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Salieri was walking down the street to his house, Da Ponte at his side. They were cheerfully discussing the latest news and events, sharing how they’d both spent the previous months: Da Ponte had just returned from his trip to Berlin where he’d been working on a libretto for the German public and Salieri met him on the street only by accident but didn’t miss the chance to immediately invite him over to start their new collaboration. Of course, Da Ponte complained about not being allowed even one day of rest, but Salieri knew well enough that they both missed each other a lot and would enjoy working together more than resting apart.
They were laughing and sharing anecdotes as they entered the house. Salieri was about to ask the valet to bring them something to drink while they work, but the man spoke first. “Excuse me, Signore. Mozart is waiting for you in the study.”
Salieri’s heart fell and with a single shallow breath he could only throw a short prayer up to God to make it so that Mozart had come for a professional and not… personal reason. The images of his visits in the past months quickly filled his mind and Salieri felt his cheeks growing hotter and hotter. “Why did you let him in without me?” he could only say quietly, angrily.
“I apologize, Signore. It was stated to me before that I am to let him in whenever. If I was mistaken, then I should change my ways in the future.” The valet lowered his head, clearly not feeling any remorse.
Salieri had no strength to turn to Da Ponte, fearing to give away the cacophony of emotions he was going through, but he heard the scoff of his friend clearly enough. This did not help him relax. He decided to let it all out on the one and only reason for all his misery in life and stomped loudly towards the study. However, what he found there was a rather helpless sleeping — now woken up by a loud bang of the door — Wolfgang Mozart.
His pathetic looks and tear-stained face made Salieri stop in his place, speechless. Soon Da Ponte caught up with him and also stood in the study and observed the waking up man.
Not knowing the limit of his surprise, Salieri heard his best friend chuckle and say, “I take it you didn’t miss me terribly much, Mozart?”
Salieri was looking dumbfoundedly from one to another and got to catch all the microchanges in both of their expressions. Da Ponte’s face went from slightly mischievous to infinitely soft. Mozart’s transformed from a stupid incomprehension to stupid excitement. In a matter of seconds Mozart — stumbling over his feet a few times — ran to Da Ponte and embraced him tightly.
“You’re back, Lorenzo! Oh how nice of you! And just in time to…” but Mozart didn’t finish the sentence, instead opting for kissing first both of Da Ponte’s cheeks and then his lips.
Salieri felt hellfire rise in his chest. He didn’t have to doubt what he was feeling: he was jealous. But he was still unsure of what was happening right in front of his eyes. All the nights, all the intimate moments they’d shared with Mozart — did it mean anything to him? Was Salieri just a plaything that he was using only temporarily and ready to discard any time? Salieri thought the pain in his heart was going to kill him just that moment.
Da Ponte, probably out of the kindness of his own heart, pushed Mozart away soon and gently shook him by the shoulders. Mozart appeared to be drunk out of his mind. “Dearest, do you know where you are?” Da Ponte asked without a hint of accusation in his tone.
Mozart ignored his words and continued fighting to return into his embrace. Salieri couldn't miss how relaxed Mozart was in that moment, his hands, usually restless, holding firmly onto Da Ponte's. But Da Ponte only shook him a little harder. “Look at me, Wolfgang. Do you know where you are?”
Mozart finally focused his eyes on Da Ponte, then turned his head to the left, to the right; observed the familiar room and looked straight again. “This is Salieri’s study!” he exclaimed with a silly laugh. His nervous blinking showed up, but not too much.
Hearing his own name come out of that filthy mouth made Salieri shiver with disgust and shame. This used to mean something to him, make him happy, but now everything was spoiled with that indescribable jealousy and confusion. On top of all that, Da Ponte also spared him a glance and seemingly tried to say something with his eyes alone, but Salieri refused to understand him.
Da Ponte looked at Mozart again. “And why did you come here?”
Mozart didn't take time to think it over and said rather loudly, “Because I love him! I love him, I love him, I… sorry. Because I love him.” Da Ponte placed a hand on his cheek gently and waited for him to relax.
