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As always, the Christmas season comes with harsh weather, though the snow is admittedly pretty to look at, commissions and performances, both of the secular and the sacred kind, and many social events to attend. What is also becoming a constant, to Salieri's mutual irritation and glee, though he would never confess to the latter, is the presence of one young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It is not the true first Christmas he spends in Vienna, but it might as well be, as last year he was seen more as a sensation than a person. And what a person he has been turning out to be…
However, Mozart is in the spotlight this year as well; him and this rather… unusual 'tradition' that he's trying to introduce at court.
It's a thing some people in England do now, or so I've heard. Don't you find it amusing, Maestro? he answered, a few days ago, when Antonio asked him why he was kissing the backs of his older students' hands when they'd enter and leave the class.
No. Salieri did not find it amusing at all.
Hanging mistletoe onto doorframes, with the expectation of a kiss whenever two people would meet under it… It is indecent, entirely improper for anyone of a high standing, let alone someone working at the imperial court. He told him as much, and did he not think what could happen if–… but Mozart paid him no mind, and his little escapade continues.
"Madame Cavalieri, either my eyes deceive me, or you grow more and more stunning each day."
"Maestro Salieri," she greets with a perfectly practised smile, "you flatter me too much." She blinks, her eyelashes fluttering, in an effort to appear bashful.
Salieri knows this game well.
"Oh, but it isn't flattery, merely the truth, I assure you…"
She purses her lips, basking in the compliment, but before she can answer, he continues.
"Perdonami, now that I've run into you – would you be able to attend, say, a special rehearsal, now? I had an idea for an aria for you. And I have just received some chocolates–"
"I apologise, Maestro, but I have a prior commitment with Herr Mozart for this time, in fact I was just on my way. And promises must be kept, I'm sure you understand," she says, and Antonio feels a twinge of jealousy stir up. Still, proper as ever, he nods, hurriedly offering to at least escort her there.
"Madame Cavalieri, I was awaiting you!" Mozart welcomes brightly, and as his eyes shift towards Salieri, he only smiles wider, "And Maestro Salieri, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I was simply seeing off our dear Madame, Mozart," he says, bowing his head a little.
"Ah, of course… Well, in that case, I shall see you around." There's a tint to his voice that Salieri notices but doesn't comprehend the meaning of. "And you, Madame, come in, come in!"
Just as she crosses the threshold into the music room, she is stopped by Mozart's hand to her shoulder, and then he leans in to kiss her, just quickly, right at the corner of her lips.
Salieri averts his eyes, and at hearing her gasp of feigned offence, and Mozart's responding laughter, he walks away, a quick pace down the corridor.
He tries not to imagine himself in Mozart's place.
Or hers.
"Wolfieeee, stop it!"
"No!"
"You- you're a fiend!"
"That I am!"
The conversation, consisting more of squealing and giggling and other… sounds… than words, reaches Salieri's ears by mistake. He only wanted to talk with Mozart, about the performance that is to happen in mere days, and accidentally he stumbled into this.
He swallows dry, his saliva tasting of shame, as he doesn't turn around, and instead passes round the corner, closing in on the couple.
Young Mrs. Mozart is held in the tight embrace of her husband, clearly only pretending to try and get away, as he attacks her with his lips to hers, to her neck, to her cheeks.
"Why are you like this?" she yelps in the middle of another fit of giggles, nipping at Mozart's lips in return.
"Why am I like what?" Mozart asks, barely masking his grin. "We met underneath the mistletoe, I need to kiss you! That's the rule, Stanzi-Manzi!" He pecks the tip of her nose, which is almost adorable, or it would be, if he didn't immediately dive to her cleavage to mouth at her breasts.
Shameless.
"Wolfie! Someone will see!" she argues, but doesn't attempt to push him away.
Salieri considers leaving again, but both the instinct to run and the thoughts he doesn't like to think about fall short to the fact that he simply has to speak to Mozart. He clears his throat and takes a few deliberately loud steps.
The couple breaks apart.
Mrs. Mozart has the decency to blush and adjust her clothing, peering at Salieri through her lashes, greeting him in a quiet voice.
But Mozart… Mozart smiles innocently at him, as if nothing has happened, and if that weren't enough, he bites his reddened bottom lip, too, his eyes glinting.
