Work Text:
Mulling had gotten him nowhere, Antonio ultimately realized. He’d wasted enough time puttering and overthinking, and now it was time to get down to business. He'd been contemplating what to get Frederick for the occasion for weeks now, to no avail. And now, Valentine’s Day was today and he was determined not to let his insecurities ruin a perfectly good day to show Frederick just how much he loves him.
“Miss Woods,” the violinist says under his breath, silently stepping through the greenhouse. Eh… there it was. He was in need of some help, though that simple fact made his stomach turn. He knew all he needed to do was ask, Emma was quite a friendly woman, but he hated asking for help no matter the circumstance. The gardener turns around, setting her watering can aside and giving the violinist a friendly smile.
“Hi, Mr. Paganini,” she greets, looking the man up and down. God, Antonio looks dreadful. He’s stiff like one of the statues in the Muse Corridor, more slouched than usual which said enough on its own. He’s a sloucher by default. Hair hanging in his face so much so that it covers his mouth, which was typically the only feature of his that anyone saw. There was no grin today. Hands stuck in his pockets, elbows tightly against his body. He looks real rough.
Emma has to hold back a laugh, but it is most unusual for the violinist to be so shrunken in on himself. She has to wonder if something serious has happened and that she is the only one Antonio could find; a last-effort resort, maybe. “Is there something I can help you with?”
The man sighs, a disgruntled rumble lodged in his throat. His hands rummage around in the pockets of his coat, fidgeting with something in one, although Emma can’t make out what it is. It sounds like paper, crinkling in his hand. He seems to look it over briefly behind his hair, hums to himself, and then sticks it right back into his pocket. “Could you help me… with some flowers?”
Sure, he had bouquets made for lovers before. But he was never the one putting them together himself, only requesting which flowers he wanted included. Back then he hadn’t had a clue what each flower meant. This wasn’t his first go-around, but this wasn’t the flower shop on a corner street in Genoa. He wasn’t used to this . It was humiliating to ask for help! Especially in regards to figuring out a gift for his partner. Wasn’t he supposed to know what they’d like?
The gardener looks around at the flowers she does have, at the ones that have bloomed or are just about to. She smiles to herself at what she’s managed to grow with some help from Melly. “What do you have in mind?”
Antonio stills. “A bouquet. For…”
“Valentine’s Day?” the gardener asks without missing a beat.
What a relief. The violinist nods behind his unruly head of hair, still bashful.
“Mhm,” she hums, examining some of the labels Melly had written beside the flowers. Lilium candidum. Tulipa. Paeonia lactiflora. Bellis perennis. Just to name a few.
“Could you help me find some flowers with… nice meanings?” Oh, the violinist cringes something wicked. His whole body feels like it is shriveling up. Nice meanings? Was that the best he could come up with?
Well, sure. Emma knew the meanings of flowers and knew the meanings of those she was growing. Valentine’s Day did mark early spring, blooming forth a beautiful array of flowers fit for bouquets of all meanings. She is patient, silently taking note of which flowers have the deepest meanings. All she needed to know was what he wanted the bouquet to say. “Is this bouquet for a friend or…”
“Partner,” he says hoarsely. “It’s for my partner.” It seemed to Emma like he needed a drink, his voice drying up in his throat as he forced each word out. He wasn’t ashamed that this was for his partner, his Frederick, but that he wasn’t as smooth as he used to be. Years ago this would’ve been simple. He felt like he’d lost his romantic touch, what a shame.
It didn’t matter right now. He wanted to do something special. It didn’t feel heartfelt enough to just come up with another composition, a sweet melody to serenade Frederick with. He’d been stressing himself sick for the past week trying to figure out something the composer would like.
It helped that there were quite a few artisans in the manor. But nothing stood out as the ‘perfect’ gift for Frederick, no one gift idea sounded more fitting than another. He wasn’t fond of jewelry and said he didn’t like the feeling of wearing rings under his gloves. Machinery and gadgets didn’t appeal to him, nor did toys.
Flowers were simple enough to obtain, and he figured that with the gardener’s help, he could come up with a bouquet tailored specifically to Frederick. He was fairly hopeful that the composer understood the language of flowers better than he did, and even if not, Emma shouldn’t have any issue writing out the meanings. Along with a bouquet, he’d sit down to write a letter to his love, perhaps see if he could get his hands on any confectionaries in the kitchen.
The gardener is happy that Antonio has come to her, entrusting her to help him put together a bouquet with the right meaning. It was sweet. “Sure thing, Mr. Paganini. Did you have any color scheme in mind?” This was an easy task, one she could easily take care of in time for the holiday.
Hm… he thinks for a moment. Frederick did not like colors that clashed too heavily with one another, so a vibrant bouquet would likely be too bold. He’d formed a distaste for cornflowers, the symbol of the Kreiburg family. No more blue flowers.
