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The first time it happens, Frederic tells himself it’s nothing more than an extravagant gesture. A flamboyant demonstration of generosity, perhaps, the kind of thing that defines Franz Liszt almost as much as his music does. Though he’s only been in Paris several weeks, Frederic has already seen more than enough of the virtuoso’s passing whims to know that nothing good ever comes out of them.
But a passing whim does not quite explain the giddiness in Franz Liszt’s eyes as he blocks Frederic’s way in the street (and right when he’d thought of the perfect cadence too).
Frederic resists the urge to melt into the pavement. “Monsieur Liszt.”
“Monsieur Chopin!” The Hungarian grins at the address, utterly remorseless. “I was hoping I might find you. It has been quite a while since I have had the honor of hearing you play, no? Ah, but I did not stop you to discuss music. Here!”
Luckily, Frederic manages to catch the objects tossed at him before they can be trampled into the soaked Parisian streets.
Gloves. He stares dumbly at them, then at Liszt, then back again.
“I- what is it for?”
“They reminded me of you,” Liszt responds, as though the statement cleared anything up at all. “So, naturally, I bought them.”
“You bought them because they reminded you of me,” Frederic deadpans back. “Monsieur Liszt is too generous.”
“They are a gift,” Liszt insists. “A token of my friendship, if you will. You will need them if you plan to perform more often in Paris. My God. I’ve had five pairs torn from my hands already, Monsieur Chopin, five! In the past fortnight!”
Then, after another pause: “Bah, just try them! The finest French silk, I assure you. Nothing but the best for you.”
And Frederic raises an eyebrow at that, but he’d truly be impolite if he rejected the man’s gift any longer.
The gloves are… nice. They’re the perfect size, and the cool silk slides smoothly over his skin. Intricate lace flowers run down each side, small pops of lavender and periwinkle over the expanse of cream fabric. They’re far more eye-catching than anything Frederic would have chosen for himself, and likely thrice as expensive.
Frederic clears his throat. “... Thank you, Franz.”
“Of course, my dear Monsieur Chopin!” Liszt laughs, tossing his mop of blonde hair as he finally retreats out of Frederic’s personal space. “Anything for a good friend.”
And Frederic is sorely tempted to ask when that happened, but of course Liszt would assume they were friends already.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Frederic doesn’t forget the incident with the gloves, but he does his absolute best to ignore it. Well, as much as he can possibly ignore it. It’s not his fault, really! Not with the way Liszt grins deviously, impertinently at him every time he wears the gift in public.
Since then, they’ve met several times in salons and even duetted twice in Lady Franziska’s parlor room. Liszt is somehow even flashier on the piano than he is off of it. Excessive, Frederic had quipped after the Hungarian derailed a perfectly good melody with a two-minute run of octaves and arpeggios. It needed excitement, my dear Monsieur Chopin! Liszt had cried out in response, not the least bit phased by being criticized before an audience. In fact, he had welcomed it most wholeheartedly, never once seeming to take offense as Frederic tore into his musicality over and over again.
Yes, Frederic supposes the man has his merits. He is… surprisingly kind to his students, especially the unfortunate. Secretly, he admits that Liszt is far more gracious and tolerant of their struggles than he is himself. Even his music has its moments–
“A parcel for you, Monsieur Chopin.” A voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Bring it in, Alera.”
Well, it isn’t completely unheard of for Frederic to receive gifts from admirers, but he hasn’t given any concerts lately or met with anyone of importance. Has he ordered anything for himself? Not that he can recall. Perhaps a gift from a friend? No, George left for an event weeks ago, and who else would…
There’s a sound of muffled breath and another maid cries out: “careful, Alera, you’ll crush them!”
Now just what could possibly warrant–
A pile of colors invades his field of view. It’s the largest bouquet Frederic has seen in his life, and he can not help but think that his admirer must have been hard pressed to find a florist in all of Paris willing to make it for under 40 francs. Even the wrapping-paper is switched out for fine lace and silk ribbons. Not to mention the flowers themselves!