Entirely and utterly shameless.
Salieri doesn't comment on it. If there is blood rising to his cheeks, he ascribes it to catching them in such a position, and nothing more.
"Herr Mozart! I didn't mean to disturb you, however, there is a matter at hand that I thought ought to be discussed…"
They don't meet at social events outside of the official court business often, Salieri and Mozart, but tonight they do. It isn't that strange, Mozart attends many balls and parties, and drinks and gambles regularly, and Salieri… Salieri decides, occasionally, to mingle. The fact, that he made the decision only after learning that Mozart would, for sure, be here as well, is a pure coincidence, of course.
What he didn't know, however, is that Mozart would bring this again.
Antonio is used to seeing the young genius command attention on both the emotional and the physical level, with the latter staying majorly in the foreground tonight; at the lapel of his jacket he has clipped a little twig of mistletoe, unclipping it and holding it above girls that look at him wide eyed, justifying his demands for attention, giving out kisses; seemingly sweet and warm, and the objects of his affection always melt into his embrace…
It is a grim sight to Salieri, for reasons he doesn't understand.
Perhaps he's hoped to speak with him tonight, while Mozart hasn't so much as noticed him yet.
No matter.
"Salieri, I didn't expect to meet you here," says a voice to his right, distracting him from his thought..
He turns and is pleased to meet the eyes of Da Ponte. He smiles, with honest mirth for a change.
"Do you see me as so boring as to not enjoy myself every so often?"
"Is that what you're doing? Enjoying yourself?" Da Ponte questions, "Because from where I'm standing you seem to be just as stuck in your head as usual. Don't take offence, please, my friend, merely an observation."
Salieri blinks and exhales slowly.
How did it happen that his librettist acts as though he can read his mind?
"I was… expecting to enjoy myself more, I will admit," he responds. Inadvertently, his gaze shifts to try and seek Mozart in the crowd.
Only when Da Ponte turns a bit, probably trying to find what he's looking for, does Salieri realise, snapping his eyes back to look at him.
"Did you expect to talk with him, perhaps?"
"I didn't attend a party to talk to Mozart, I can speak to him whenever I–"
Oh.
Salieri stops, biting down at the inside of his cheek to prevent his reckless mouth from saying words without his mind's consent.
A smirk spreads on Da Ponte's lips, not mocking, maybe just a bit teasing, in a way that Antonio has come to expect from him sometimes.
"I didn't specify his name, dear Salieri. Come now, I'm sure he would be more than happy to see you. We can go to him together if you wish?"
And Salieri does wish.
Even the fact that he doesn't promptly refuse feels like an admission of that little something that closes his throat a bit anytime Mozart looks at him with a smile, but a moment later he also nods his confirmation.
Salieri watches as Mozart pretty much dips Da Ponte and places a big, wet, almost violent kiss right on his lips.
This reality that Antonio is actually living right now feels like his own fault.
They went to converse with Mozart, finding him in a more secluded space and interrupting his flirtations with some lady, because he wanted to, after all, and then Da Ponte found himself right under Mozart's little thing of mistletoe which the young man held in his hand, no doubt prepared for precisely that lady, because he bumped into him.
All it took then was a theatrical pretence of shock followed by a wicked grin from Mozart, and a captivated nod from Da Ponte, and–
They stumble next to him, Da Ponte nearly landing on the ground; their shared laughter as their lips disconnect reminds Salieri of a much younger bunch, barely adults searching for conventional boundaries, amused about breaking them, going beyond them, convinced that in their little rebellion they'll find true happiness.
Mozart catches his breath, his giggling dying down as he , almost sheepishly, looks to Salieri.
"Sorry, Maestro," he says, though it's clear from his voice that it's not exactly a heartfelt apology and more a thing he thinks he is supposed to say.
Da Ponte echoes him, but Antonio simply raises his hand in a quick gesture to stop them, shaking his head a bit, 'No, this is perfectly fine, no need to apologise' sort of thing.
It is, in fact, not perfectly fine, for a myriad of reasons he – or a priest or a judge or anyone properly educated and devout to God – could name, but the most crucial one this very moment is the fact, that not only is Mozart willing to kiss men, but seemingly enjoys it, too, flashing in Salieri's mind repeatedly, illuminating the thoughts he's tried to cover up, threatening to flush his cheeks or steal his breath. Or worse, threatening to spill past his lips in an unadvised confession.