Salieri, on the other hand, felt more tense than ever. This could’ve made him the happiest man in Vienna only a few hours ago, but just then it only added to the agony of confusing feelings. It only made his heart wail more.
“I know you do,” Da Ponte replied, adding more fuel to the fire. “But did you tell him about us? How many times have you two met?” The tone in which he spoke to Mozart was nothing but gentle. It was like whatever relationship they were in, Da Ponte didn’t see Salieri as a serious competition.
Mozart looked down, his fingers tensing and untensing again, then his eyes moved back up with a new shine. “What does it matter to him? He hates me anyway. He hates me. And tomorrow I’m leaving Vienna, so you both will have to find yourself new toys. He hates me.”
Salieri could hear Mozart getting more and more upset with every word, but he could only focus on one part: He hates me anyway. Did Mozart actually believe that, after all…? Salieri wanted to scream, to let him know how much the opposite was true, but his body refused to listen to him.
Da Ponte, however, didn’t lose time on unnecessary thinking and continued the questioning. “What are you talking about? Why would you leave Vienna?”
Without warning Mozart’s face crumpled like a piece of paper, and Salieri felt anxious that he would start crying like a child. Instead, in a manner that was even more disheartening, Mozart burst out laughing. At first Salieri felt annoyed at his childishness that didn’t disappear even in seemingly serious situations. He even had half a mind to ask both Mozart and Da Ponte to leave his house, the embarrassment and the anger burning him from inside out. But after some time of observing him he started thinking that it wasn’t Mozart’s usual light-hearted laughter. Something in it was almost scary.
Da Ponte seemed to have caught up with it much sooner. (Probably, Salieri thought, because he knew Mozart better.) As soon as Mozart broke down in the first fit of giggles, Da Ponte pulled him into a tight hug and held him as the laughter slowly turned into full sobs. Considering the usual childish behaviour of Mozart, Salieri shouldn’t have been that surprised that he also cried like a small child denied any kindness or love. The scene was miserable to witness.
Salieri felt almost ashamed for his previous annoyance. Despite everything, despite the sin that Mozart had dragged him into, seeing the man in the desperate state made Salieri want to forget about everything and help him.
They stayed in the same positions for a while, Da Ponte whispering something to Mozart, but periodically looking at Salieri. Salieri in turn had no idea what to say or do to make the situation less awkward. Everything he felt before seemed to move to the background and sympathy for Mozart took all his attention. Whatever he’d done and whatever he’d said, Salieri didn’t want Mozart to feel this helpless and miserable.
After a while Mozart calmed down enough to speak again. Often interrupted by hiccups he uttered, “I’m leaving for Salzburg tomorrow. It is a good place, not everyone hates me there like here. And so it’ll be a good place for me to die. I'll die in Salzburg.”
“But not everyone hates you here either! And Vienna is the best place for you to live!” Da Ponte argued confidently.
“You know Lorenzo, except for you there is nobody in Vienna who would even notice. And in Salzburg I’ll have my father.”
“I can name at least one other person who looks like he’s going to cry at the thought of you leaving.”
Salieri was suddenly aware of Da Ponte’s eyes on him. Figuring out it was now or never, he decided to voice his disagreement with the plan. “Mozart, I…” But that was all he could say before Mozart, apparently scared by his presence, jumped around and screamed out in surprise. Salieri gave him a moment to calm down and opened his mouth again. “I don’t hate you and I would prefer it if you stayed in Vienna.”
Mozart still looked scared, but Da Ponte put his hand on his shoulder. “Tell us again, who is saying that everyone hates you here and you need to leave?”
“My father…”
Da Ponte didn’t listen to anything further. “Of course it was him! What did he write this time? That he will die without your attention?”
Mozart turned to Da Ponte and Salieri noticed anger in his eyes. “My father wishes me well. He sees even from afar how I’m being treated here — no concerts, no position, no friends — and he wants to save me the pain. He came here to finally take me home.”
