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Thump, thump, thump.
His ear pressed against Mozart's chest, he could hear the unsteady beats of his heart, slower than they should be, struggling against the currents of his sickness, of his exhaustion. His body was warm, too warm, the fever seeping from his pores and making his shirt damp with sweat. Or was it Antonio's tears, that were causing it?
'Come,' he'd said, opening his arms, offering his closeness to him, Antonio, as if he were the prodigal son being embraced by his forgiving father. But it could not be forgiveness, he didn't deserve that. Why was Mozart the one to comfort him, after all this time, all the pain and suffering? Why wasn't he sending him away, condemning him like he should? When Mozart's hand touched his hair he felt his throat constricting as more tears welled up. Gentleness and softness, that was so unlike Mozart. Or was it? It definitely was unlike Antonio. The years of envy and fanning the flames of the bitter rivalry between him and God had hardened him, had stolen what once might have resided inside of him. Love? Could he love? He loved Mozart. Yes he did. Being in his arms was like touching light for the first time after being stuck in darkness, like taking the first breath after diving out of deep waters.
And yet he knew that moment was fleeting, was diminishing with every ragged breath Mozart took. He would not survive this night, Antonio was sure. And why? Why hadn't he stopped? He'd asked God to make him stop and God had done nothing, had merely leaned back in his seat watching the tragedy unfold in more acts than Salieri could name or count. But it was still his own doing, his own schemes that had brought about this downfall of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the man he loved, oh God-
He closed his eyes, and he could hear the quiet scratching of the quill, led by Mozart's hand. He was mumbling words, wasn't he? It felt as if the music was flowing from Mozart to him, a connection established by their closeness. If he'd been offered this earlier, would have asked for it-
Unthinkable, to his past self. Or was it? Had this always been there, this affection for the man, buried under the envy and equal amount of contempt?
Having regrets now accomplished nothing and yet he couldn't stop these thoughts from attacking his sanity. This could not be real, why had he- Mozart, why was he dying, why wasn't God saving him now?
The hand in his hair began to move slightly, forming a pattern. It was those minuscule twitches of Mozart's fingers as he put the music to the paper that made Antonio almost wish Mozart would engrave it on his scalp, to leave something he could keep, something written by the genius in Antonio's blood. And why shouldn't he do that? Cut him open like a sacrificial lamb, bleed him out like a sheep, turn his guts into violin strings to play Death's music as it approaches and takes them both?
But Mozart was doing nothing of the sort. He was writing Antonio's requiem, instead of finishing the one Antonio had commissioned only to torture the younger composer.
There would be a complete requiem after all. Only that it was one neither of them would ever witness being performed.
Mozart, I swear to you, I will help finish your Requiem. And when you're gone and the opportunity arrives, I will conduct it. I can only hope that then you will watch from above, and let me feel your ghostly embrace once more.
As he laid there, Mozart's pulse the only thing that stopped his mind from crumbling, he realised; God's vessel of music or not, Mozart was a mere man, a mortal at Death's doorstep.
Antonio knew him better than anyone, knew him better than he knew himself, yet it was only now that he could truly see him, without the music getting in the way, and though he still heard the quill gliding across the paper, heard Mozart's faint humming, pulling the composition out of thin air, he could only see the human being behind it, a man just like himself.
Or perhaps not just like himself, not this bitter envy-driven thing he'd become. Though vile in many ways, Mozart was a better man than himself, still, as despite Antonio's confession, he offered him... not forgiveness, no, but comfort. Even that felt like too much.
He truly didn't deserve this, being consoled by a dying man. It wasn't right.
And although he never wanted to move again, desiring to stay like this forever—foolishly hoping that his presence, which had done nothing but poison the genius, would help him now—he rolled away. He couldn't bear to face Mozart, coward that he was.
Oh God, save him. Why don't you save him?