Luckily, Mozart speaks first, and then Da Ponte, and Salieri breathes in slowly, and joins the conversation, simple and polite, sure, but nonetheless it feels… nice.
"Your performance this past Wednesday, Mozart, was… magical," he praises, unable to stop himself from revealing at least this, if not the fact that he couldn't stop his eyes from following the movements of Mozart's hands as he conducted, no matter how hard he tried, nor the deep ache he felt at realising he would never outperform him, would never even come close to being his equal, quickly replaced with bitter envy.
The joyful smile Mozart gives him in return doesn't erase this loathing, but it does silence it, for now.
"I am glad to hear you liked it, Maestro. And just know my excitement for your concert in January is as taut as a violin string," he says, "But you know I am always expectant of your works, of course."
"Of course," Salieri repeats, not quite believing that the words are sincere – but Mozart isn't one to lie.
Inside his chest a strange warmth spreads, that overrides any lingering hesitation, and he finds himself easily relaxing into further conversation. Even when Da Ponte leaves them alone.
Though, there comes a time when Salieri, too, has to excuse himself.
"Good to talk to you, Herr Mozart, but I better get going now–"
"Leaving me so soon?"
"–if I wish to get home before sunrise."
"Ah." Mozart says, and apparently that's all he has to say, and then a giggle escapes him. He catches Antonio's eyes in a lock, soft yet analytical, and then he grabs the hand that Salieri reached out for a goodbye, and pulls him closer.
The gleam in his eyes turns a bit mischievous and he darts them upwards to where his other hand–
"Mozart–" falls from Salieri's lips unconsciously. A warning, a plea, a prayer, he doesn't know.
But the younger composer just giggles again, a bright ringing sound.
"Don't be scared" he whispers and quickly moves to peck Antonio on the cheek, sweet and chaste, merely a friendly goodbye.
Salieri still stammers a bit when he tries to talk. "I– You– I wasn't scared– "
His heartbeat did speed up greatly, but not from fear, no.
In fact, a part of him wonders why his and Da Ponte's treatments differed so much…
The hand which held him is gone now, and there is only memory of its touch in his own, just as there is only a memory of a kiss on his cheek. The warmth surrounding his heart has doubled, he notes.
A moment passes, then two, and neither moves and neither speaks.
"Maestro, are you alright? Have I offended you?"
"Yes… that is no… that is–"
It is difficult to speak when, once again, Salieri's mind is unwilling to hide those thoughts, those desires, and when it shows him image after image of– of something he shouldn't want.
Mozart stares at him silently and Antonio, coward that he is, that he knows himself to be, chooses to flee.
"It's alright, Mozart. Goodbye."
"Oh– Goodbye!"
Salieri knocks on the door of the music room where Mozart provides lessons at court. He knows that his last student has left, he's met her some moments prior in the corridor. He would know even if he hadn't, with Mozart's typical schedule having somehow found permanent residence in his memory right next to his own.
A brief silence has him worried that Mozart has left too, that he's missed him, but then a little 'Come in!' sounds and Salieri smiles without meaning to.
He enters, closing the door behind himself.
"Mozart…" he greets and waits for the younger composer to face him, folding his arms at his chest.
"Ah, dear Salieri," Mozart says, hurriedly putting away the notations into his bag.
"I was just getting ready to leave here, but I am by no means inconvenienced by your presence, in fact I am quite happy to," he stops and quickly jumps to sit at the table, now turning towards Salieri, "see you."
His eyes seem to sparkle, but maybe that's just the way the rays of light from the falling sun hit them through the window panes.
Once again, a brief uninvited smile makes its way onto Antonio's lips.
"Uhm, yes, yes of course. Good to see you too… though, in fairness, we meet almost daily as of late."
Mozart giggles, kicking his feet in the air, as always unable to stay still.
"And so far I am yet to grow bored of your face or your voice, isn't that wonderful?"
Said face feels a bit warm and said voice gets stuck in Salieri's throat, quite suddenly, and so he only nods.