Oh, the person must know him quite well, because they’re all Frederic’s favorites: sweet violets curling around fresh roses, dewdrops still clinging to them, interspersed throughout with blooming camellias. Reluctant as he is to admit it, the bouquet is a welcome point of light in the dullness of his room. And the scent is so heavenly that he actually stumbles towards the arrangement. Careful not to crush a single petal, he lifts the flowers to place them beside his piano.
If anyone had been around, Frederic would be ashamed of how quickly he dives for the card that falls from the bouquet.
It’s small, plain, and utterly in contrast to the fairytale bunch of flowers. Inside bears only a short inscription in a flourishing hand:
“For your beautiful arts. Sincerely, F.L.”
Frederic Chopin thinks he might faint.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This was getting frankly ridiculous. Gloves, flowers, and now the man himself?
… It bothers him ever so slightly that he recognizes Franz’s humming even before the shop door swings open.
“Frederic! What a pleasant surprise. I am delighted to find you here.”
And the rest of the store is evidently delighted to find you here, Frederic thinks wryly as several seamstresses gasp theatrically and the tailor nearly drops his measuring tape from around Frederic’s waist with a babbled “Monsieur Liszt! H-how may we– I mean–”
Franz snatches away the gray fabric before that can be dropped too.
“Aish, gray? Have you no sense of beauty?” The virtuoso barrels on, fully ignoring the poor tailor’s mental breakdown. “He is an artist, not a clerk! Come, there are some wonderful colors here that could bring out those angelic features.”
“Franz,” Frederic chastises.
“Frederic,” Franz mimics, ripping through the cramped space like a human hurricane. “Only have a look at the possibilities. As your dear friend, I can not possibly allow you to be swayed by such a dull color as gray when this exists.”
The Hungarian pulls out a truly ghastly green velvet, and Frederic nearly chokes at its absurdity and shakes his head. His corpse would return to life if they buried him in that color. Franz merely shrugs and flits into the next aisle, removing a roll of glittering violet silk. Frederic raises an unimpressed eyebrow. White cotton rolled out with a flourish is met with a judgemental silence. Crimsons, oranges, sunflower yellows– the man practically bestows the whole rainbow upon him in a flurry of movement.
“Oh please, I’m sure the dark blue would look wonderful on you!” Franz cries when Frederic bats away his latest selection with an undignified laugh. “Look, look.”
Before Frederic can open his mouth to protest, a lithe hand is dragging him before a mirror and pressing the midnight blue satin to his chest.
Against the paleness of Frederic’s complexion, the satin seems even darker and more dazzling than it was on the shelf. But, against his expectations, the contrast does not exaggerate the sickliness that Frederic despises to see in his face each morning. Instead, there is an almost luminous quality to his skin, as though lit by a thousand stars. And in this light, his awestruck hazel eyes are almost tinted a vivid blue. Frederic starts to ask Franz how he knew–
There’s a tapping on the glass.
Frederic turns around to spy not one, not two, but no less than a dozen girls pressed against the window. The one who tapped shrieks delightedly at having garnered his attention and points at Liszt. Frederic sighs and pries away the satin and Franz’s hand.
Well, a reprieve at last, he thinks. A small, utterly unreasonable part of him sours at the thought. He shall go preen to his fans like the vain peacock he is, and they are enamored by it. Not by his talent, his compositions, his compassion, but for that foolish smile– yet another overdone performance. What do they know of Franz Liszt? Why does he go to them, smile at them–
But Franz does not look back at all.
“We shall need a waistcoat to go with it, of course,” He murmurs. Those ocean blue eyes remain fixed upon Frederic in a way he has only ever seen them look at an instrument, and he feels the heat rushing to his cheeks. “Blue suits you, Frederic.”
Those last words are so soft as to barely be heard as Franz glides off to speak with the tailor.
It’s not until the man is once again a safe three meters away that Frederic realizes he’s been holding his breath. He sighs. What has gotten into him? More importantly, what has gotten into Franz? Ignoring devoted fans to buy him gloves, coats, waistcoats… was Frederic’s normal dress truly so offensive to the man?
But the blue did suit him.
“Then it is done!” Franz grins, shaking Frederic out of his crisis as the tailor hurries off with the piles of fabric. “You shall soon be the most dazzling man in all of Paris. Well, barring me, naturally.”
“Do appearances really mean so much to you?”