Salieri couldn’t stay silent anymore. “But if we get you a position? A concert? Will it convince him?”
Mozart shrugged his shoulders pretending to be nonchalant, but his eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away, causing another fit of blinking angrily. “It is too late now. I came to say goodbye to you, Salieri. Even if you hate me, I will miss you.”
Da Ponte looked from one to another thoughtfully. “We can’t let you leave without even trying, can we? Salieri, can you help us?...”
Salieri didn’t need time to consider it. “Of course,” he replied immediately. Even if he lost Mozart as a lover with the return of Da Ponte, the thought of losing him completely caused such pain in his body, it was impossible to think straight.
Da Ponte immediately put on a business-like character. “Alright. First things first, we need to put Mozart to bed. I want him sober and calm by the evening. Can we…?” He looked questioningly at Salieri.
“Yes, he can sleep in my bed. Follow me.” And Salieri led them through the apartment. He fought hard to keep any unwanted memories and thoughts out of his head.
In the bedroom Da Ponte got to undressing Mozart . He quickly freed him of the wig, waistcoat and then lowered to take off his shoes. Salieri watched, mesmerized by the view of Da Ponte undoing the buttons on Mozart’s breeches and tugging them down. How well could they know each other for Mozart to not even bat an eye at such treatment. Only after a while Salieri noticed that Mozart himself was fighting with his cravat, so he stepped forward to help. He didn’t feel the same confidence about it as Da Ponte, and the closeness of Mozart’s neck made him feel hot, so he undid the knot and stepped away as quickly as he could.
Da Ponte was standing up again, observing Mozart, only a shirt protecting his honor. “That’s good enough. Go to bed, Wolfgang.”
Mozart giggled at him. “This isn’t going to help. I'll die in Salzburg.”
Da Ponte sighed with annoyance. “Your opinion doesn’t count. You will be a good boy and do everything as I say.”
Salieri felt a pang of jealousy at this interaction. He was feeling inadequate compared to Da Ponte. But Da Ponte wasn’t losing any time. As soon as Mozart got under the blanket, he left the room and Salieri followed him.
“Can you organize a private concert tonight? Invite whoever you think fits, who will enjoy it the most.”
Salieri thought it over. “I can send out invitations, but what are the chances that nobody has made plans for tonight yet…”
Da Ponte frowned. “You’re right, but we can’t do anything about it. Just invite as many people as you can think of, if even five show up that will be alright.”
“I will do that.”
“Another thing: send a letter to Stanzi immediately. Let her know about the concert so that she can prepare the old Mozart.”
“Constanze Mozart?” Salieri had to confirm. (He didn’t think of how close Da Ponte had to be with apparently all of Mozarts.)
“Yes, Constanze. She will have to send clothes for Wolfgang, too, she knows his taste. And she needs to bring his father here in four hours.”
Salieri was confused, but ready to comply. “What do you want to happen?”
“He should see his son appreciated, at least by a small crowd for now.”
Salieri nodded. He could do all that. At least he hoped the rush would take away his ability to think.
“Right, then wake Mozart up in three hours and make him presentable. He will not be in a good mood after all that wine, but you can threaten him if he's not agreeable.”
Salieri nodded again. “And where are you going?”
“To the emperor, of course. And I hope to return with good news. Don’t let the Mozarts leave before I come.”
Just like that Da Ponte was off and Salieri immediately got to writing the invitations. It took him half an hour to write to everyone he could think of and give the pack of letters and instructions to his valet. There was nothing else for him to do but wait, so Salieri entered his bedroom again. He justified it to himself that Mozart in his condition might have needed help any moment so he had to be nearby. This, of course, didn’t mean that he had to climb into the bed too and lay there for two hours, observing the relaxed face of Mozart, but he still did it.
The time passed quickly enough for Salieri. He successfully entertained — or rather tortured — himself by thinking of all the times they were in this position before: Mozart in his bed, himself studying his face, his body. But before the thoughts made him completely mad, Salieri heard a knock at the door. There was the valet with a package from Constanze Mozart. That meant it was time to wake Mozart up.