"What was it that you wished to speak with me about?"
"Sorry?"
"Or do you expect me to believe you simply happened to be passing by and decided to pay your dear friend a visit?"
Mozart's tone is tinged with playfulness, emphasizing the words which Salieri used for him a few nights ago, influenced by the heavy spirits. He hasn't stopped taunting him with them since.
Dear friend.
Dear Mozart.
Dear…
Salieri blinks once, then twice, and then reason returns to him.
"Bene. I just thought to ask you about my concert tonight.I wanted to know if, by any chance at all, you–"
"If I've forgot about it, Maestro? Well, I do tend to lose sight of things, you know my mind… but I would never forget about you," Mozart interrupts and somehow manages to surprise Salieri twice.
He would never…?
And why would he assume that Salieri doesn't trust him to remember?
"No, no, you misunderstand," he quickly explains, "I wanted to ask if you would, perhaps, like to come with me to the opera house now, before the performance starts, to… Well, just, if you'd like to."
Mozart all but beams, jumping off the table, and, ironically, nearly forgetting his bag behind.
"Yes! I would very much like to! Oh, and I've been dying to know about the pieces you hid from me, so if I could look at the notations along the way–" he stops with a chuckle when Salieri raises a brow at him.
"Only with your permission, of course… it's not as if I won't hear them before the day ends anyways," he finishes, now standing just next to him.
Antonio shakes his head a bit. He has been sharing most of his work with Mozart, lately, a small part of him wishing to 'best' him, but the majority hoping for recognition and approval. Yet he hasn't shown him all that he will conduct tonight, no, with the intention of surprising him, for a turn; like, for example, with variations on one of his pieces.
"I am glad," he says and places a hand onto Mozart's shoulder, beckoning him towards the exit, "And, in that case, we ought to go now. I have a carriage expecting me."
As they step through the doorway, Antonio, foolishly, glances upwards to where he is met with… nothing, besides the doorframe.
Mozart clears his throat and Salieri quickly looks back only to find that Mozart is looking at him, eyes questioningly searching his face.
"Just… the mistletoe is gone now," Salieri says, stupidly stating the obvious.
"Oh, yes, I decided to take it down."
"Ah," Salieri responds, eloquent as ever.
Mozart tilts his head a little, not commenting, just gazing at Salieri, and suddenly it feels as though his face is way too close to Antonio's own, which heats up at the memory of the gentle touch of his lips–
"Your carriage is waiting for us, Maestro."
Getting Mozart to come to his home isn't difficult at all.
In fact, the man seems to be outright thrilled by the invitation, and seeing him flutter around in excitement somehow causes Salieri's heart to act much the same.
Acquiring mistletoe isn't a problem either; though Salieri doesn't frequent the apothecary, he knows he can buy the plant there. And setting it up is just a matter of being careful and stepping on a chair and washing his hands thoroughly afterwards.
So, really, the only issue with his plan is its existence to begin with.
Salieri paces the room, unable to find a more productive way to pass time, unable to stop as the hands of the clock inevitably move to the agreed-upon time. His mind is raving – like it has a million times before, though, notably, rarely ever enough to stop him from whatever it was he decided to do – filled with excitement and doubts, anticipation and fear alike.
It isn't right. It simply isn't.
Because Mozart is a man, a married one at that, even if he doesn't act like it, and because Mozart is, well,… Mozart.
Salieri could accept falling back into sodomy, but that his heart would fall for his rival– no, that's wrong. His friend, by now perhaps the closest one. But still, that he would desire him is… if he is completely honest with himself, not surprising at all.
He has always had a soft spot for big kind eyes. And pretty smiles. And open hearts. And those with talent. And–
And he really, really should have seen this one coming.
With a few quick exhales, he steadies himself, shoving his thoughts down enough to at least appear somewhat collected for company that could show up any minute – he's come to know Mozart enough to know that he would either arrive too early or late, and he won't take any chances with the former.
And indeed, after about a minute or two, the sound of knocking alerts him, to which he swiftly comes to open the door.
"Maestro!" Mozart greets him with that wide grin of his.
"Mozart, welcome!" he says, not even trying to fight the force that curls his lips upwards when he notices the snowflakes caught in his hair, "Oh, I am glad to see you could make it. Come in, come in."