For a moment Liszt pauses, expression uncharacteristically thoughtful. Finally, he lifts his eyes to see the crowd gathering outside the window. Still, he does not wave or smile or charm. Only looks, in a way Frederic can not quite read.
“When performing? Absolutely. Otherwise? Truly, Frederic, there are many things that matter more to me. Perhaps you have simply yet to discover them.”
Franz sweeps out of the shop as airily as he entered it, and Frederic tells himself he will not be thinking about their conversation all week.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pretending Franz Liszt isn’t consuming his mind is an easy task for one reason only. For the seventh day now, the morning announces its presence with bile in his throat and the feeling of several hammers splitting his head. It’s simultaneously too bright and too dark outside, the wind blowing through the window too cold, the room itself too hot.
In short, Frederic wakes up feeling as though all twelve transcendental etudes have hit him at once.
“FRYCEK!!”
… perhaps they’re about to.
Through the cracked door, Frederic can hear the gentle murmuring of his long suffering maid, broken up by dramatic cries of “No, no! I must see him!”
The door of his room bursts open, and the first thing that hits Frederic is that Franz looks awful. Well, awful would be an overstatement. He still cuts a striking figure, all defined lines and blue eyes and foppish charm.
Yet something is unmistakably wrong.
There is no pomp, no flamboyance in Franz’s simple black coat and cravat. And despite his energetic protests downstairs, his ocean eyes seem almost dull as he approaches Frederic’s side, lit only by a thinly veiled concern. For God’s sake, his hair is barely combed– Frederic has never known the Hungarian to leave the house with anything less than a pound of macassar oil keeping his lion’s mane in check.
“You look almost as unwell as myself,” Frederic comments lightly. “I hope your schedule has not been too hard on you.”
“No, no. Of course not. It is nothing.”
A pause.
“It seems that even tethered to this bed I can not escape stories of your grandeur and charm onstage,” Frederic offers when it is clear that Franz will not break the silence.
The Hungarian flinches. “It is nothing,” he repeats. “I am sorry I have not come to visit you earlier.”
“It was not meant as an insult, Franz. I am glad one of us, at least, can continue to bring music to the world.”
“Soon it will be both of us again.”
Frederic almost wishes Franz would return to his loud, virtuosic self again. The awkward quiet hanging over the room stifles him more than his sickness. “George told me you played my polonaise in your concert last weekend.”
That cracks a small smile. “Incorrectly, I’m sure. Though the audience adored it.”
“Hm. Perhaps I may be the judge of that.”
He’s not sure if his weak gesture is even in the direction of the piano, but Franz’s eyes light up immediately in understanding.
Up close, it is easy to see how Franz is a different person on the piano. Long, elegant fingers fly over the keys as though possessed, and his blue eyes flash with emotions so far from his practiced charm. Every note, every line is a torrent from the depths of his soul. The sound fills each corner of the room, and it isn’t until now that Frederic realizes how much he’s missed hearing someone play over the last week.
Missed hearing Franz play.
Naturally, it is still a little faster, a little brighter than Frederic would have played it himself. The Hungarian somehow manages to add arpeggios everywhere– though admittedly with far more restraint than usual. But God, if it isn’t divine nonetheless.
“As virtuosic as ever,” Frederic murmurs when the last note has finished ringing. “Emotional, as written. I confess I am still dissatisfied–”
“– ah, I knew the great composer would find fault in it somehow–”
“– with the piece, I meant,” he finishes cheekily. “Too brash, completely lacking refinement. Something for playing alone, not for an audience. But you played it well– unrefined emotion suits you, in a way.”
Perhaps two months ago, the virtuoso would have appeared insulted. But now he simply grins and says “Music from the heart always suits me– especially if it is more… private.”
“You are a fiend, Franz Liszt!” Frederic retorts with a gasp.
“Mm, I prefer charming.”
“Charming anything in a skirt, you mean.” They both laugh, and a sharp spike of pain shoots through Frederic’s skull.
He groans. Then, barely a whisper: “Another piece?”
And so Franz plays.