Salieri poured one full glass of water before approaching him, then gently tapped Mozart’s shoulder. When that didn’t work, he shook the shoulder with a little more force and finally Mozart started opening his eyes.
He couldn’t focus on anything for a while, his eyes traveling around the room, taking in the surroundings. They stopped when he finally found Salieri in front of him. “Salieri…” he rasped out, a few nervous blinks. “Did you try killing me with an axe to my head?...”
Salieri scoffed. “You were almost successful at killing yourself with wine, Mozart. Here, drink some water and get up. You don’t have time.”
Mozart gratefully accepted the glass and gulped it all in one go. “More?” he asked immediately. Salieri brought him one more, then one more again. Salieri wondered briefly why Mozart had been so quiet, devoid of his usual loud jokes and exclamations. He wondered if it was the consequences of drinking so much or if maybe it was his father’s sudden arrival that had this depressing effect on the man.
Some awareness returned into Mozart’s eyes. “Why am I here?”
“You’re giving a concert for my guests today. You have an hour to make yourself ready.”
Mozart's face darkened and his fingers tensed. “What is the occasion?”
“Your father’s visit. He is also invited.” Salieri didn’t feel comfortable being alone with Mozart anymore. He was considering just threatening him as Da Ponte suggested, if only to make this conversation pass quicker. “You promised Da Ponte that you will be in good form and perform well, so you better get up now.”
Mozart looked alert. “Da Ponte is back?”
Salieri sighed. He could never have the same effect on Mozart… “He is and he will come to the concert too.”
Mozart finally gave in and got up from the bed. He looked at his undressed body and a hint of blush touched his cheeks. “Did you put me to bed yourself?”
“We did with Da Ponte. Here’s the clothes your wife sent for you. Do you need help with dressing?”
The blush now spread over Mozart’s face. “No, thank you…”
Salieri turned around to leave the room, but Mozart stopped him. “Wait, Salieri… Did you talk with Da Ponte… about me?”
Sharp pain pierced Salieri’s heart. “Let’s leave all the talking until after the concert. What matters now is convincing your father you can’t leave Vienna.”
“Thank you, but one concert won’t convince him. He is quite stubborn.”
Salieri shortly turned around and looked at Mozart somberly. “You will not leave Vienna tomorrow even if I have to fight your father with bare hands. Now get dressed and come to the living room whenever you are ready.” And so he left Mozart alone.
In about twenty minutes the first guests arrived. Salieri still wasn’t sure anyone would be up to an impromptu concert, so he was glad to see anyone at all. Immediately putting his own anxieties away he went to greet and entertain them. By the time Mozart appeared in the living room there were already over ten people. Mozart didn’t stop for a polite chat with anyone, however, as he was going to the harpsichord Salieri noticed his usual bright smile. His nervousness looked more like the excitement he always expressed right before performing. As he looked intently at the keys in front of him his eyes and hands relaxed. Salieri allowed himself a moment to enjoy Mozart’s performer persona. It was doubtless that music was his only source of joy.
To anyone else the music might’ve sounded the same as always — Mozart’s great technique, his unique melody progression, the confident improvisation — but Salieri was sure nobody could've felt it the way he could. And what he felt in every note was anxiety and fear. He could not describe how he got to that conclusion but there was no doubt in his heart that Mozart for once couldn't lose himself in music.
At last, his apparent fear was realized: Salieri's valet called out to announce the arrival of Herr Leopold Mozart and Frau Mozart. Salieri, who also couldn't get the usual satisfaction from hearing Mozart play, felt his chest get tight, but still hurried to the entrance to welcome the guests. While the music became fiercer and more filled with emotions, Salieri still kept his neutral smile.
“Welcome, Herr Mozart. Thank you for taking your time to visit me.”
Leopold Mozart somehow was everything and nothing like Salieri imagined him. He’d always thought that to raise a child like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart his father had to be the most extravagant and exquisite man in Salzburg — which he apparently was not; at the same time, Mozart's musical preciseness hinted at a strict and no nonsense parent — which he very obviously was.