He moves to help take off his coat, in a manner he hopes seems automatic and casual.
"Don't you have domestics for this?" Mozart asks as Salieri puts his coat away.
"Oh, I've dismissed them all and decided to quit composing in order to fulfil my one true dream of becoming a porter. That's what I invited you to discuss, actually," Salieri answers.
He keeps his tone and expression as serious as he can manage, but then Mozart stares at him in great confusion, and the sight is simply too amusing to keep his chuckle in.
"I'm jesting, Mozart."
Even as he joins in with the laughter, his eyes narrow. He smacks Salieri's shoulder a bit, in reprimand.
"Don't scare me like that. You can't leave the court. I'd miss you greatly. And who else, besides myself of course, would understand my music as much as you do?"
The words strike Antonio breathless for a moment, but he doesn't let it show; he has a plan, for heavens' sake, and he would rather follow it than open his heart when Mozart has barely entered his home.
"I think you meant, who else would lecture you about tardiness and being improper, non?" he instead jokes in response, turning around and beckoning Mozart to follow him further into the house.
"Ah yes, that of course too," Mozart agrees with a giggle. "So, your domestics have just been given leave for today, then?"
"Mhm."
"And you're still going to compose?"
"Naturally. You won't get rid off me that easily."
"Good." A moment of silence, then Mozart's investigation continues. "And what was it you actually invited me here for?"
Of course. What was the clever reason he came up with again? Something about a concerto or was it a librettist he wanted to recommend or that Italian wine he received a package of or–
"Maestro?"
"Oh, you know…" he just says, waving his hand in a 'It's unimportant' sort of gesture.
His heartbeat and breathing quickens and his footsteps slow down, just as unintentionally, before he comes to a halt… right in the doorway leading to his sitting room.
Behind him, Mozart stumbles at the sudden stop and makes a little confused sound.
Salieri considers his options, and with a breath he lets out the remains of his plan as well, and turns around to face him. He's meant to wait with this, he really has, to when Mozart would be leaving his house instead, hoping they would both be more relaxed by then but–
But this is as good a time as any.
And with those eyes on him, Salieri would likely just be distracted the whole time anyway, thoughts diverting to how pretty they must look when…
Oh, heavens.
"Are you sure this is the proper place for a conversation?" Mozart asks in a light tone, "Surely sitting down would be more comfortable than just… standing in a–"
Antonio bites down at the inside of his cheek as he watches the younger man's eyes turn upwards, to where the centrepiece of his whole plan hangs.
"–doorway."
Mozart darts his gaze between Salieri and the mistletoe a few times, the imaginary wheels turning inside his mind, and Salieri would almost laugh at his apparent bewilderment, if only he could make any sound at all.
A few too many silent seconds pass, during which Antonio curses himself for the impatience.
"Maestro… I was under the impression that you found this little pastime improper and indecent."
The instinct to bite back appears and vanishes in an instant, and so Salieri just glares at him wordlessly, as much as he can manage with the heat rising to his cheeks.
Maledetto lui, of course he would make even this difficult.
"But it seems that I was mistaken… or that you rather had qualms about such things being done in public," Mozart continues in that damned teasing tone of his, shifting a tad closer.
Salieri tries, and fails miserably, to push away the urge to squirm.
"Or, perhaps, this is fine with you as long as it happens… well, with you?"
There is a sort of genuine curiosity in his voice, that has Antonio worrying his lower lip between his teeth, so as not to verbalize his desire or his jealousy.
"I must say I am beyond flattered that you would set this up for me, but… It's well past Christmas now. The 'magic' of the mistletoe doesn't work anymore, you see?"
Antonio's heart sinks. He knew a rejection could come, he isn't stupid, but it doesn't hurt any less–
"I–," he chokes out, before he clears his throat and continues, "Mozart, I am sorry, this was stupid of me. If you wish to leave–"
"Hang on, who said anything about wanting to leave? You don't have to apologize for wanting to play a little, it's… fine."
He blinks a few times, the playful sparkles in his eyes fading away in favour of something… gentler, perhaps.
"This isn't just a dumb game, or you trying test me, is it?"