“White.” Idly picking at the fraying threads on his coat, Antonio watches as Emma makes note of the white flowers, counting each of them carefully. There should be enough to choose from. “Maybe some touches of red, or pink,” he adds quietly, clearing his throat once more. That way the flowers would match Frederick’s coat.
In the end, Emma puts together a fine bouquet for Antonio– or rather for Frederick, with Antonio’s guidance. He must say, it is beautiful, even if he’s no flower guy himself. He runs his fingertips along the dainty petals. These would do marvelously.
An arrangement of mostly white flowers, soft and delicate. White chrysanthemums. White daisies. White calla lilies. Daffodils. White ranunculus. All roughly meaning the same things; pure love, innocence.
Livened up with deliberate touches of pink and red. Red carnations, my heart aches for you . The timeless red roses to say I love you . Pink camellia, I long for you . Salvia in red variation, forever mine .
The meanings of which have made Antonio feel quite smitten. And, alongside the pristinely wrapped bouquet, he returns to his room with a new purple iris tucked onto his coat. The former was long-wilted and Emma insisted she send him off with a fresh one.
Later on in the afternoon after a few matches, he sits down at the old, wooden desk in his room– something he is unused to doing. It’s covered in dust. He’d decided having a few candles lit would help set the mood and put his mind at ease. Fountain pen in hand, inkwell the side, and the least crumbled sheet of paper he could find, the violinist writes to his love. He writes for hours, writing such a terribly emotional letter in Italian and then translating it to English. The love he felt for Frederick swelled large in his chest, his eyes wet with tears as the ink loops around the paper. Words alone could not possibly prove enough.
They’d been unable to see each other at all today, but the assumed plan was to meet in Frederick’s room after games, but that was too typical. Why not start in the greenhouse first? Antonio would need to send a message to him before he’d head into the kitchen for dinner, he’d only just returned from his games for the day. This was only a small window of time and he’d better get moving.
A note slipped carefully under the door, retreating footsteps quick to follow. So quick, in fact, that Frederick doesn’t hear them at all. It’s only when he gets up from his piano to see a note in front of the entryway that his curiosity is piqued.
“Mio tesoro,
Please meet me in the greenhouse this evening after dinner. Do not worry, I have taken care of everything and you need not do a thing. All I ask is for you to accompany me. I look forward to seeing your lovely face.
Yours,
Antonio.”
The composer can’t help but smile. He was a firm disbeliever in Antonio ‘losing’ his touch whatever he meant by that. It had been a while since Antonio last wrote anything to him, and even if this was a note that looked to be written on scratch paper, it filled him with joy.
He can’t argue with this note, and he has no reason to. Even though they hadn’t explicitly agreed on ‘celebrating’ the occasion, Frederick had been silently working on gifts for Antonio for quite some time now. After months, he’d actually finished a composition for him. It was a miracle, wasn’t it?
And so it was a deal. They would meet under the moonlight that evening after supper. It was a date.
While the maids clean up the mess of dinner plates, glasses, and dirtied napkins, Frederick ducks past the dining room and down the hall to the greenhouse. He’s still got the note with him, tucked in the pocket on the inside of the lining of his coat.
He turns the knob to the greenhouse anxiously, peering around for any sign of Antonio. And there he is, slightly to his left behind the fountain. His eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light, and he squints harshly at the outline of Antonio, backlight by the moon. Once they finally do, he realizes Antonio hasn’t come empty handed. It was quite the contrary.
“What…?” The composer stares wide-eyed at the large bouquet held out in Antonio’s hands, extended towards him. “What are all these?” he laughs softly. He steps closer, tilting his head down at all of the flowers. What a large bouquet!
“For you,” Antonio smiles widely, eyes creasing as he stands tall, presenting Frederick with the arrangement like an offering.
There sure are a lot of flowers. “...All of them?”
The violinist laughs and slowly nods, “All of them.” There are double the flowers than the average bouquet, and each one had been picked for a reason, for their individual meanings.
Frederick can’t even begin to comprehend where he would put them. An average vase wouldn’t do. But damn, would they look wonderful in his room. After a few moments of silence spent in sheer awe, Frederick looks up at Antonio. “They’re beautiful. Did you pick the red and pink because of my coat?”
It was an honest question. “Partially, yes,” he starts through a nasally giggle. “But each of them has a specific meaning. I didn’t go picking any old red flower just to match your coat.”
Frederick wraps his arms around Antonio, dancing around the flowers in between them. “And what do they mean?” he hums. The red roses spoke for themselves, as did the amount of white flowers. They could only really mean love.
“Come sit,” Antonio says softly, guiding Frederick over to one of the benches, very gently setting the bouquet on the other’s lap. “Emma helped me put them together and wrote down the meanings.”