Leopold Mozart didn't answer Salieri’s smile, instead looking him up and down like a naughty student. “Of course, we came. But it would be nice if Wolfgang warned us about the concert beforehand. Does he often forget his own appointments like this?”
Salieri bit his tongue to not reply in a similarly rude manner. “He was probably too excited about your arrival and forgot to mention it. He isn't known for forgetfulness otherwise.”
The old man grumbled something unintelligible, but Salieri was already leading them to the living room. Mozart was still playing with full force, not looking up from the keyboard even for a second. Salieri knew that he didn't need to look at the instrument to play, but he didn't question it. He soon left Leopold and Constanze Mozart behind and moved closer to the instrument, hoping to provide some semblance of comfort. He wasn't sure that Mozart even noticed him, until he finally raised his head and looked at him directly. “Come play with me, maestro. You lead and I will follow you.”
Despite feeling completely inadequate to add anything to Mozart’s talent, Salieri sat down without a word. He was willing to follow any command. (Feeling the warmth of Mozart on his side was just another positive side of the situation.)
Salieri started with a very calm and simple melody, hoping to communicate something comforting to Mozart. For a while it seemed to work, Mozart adding an equally collected accompaniment. But as the music progressed Mozart took more and more control over it, creating a second and a third conflicting melody, disbalancing everything with unease. Reluctantly Salieri gave in and allowed Mozart to take full lead and finish the piece on a strong disharmonious chord. Still on the bench Salieri looked around at the applauding crowd, but no one seemed to understand what they were talking about. He shortly stood up and allowed Mozart to play alone again.
For almost an hour Mozart didn't stop. As soon as one piece ended he would give the people less than a minute to clap and start playing again. Salieri would've thought it was just his love for music that pushed him to continue, but he noticed in every break how Leopold Mozart was moving closer and closer to the front of the room, almost saying something each time. Mozart knew his father's weakness for music and used it all evening. Salieri wondered how long this could go on and wouldn't the old Mozart lose his temper at some point.
Still there was another reason for Salieri’s anxiety that didn't let him enjoy the music as he would any other day: time was creeping closer and closer to the end of the party, and yet there was no sign of Da Ponte. He didn't know what the rest of the plan entailed and wasn't so sure just one successful concert was enough to convince Mozart to stay. So, still close to Mozart, Salieri looked only at the door.
The concert was coming to a close, and some guests had already started leaving, when the door suddenly opened and Da Ponte entered the room with wide steps. “Good evening, Salieri, maestro!” he called from afar and Mozart, as if woken up from a trance, got up and smiled with excitement, his fingers still playing melodies only he heard.
“Da Ponte, you're finally back from Berlin!”
Salieri was aware of Mozart’s father moving closer, but Da Ponte was at the instrument first. “I'm back and with good news too,” he announced for everyone to hear. “I'm just from the emperor and he wants us to write him an opera! I won't write anything unless it's composed by Mozart, that's what I told him, and he agreed. Full creative freedom, how does that sound?”
Mozart's smile turned infinitely soft. “That is great news, but I'll have to decline.” Salieri thought that his attention was solely on Da Ponte, but he gestured at his father, who’d appeared next to them already. “Da Ponte, this is my father. We're leaving Vienna together tomorrow.”
Da Ponte turned to the old man and bowed respectfully. “This is so nice to finally meet you, Herr Mozart. I've heard only good things about you.”
Salieri was jealous of his good manners and how they seemed to affect the elder Mozart. “Good evening, Signore Da Ponte. I'm glad to finally meet you, too. My son has written about you a lot.”
Da Ponte bowed again, satisfied. “But are you sure you absolutely have to leave tomorrow? Creating an opera for the Royal Theater is a great opportunity for your son, and honestly, I will refuse to work with anyone else.”
Before his father could reply, Mozart jumped in. “Don't be like this, my friend. You will find better composers even in this room. Maestro Salieri will make a great companion for you. And it's already decided, I am to get my place in Salzburg next week.”