There are words bubbling up Salieri's chest, ones of confusion, accusations, apologies, but they lodge in his throat and all he can do is shake his head, providing at least that bit of honesty.
'No use in hiding, is there?' he thinks to himself, even as his gaze falls down, unable to withstand the intensity of Mozart's eyes.
Not even a second later he is startled by the man's hand, grabbing his chin and tilting his face up to meet his eyes again. His breathing halts, but he doesn't try to move away, not when Mozart looks at him with an expression of what can only he described as elation.
"Antonio," he says, tone a bit lower now, steadier, and the name in his voice sounds rather as a term of endearment – Antonio finds, in the few silent seconds after, that he wants to hear him say it like that again, filled with affection, and that he wouldn't be above asking for it.
"Do you feel like waiting almost a year for a proper kiss?"
The question sends Salieri's mind into a whirlpool of emotion and some blood rises into his cheeks, for good measure.
"Wha– I– I mean–," he stammers, before he reins himself in enough to mumble the single word of truth. "No."
Wolfgang's smile grows even wider.
"Good," he says, leaning in closer, "Because I will kiss you now."
And then he does.
Despite the announcement, and despite the fact that this has been the desired outcome of his plan, Antonio is utterly and completely stunned.
Wolfgang's lips are impossibly soft. And he is kissing him. On the lips.
Antonio closes his eyes, and he tries to slow down his thoughts, tries to make sure this would stay printed into his memory in perfect detail; but this moment is like one of Mozart's improvisations, loud and beautiful but unable to be replicated, unmatched.
It takes him a while to recollect himself, for his body to move as he commands, and when he finally does, Wolfgang has already started pulling away and that simply cannot be. Salieri cups his face in his hands and keeps him close, the both of them letting out a little breathless noise against each other's mouths before deepening the kiss.
When they do break the contact, Antonio takes a deep breath and wills his eyes open again. He is met with Wolfgang's gaze and it seems almost adoring, big eyes and parted lips and just the slightest tinge of pink rising to his cheeks.
"I've wanted to do this for such a long time, Antonio," he admits.
"Why didn't you do it sooner then?" Salieri asks, speaking before thinking, for once.
Wolfgang doesn't take offence, he just throws his arms around Antonio's neck, his serious tone betrayed by the smile in his eyes. "Why didn't you if you wanted me?" he answers with a question of his own.
Antonio simply has to kiss him for that, if only to erase the impish smirk that spreads on his lips.
Mozart pulls away.
"I wasn't sure you'd want me in return," he begins, voice solemn but soft, "and the thought that I would lose you as a friend if you didn't– And even if you did, I needed you to know it wasn't for a game or dare or anything. I wanted to kiss you, yes, but I also want you. Because you are, well… you."
"Wolfgang," Antonio breathes, thumbs caressing his cheeks, almost automatically, "I have wanted you for–"
He stops, searching for words, and Wolfgang waits patiently for him to find them.
"I don't even know. I merely recall that one fateful day you smiled at me and… and since then I couldn't stand the idea of not being near you. It's selfish of me, I know, and you're married–"
"Oh, that's not– My heart is open, Antonio, I have never denied that. I mean we should discuss this of course, but believe me, Stanzi wouldn't mind… But if that were a problem for you, I could–"
Antonio kisses him again.
He doesn't know why he does it, besides the fact that he really, really wants to, but perhaps in an attempt to calm them both.
"I… I can't say if it would become an issue, but now, in this moment, I don't care. I want you, all of you."
In the following silence, Salieri hears the beating of his own heart.
Wolfgang simply stares at him, quietly, reverent and with a smile in his eyes.
It is a beautiful sight, but also a deeply emotional one, so, trying to bring some levity to the heavy conversation, Salieri uncovers another hidden truth.
"I think I've wanted to kiss you even before we were friends… Seemed like the right way to prevent that insolent mouth from talking."
Wolfgang blinks, the flush in his cheeks darkening just a bit, and then he bursts out laughing.
"Next time you want something from me, Antonio," he says, leaning so close his lips brush against Antonio's, "you tell me."
"Kiss me," Antonio says right then, without hesitation.
Wolfgang obliges, pulling him in for a sweet long kiss, the likes of which Antonio had only dreamed about.
The mistletoe hangs forgotten above their heads.