestra," Joseph says, taking a small sip of his drink. He leans closer to Antonio on the bar, "I wonder why, since you seem to never bend your strong opinions. Was the payment really that good?"
Antonio grimaces, the smiles disappearing off his face as he drinks from his glass. "Don't assume it was a fair deal. I was tricked." That's all he says, before reaching a hand into the right pocket of his coat. "Yet you don't look aware of what happened."
Joseph tilts his head as he watches how Antonio lays a rugged poster on the bar. The photographer feels his chest suddenly heavier, a sharp pain on his throat. He clearly remembers that picture of Antonio — Joseph took it, but seeing it with a red cross drawn over Antonio's face feels like not only a sacriligeous act towards his work, but, Joseph shakily breathes, if he feels such shame right now he can't even wonder how Antonio felt when he first saw it.
At Joseph's shocked silence, Antonio calmly speaks. "I guess now in the future people will know I was a violinist, just not a beloved one."
The photographer grabs the poster, a pale finger grazing the painted red cross. Not a beloved one. Joseph thinks of the crowd outside his old manor, a whole devastated town waiting for him; they didn't understand his work, and if Joseph had any photographs of himself they would surely be on some torn poster with red paint. Not a beloved one.
"I can fix it." Joseph says the first thing he thinks, contrary to his nature. He knows techniques for restoring photographs from certain damages, though he's not sure if it will work on the poster material, but Joseph feels an obligation to try.
"There's no need," Antonio responds, looking at his glass. "That's just one poster of many more. It doesn't really bother me anymore."
Joseph thinks for a moment, not really believing Antonio that he doesn't care. "Then why did you keep it in your pocket?"
Antonio finishes his glass, standing up and stretching a little. "As a little reminder. But keep it if you want, fix it, burn it, play darts with it, whatever." He was about to leave, until the barman reminds him to pay for his drink. "Ah— right, my dearest friend here will pay for me."
Joseph doesn't know how to react when Antonio pats him on the shoulder and leaves. He would complain, naturally, he is no one's wallet, but Antonio's drink was so cheap that Joseph couldn't even be offended. The photographer ends up paying for both of their drinks, and on leaving the bar he tried to find Antonio, but the violinist had already left.
/
This time it's on the street.
It feels natural, because Antonio is drunk and lying on the ground, leaning his back against a closed storefront, because Joseph is standing in front of him, looking down on him with disdain, his silhouette blocking the lamppost from illuminating Antonio in the dark night. Joseph is frowning.
"Get up." He says, tightening his jaw. There's something so frustrating about seeing the completely avoidable fall of a man. Hell, Joseph enjoyed so much photographing Antonio, he was a god on top of the stage, unreachable, surrounded by lights, applause, fame. Now he's on the ground, within reach of his shoes. And he knows Antonio won't tell him what happened, why fame let him off the edge of a cliff so abruptly.
Antonio groans as he stands up, not because Joseph told him to, of course, but because he hates being looked down upon. Being so tall, though it makes him feel less like a human, has accustomed him to being looked up. And Antonio enjoys it. His hand lazily cleans some dirt off his clothes.
"What is the plan here, sleeping on the street?" Joseph sharply asks, tone almost scolding, which amuses Antonio.
"Well, yeah, unless you offer me something different." Antonio says, with that smirk that really annoys Joseph. The photographer bites his tongue, thinking for a moment. Maybe he could change this, help the star get back on the sky. And maybe he could hear Antonio play his violin again.
Joseph looks down, at the violin case on the floor, then up to Antonio again. "I can offer a guest room, but act like a fool and I'll kick you out."
The violinist chuckles, not a sincere sound. "Fine, I won't throw up on your precious carpets or anything." Joseph ignores the comment, walking to guide Antonio.
As Antonio follows him with tipsy steps, Joseph thinks that they are going to be all alone in his manor. That's not natural.
/
Joseph thinks he has brought something grotesque to his manor, such a blind dog carrying a dead bird on its snout, unable to see how mangled it already is, how useless it is. In front of him sits something worse than a corpse, for it does speak and move. The line between star and dust becomes blurred. The more he watches Antonio, the more he regrets bringing him along.
His long legs make Joseph's couch look like a toy, a little thing, and Joseph watches with a frown as Antonio places a cigarette to his lips. His body leans into the furniture beside him, his pale neck stretching until his face reaches the candle lying on top of it. Antonio lights the cigarette, Joseph stares at the reflection of the flames on his neck, on his jaw.
"You are ill." Joseph says, such remarkable judgement in his voice that if you were to swap the words 'ill' for 'guilty' it would sound no different.
Antonio looks at him, one eyebrow arched. Smoke escapes his lips. Joseph still thinks there's something grotesque inside his manor. "In what sense?" his mouth twitches into a smirk.
In many senses, Joseph thinks, but an answer from that perspective would take all night. "Before you went on stage I'd hear you coughing to the point where you couldn't even talk anymore," he begins, "to the point where you were writhing around, like life was slipping out of your throat. But when you stop coughing, you smoke, and you drink, and life keeps trying to escape you. You are ill."
Joseph watches the puff Antonio takes, imagines the path of the smoke, the rotting flesh and tissue it touches before it leaves. Antonio is still smiling.
"My, I didn't see you as a man capable of pity."
"I don't pity you; I just can't comprehend you." Joseph firmly says, brows furrowed. "You were literally about to sleep in the street, out in the cold. Do you even care about yourself?"