It was refreshing to be given a bouquet that actually meant something, and even more refreshing to be consciously given one at all. He’d recieved roses on their own, though they had been tossed at his hand rather than handed over with so much care for both the flowers and himself. Those were flowers of infatuation. But these? These were flowers of admiration. Antonio had truly put in all of this effort to put such a thoughtful bouquet together for the occasion that Frederick, honestly, wasn’t expecting much for. He would’ve been content just having some alone time with Antonio.
But he had gone and put in all this effort! Frederick was touched beyond words. He looks over the little card Emma wrote as Antonio reads it aloud.
The violinist points to each flower as he explains the meaning. “Red carnations, my heart aches for you .” Frederick’s lips part and curl into a smile as he leans into Antonio’s side. “Red roses to say I love you . Pink camellia, I long for you .” The pianist brings a hand to Antonio’s, placing it around his hand as he points to the last flower. “Red salvia, forever mine ,” he whispers.
What sweetness.
His thumb circles over Antonio’s knuckles, body leaned close against his. “Thank you,” he sighs contentedly, “I love you.”
There's a very clear sense of gratitude in Frederick’s voice which tells Antonio that this was a gift he earnestly appreciated. It wasn’t so over the top that it overwhelmed him, nor was it insignificant. It was perfect.
“Ti amo,” Antonio murmurs, craning his neck down so that he could kiss the top of Frederick’s head. It was more sincere when he spoke in Italian, and he found that it allowed him to express what he felt in a way that English couldn’t always.
There’s a slight breeze in the greenhouse, the sky above flecked with double the stars than usual.
Antonio is overjoyed that Frederick enjoys the bouquet. There was a shadow of a doubt in his mind that he’d find it too unimaginative, or boring. But Frederick’s sweet smile, his wholesome interest in what each flower meant, spoke for itself. There was no need to worry.
“I have something for you, too,” Frederick murmurs after a few minutes of pleasant silence. Antonio laughs through his nose. “And before you can say anything… it’s Valentine’s Day. I had to. I wanted to.”
It wasn’t often that Frederick finished a composition at all. He’d always wanted to compose something special for Antonio, but struggled with translating his feelings into a symphony that captured their essence; the feeling of loving Antonio the way he does. As if Apollo had guided his hands on the keys, Frederick had realized in early February that his composition was nearing completion after all the time he’d spent agonizing over it.
While the thought of handing Antonio the score itself or anxiously playing the composition for him makes him feel like he will spontaneously combust, it’s only fair that he is willing to do both.
The violinist hums. “Right,” he nods, satisfied that Frederick wanted to give him something. It didn’t matter that it was Valentine’s Day, he didn’t like the thought of Frederick rushing around for him. Antonio turns his head and grins mischievously. “What is it?”
Oh, there he goes, giving him that grin. Frederick side eyes him and scoffs playfully. “Just a little piece for you,” he says, downplaying the very nature of what he’d composed.
“For me?” Antonio raises his eyebrows. Frederick had composed a piece for him ?
Frederick didn’t think it was that big of a deal. “Yes, for you,” he smiles to himself. For Antonio. They were taking turns being surprised. “It’s in my room, though.”
“Will you play it for me, my love?”
He can, and he will. How can he resist? Antonio does love when he plays for him, however rarely that he does. The pianist hums. “I will, if you will accompany me to my room,” he says with a smirk, alluding to a certain line in the note Antonio slipped under his door.
“Happily.” Antonio nearly leaps to his feet, eager to hear Frederick play for him. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity! No matter how lovely the greenhouse was at this time of night, he couldn’t delay.
Frederick lets out an amused laugh. Someone was a little excited. “There’s more than just the composition, by the way.” Ambiguous choice of words, but innocent nonetheless. He’d found a few bottles of wine for his favorite violinist to enjoy, as well as written him a letter. Speaking of…
“I have a letter for you,” Antonio says hastily, trying to retrieve the envelope from his coat.
Frederick turns slowly, smiling with his eyes. “Why don’t we save it until we get to my room? I have one for you, too.” He was always one step ahead.
A piece for him, a letter… Frederick had done his fair share for Valentine’s Day. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, amore?” Antonio is thoroughly impressed, this has all made him feel quite special.
A light blush spreads across Frederick’s cheeks as he grabs the bouquet and turns for the door, stopping at the landing. “I have my ways.” Antonio meets him on the steps, standing on one below. There’s a look of captivation in his deep, black eyes as he tilts his head up at Frederick.
Frederick smiles coyly, straightening out Antonio’s lapels and running his fingertips along his boutonniere, realizing that the former purple iris had been replaced with one that wasn’t withering.
Now, that’s a view. Antonio smirks. This was going to be a good night.