Salieri felt rage rising in his heart at how easily Mozart seemed to give up despite their collaborative efforts. That is, until he caught the usual playful light in his eyes. Was it possible that Mozart was teasing everyone in the room in order to persuade his father?
Whether that was just an act or not, his father seemed to have faltered. It was the lack of jobs that he seemed to complain about the most, so why wouldn’t he let his son complete one more commission? “How long would it take for you to write the opera, Signore?” he asked Da Ponte specifically.
“Just about six months, considering all the preparations and rehearsals.”
“Well…” The old Mozart looked at his son with something like disdain. “I suppose it’s possible to convince the archbishop to hold the position open for another half a year. You can’t say no to the emperor.”
Mozart didn’t even finish listening to his father before he started jumping around with that silly laughter of his. “Oh papa, thank you so much! I won’t disappoint you! It will be my best opera, I promise! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, papa!”
“It’s just for these six months, then I expect you to go home without trouble,” his father said without a smile. Salieri wondered whether he even wanted his son to have more success in Vienna or he only used it as a pretext to drag him back to Salzburg.
Mozart, however, apparently not tortured by overthinking, went right back to playing for those guests that still remained. For another half an hour he filled the room with much brighter pieces, finally resembling his usual self. Salieri joined the guests on the sofa and at last let his mind wander in the gardens of his favorite music.
When everyone else had left, Salieri approached Mozart again. “Thank you for your performance today. You did really well.” He quickly but decisively pressed a poach of ducats into Mozart's hand and immediately stepped back lest he tried returning it. Mozart almost started fighting him about it, but fortunately his father appeared in his line of sight and he thought better of it. “Thank you, maestro. It's always a pleasure to play with you,” he said politely.
Soon the Mozarts left too and Salieri and Da Ponte ended up on the coach together, each holding a glass of wine. “Thank God that worked,” Da Ponte sighed out. “If he left Vienna tomorrow I would have to die with him.”
Salieri laughed weakly, before he realized he was the only one who found the joke funny. He turned to Da Ponte and frowned at his serious expression. “It's not that serious, is it?”
“Trust me, Salieri, it is as serious as it gets.”
Salieri felt shame behind his ribs. He would prefer to avoid it, but the questions had been eating him alive all day. “How long have you been… you know…”
Da Ponte closed his eyes and thought it over. “Since Marriage of Figaro, I believe. I just saw him back then and knew he had me wrapped around his smart finger. He's irresistible, that man.”
Salieri felt the honey-like sweetness in Da Ponte's voice and it almost made him gag. “Two years…”
“Seems like it. You don't notice time passing with him, you know?”
Salieri looked at his hands as he felt blush on his cheeks. “And you don't mind that we… that he…”
“That you sleep with him? Not at all. I was never delusional about his feelings for you. I think he’s loved you even longer than me. I guess what surprised me is that you reciprocated. But I’m happy for both of you.”
Da Ponte was talking so confidently Salieri started doubting his own feelings and thoughts. “I'm just not sure I understand it. Beyond sodomy…”
“Me neither. He says he’s got a two-people sized heart. But I stopped questioning that. When a man like Mozart says he wants you, you don’t really want to look for drawbacks, do you?”
Salieri stayed silent contemplating it all and Da Ponte didn't interrupt his thoughts. But those thoughts were not happy ones.
Finally Da Ponte spoke again. “You could have all of that, you know? Not just sex. His love is so fierce at times, but also very gentle. Just like his music. It’s so nice to lose yourself in it.”
Salieri still didn't answer. He couldn't figure out how to form words around the big hurt in his heart.
Finally he said quietly, “I'm not sure I could…”
He didn't know whether Da Ponte heard him correctly, but judging by the fallen smile he understood it. “I see. Do you want me to talk to him about it?”
“No,” Salieri said quickly, a bit too loud. “I will talk to him myself.”