This time the smile disappears, and Antonio frowns. "And how does whatever I do bother you or affect you in any way? I wonder if you ask that to every drunkard you find on the street, or is it that you just enjoy looking down onto a man you saw at his peak." Antonio asks, voice cold with smoke. He's now used to all the rich people that paid unholy amounts of money to see him now perceive him as a lost cause, since he has fallen and now has no use. Joseph can sound so condescending in his ears, calling him ill, as if Antonio doesn't know it since he was born.
Joseph stays silent, until he can't stop the words to roll out of his tongue, until the shell has to crack a little.
"Why are you still alive?"
A beat.
Antonio tilts his head, not at the content of the message, but at the voice of the sender. Joseph sounded strange, different.
"That's what bothers me so much, Antonio. It's just... so unfair." The photographer continues, the edges of his mouth turning up in an incredulous smile, as if the situation is too ridiculous that Joseph can only laugh. "The more I think about it, the more it feels like a cruel joke. You were born sick, you are a waste of a man who can't stay sober for a day, only good at one single thing, yet—" and there's the pause that tells Antonio everything.
"Yet, you have lived this far... I don't understand. How can death avoid you, how can death forgive your filthy live and not the one of a little boy ?"
Antonio feels an alarm in his ears, a noticeable change in Joseph's voice; there is a crack in his voice, a choked cry, and Antonio looks at Joseph directly, seeing the thin string holding his body together, string out of tune and tight as that of a violin, so tight that at the slightest rough touch from Antonio it would break, and from Joseph would come out the most painful melodies.
It is not Joseph's sharp words that now fill his head, not at all, it’s not the first time that some kind of aristocrat tells him he should die. What dwells in his mind now is how to proceed, what to do when he has Joseph Desaulniers hanging by a thread, what to do with the scissors in his hand.
Is the photographer able to cry? Antonio considers it, to apply pressure (—a little boy? what are you talking about?). Antonio is drunk enough to cut, to break, to make mistakes; it's what he does best. But he's not ungrateful enough to hurt the man who invited him to sleep warmly under his roof.
"You should go rest, Joseph."
Joseph heavily swallows, eyes still burning. "You didn't answer my question."
"I don't have an answer," Antonio says. He wants to disagree, because he doesn't think death forgives him, on the contrary, it plays with him, it sees how far a flawed human being can go from the factory that built him incorrectly. "Yet I feel like I've died multiple times." He glances at his violin case, it being the strings of the instrument inside that have choked him to death, until he gets up again because if he doesn't revive the music of the world will go with him. He's a deluded fool who thinks he's special, but he's fine being that way.
Joseph takes a seat, heart pounding so hard it rumbles painfully in his chest. He keeps thinking about Claude. "It's been decades and I still don't receive an answer." He says, more to himself, voice weak. Antonio doesn't really know what to say, but he stops smoking.
The violinist gets up from the couch, grabbing a bottle of wine to pour Joseph a glass. Joseph takes a sip, then drinks the whole glass. Antonio whistles, suddenly amused, "Oh, you were thirsty."
"Be quiet," Joseph says, rubbing his eyes with his forearm, wiping away any borning tears as he tries not to think too much about his twin. He doesn't want to completely crack in front of Antonio, but it's quite difficult, because the fire surrounding the violinist is actually quite nice and warm, and as much as Joseph wants to call him a waste again and blame him for not even caring about his life, he just can't, Antonio will probably shrug again and look at him like he's the hundredth prototype of an arrogant man trying to feel superior to the violinist.
Joseph doesn't want to be like that. "I don't care about drunkards on the street."
"Hm?" Antonio tilts his head at the sudden words, taking a seat at the other side of the couch.
"You said you wondered that, before. I didn't invite you here because I saw you as a drunkard on the street," he calmly explains, slowly composing himself again. "I did it because I always admired your passion, and seeing where you ended up frustrated me."
The violinist did not expect such an answer. "Oh— I see..." He's aware at how careful Joseph is with his words, choosing every single one of them with precision. The fact Joseph said he admired his passion, not his music, has Antonio feeling all strange and warm. "That's nice, you can actually be nice."
Joseph sighs, then chuckles slightly, standing up to get more wine. Antonio is still thinking about that little boy and how Joseph would probably never tell him who is he referring to. The violinist bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks, feeling the need to do something for Joseph. "You haven't heard me in a while. I could play a piece now," Antonio offers, standing up too to get his violin.
The photographer, with the hand that isn't holding another glass of wine, swiftly pushes Antonio's chest to get him back on the couch. Antonio is slightly startled, Joseph's touch lingering on his body. He looks back at Joseph, confused, and notices that the photographer sat closer this time.
"There's no need. Now I'd prefer to talk, and drink."
Antonio chuckles, sincere as he watches how Joseph's lips take the glass. "Fine," he's too lazy now to stand up again, and it feels nice being close to Joseph on the couch, so he grabs Joseph's glass and drinks from there too, fast enough to not notice he drank from the same side as Joseph.
When the photographer gets the glass back, he cleans it with a tissue. Antonio huffs playfully, "Rude."
"I don't know where that mouth has been." Joseph teases, taking a sip while smirking. His face feels warm, mind relaxed as he leans back his head, resting it against the back of the coach and looking at the ceiling. Joseph feels how Antonio gently takes the glass back from his hand, and he's also aware that the violinist is staring at him.
It's unnatural how natural such creatures feel in a couch, sitting close enough so that Antonio could burn Joseph, but all Joseph feels is warmth; close enough so that Joseph could move his hands and sink them into Antonio's body, into his ribs, searching for anything to hurt, but he doesn't, his hands now enjoying that gentle graze of Antonio's fingers when he takes the glass from him,
and Joseph then touches Antonio's hand, and it repeats. Until the glass is empty.