That was the end of that conversation. None of them wanted to make the other feel even worse about it, so they settled for safer topics like Da Ponte’s trip and the hopes for future work together. Da Ponte left very late into the night and Salieri was hit with the weight of his own thoughts alone in the silent house.
And the thoughts did not let go of him until morning. Laying in bed, all he could remember was Mozart: his music, his eyes, his hands, his warmth, his smell — all of it was still present in the room. Even when he finally was able to lose himself in sleep, he continued seeing Mozart in his dreams.
Mozart was the first visitor he had in the morning. Before breakfast and before he had time to think of what to say, Mozart stood in his study, his hands anxiously tugging at a button. He was looking unusually shy and quiet. So much so that Salieri wondered whether he was hungover again, even though he didn't look so. But Salieri didn’t have a lot of time to think it over. “I'm sorry, it's very early, but there is a lot I need to tell you,” Mozart started speaking immediately.
Salieri interrupted the unnecessary self-depricating monologue. “Don’t worry, that is alright. Just sit down and let’s talk.”
Mozart nodded quickly but didn’t move from his place. “I have so much to say, I don’t know where to start…”
Salieri stayed silent and waited for him to come to some conclusion himself. After a while, with a high ‘Ah’ Mozart produced a pouch from his pocket and held it out to Salieri in a visibly shaking hand. “Please, take it back.” Salieri didn't move. “Please, Salieri… You've done so much for me yesterday, I simply can't accept the money! Only, I had to take some of it, or else father wouldn't believe me, but I will return everything soon, I promise. Please. Just take this now!”
Salieri stood still. “I want you to keep the money, Mozart. You performed well yesterday. And in the future I want to talk to whoever hires you, if you think that not being paid for a performance is normal.”
Mozart let his hand drop down. “Right. Well…” He sounded upset and it broke Salieri’s heart but he decided to firmly stay in his position. “There’s another thing. I really must say sorry for deceiving you. About Da Ponte I mean. I take it you know already… I was serious about my feelings the whole time and I didn't mean to hurt you, but I should've told you immediately. I know you already hate me but please don't start hating me even more.”
This made Salieri step forward and take one of Mozart’s hands. He wasn’t good at comforting people, but he couldn’t not try with how little and broken down Mozart looked. “I don't hate you. I didn't hate you before and I won't hate you now,” he said as reassuringly as he could. “I wish you'd been honest with me, but… I accept your apology now. And that's the end of it."
Mozart blinked away the tears. “Thank you. That's the last thing I wanted to say. Thank you for everything, for your help yesterday. And for not hating me.”
“Of course. I hope you can trust me to help you again if you need it.”
Mozart smiled brightly, but his eyes were still filled with tears. “I love you,” he said suddenly, seemingly against his will, but didn't take it back. “I really do. I love you. Thank you for everything.”
Salieri hesitated. He didn’t want to give him any false hope, but lying was also an undesirable option. “I care for you a lot, Mozart. More than I could’ve imagined myself before.” Mozart's eyes opened wide, almost excited, but Salieri quickly followed, “But it won't work for us. I don't… understand you. The whole ‘two-people sized heart’... I'm afraid it's not for me.”
Mozart visibly fought to say something, but every word got stuck in his throat. Tears started freely rolling down his cheeks and he continuously blinked them away. Salieri wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but he restrained himself. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly.
“No, it's me… I'm really sorry. That's not your fault!”
Mozart stepped back and turned away from him to wipe away the tears. Salieri wondered in the moment how different everything would be if he made his move before Da Ponte two years ago. Would Mozart still want both of them or would he be satisfied with only Salieri?
When Mozart calmed down he turned back to Salieri. “Good day to you, then. I will see you later.”
Salieri stopped him. “We could still be friends, right?”
Mozart smiled widely at that, even though his eyes still contained a lot of pain he was trying to hide. “Of course. I would love that.”
Salieri firmly decided to be satisfied with that resolution, even though the force of his own love made his heart hurt more and more by the minute. He would become a good friend to Wolfgang Mozart and forget everything they’d shared before as an elaborate sinful dream. And he would be happy for that.