He plays until the last streaks of afternoon light have faded and a candle must be brought in to read any more sheet music. Plays until there is hardly a rest between where one etude ends and another begins, then a mazurka, a waltz, a polonaise, perhaps two. Plays until Frederic can hardly remember the pain wracking his body, because all he can feel right now is music and Franz, Franz, Franz.
And then, as softly as it begins, it is over.
“You ought to go now,” Frederic forces himself to say when the silence has stretched on for longer than is socially acceptable. “I have kept you too long, and no doubt you have many things to attend to. Or simply to rest, if you ever do rest. Go carefully– the road is not dry, and I would hate to be listed as the great Franz Liszt’s cause of death.”
Franz grips his hand tightly as he rises. “You must take care of yourself, Frycek. I hope to find you in better health next time”
“You will be visiting again, then?”
“Of course I will!”
Painless for the first time in a week, Frederic does not mind the thought as much as he should.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He tells himself he’s here to get the truth out of Franz, once and for all.
Surely, there’s no other explanation for why Frederic finds himself at Liszt’s doorstep, catching the man downing a glass of Szekzárd wine at eight in the morning as the entrance is flung open.
Of all the stupid ideas you’ve had in your life, Frederic, this surely takes the crown.
The Hungarian freezes almost comically at the sight of him. “Frycek!” He smiles broadly, every ounce of energy reminding Frederic of why he’d stalled this visit to begin with. And yet there’s a hint of unease in those blue eyes.
“Franz.” Frederic nods. “May I come in?”
“Of course, of course.” A staccato laugh, a frenzied wave. “Please, follow me.”
Franz remains oddly quiet as Frederic follows him up the narrow stairway and winding corridor until they reach another plain wooden door. “After you.”
The door opens.
He’s honestly not sure what he was expecting, but this is far from it. The room is… small, a little dim, and unmistakably old despite the modern furniture. Frederic’s eyes dart to the mismatched teacups and half-burnt candles laying haphazardly around the room. Stacks of books and sheets are strewn over tables and chairs as well, and he can’t help but notice the faint scent of sherry and perfume lingering in the air.
The grand piano in the center of the room looks rather out of place, all things considered.
“The charms of a Bohemian life.” Franz gestures far too grandly at his surroundings. “I must apologize, my dear Monsieur Chopin. I’m here so little, the place really is unfit for receiving guests, and my mother insists on doing without a maid. No, no, allow me.” He nearly trips in his hurry to usher Frederic away from the messy work table and towards the sofa. “Sherry? Tea?”
And there is something so strange about seeing Franz like this, stumbling around his own room, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.
“– Tea, tea… A cigarette? No, of course not, how foolish of me. I must have Adelaide purchase new teacups–”
But then again, is it truly so surprising? Charming, beautiful, talented Franz Liszt– if anyone was to be born in gold and luxury, it would have been him. Yet to be placed in a low birth, to feel the sharp eyes of the aristocracy of Paris following him, to feel the unfair judgement of composers who had only ever known refinement and riches… how these things must have stung at the heart that Frederic now saw before him.
“–Would you like to go out, perhaps, Frycek? I know a lovely coffee shop. Quaint little thing of course, but quite a bit better than this, at least–”
The gloves, the flowers, the velvet coat. Frederic jolts a little as he recalls the eagerness with which Franz had thrown these items at him. Extravagance, he had thought then. Now, he saw the gifts for what they were: desperation for his approval, his friendship, perhaps even his affection. Franz had admired him, and knowing his aristocratic background, had truly thought…
His criticism of the Hungarian’s compositions must have cut far deeper than intended.
“– Are you quite alright? Perhaps I ought to open a window– terrible air in these old buildings. Oh, how thoughtless of me, especially given your condition, oh God, I’ve killed the greatest composer since Beethoven–”
Perhaps Franz, too, clung to his music like the air he needed to breathe.
Perhaps Frederic had been wrong.
There is one sheet that stands out on the bench in front of him, simply titled Un Sospiro– half finished, written in a distinctive violet ink. Frederic picks it up. “A new etude?”
Finally, Franz pauses in his tirade. “Ah, not entirely. That is an… unrefined piece, as you would call it. Just a little thing.”
“All the better.” Frederic smiles softly, placing the sheet on the piano. “Will you play it for me?”
Tentatively, Franz makes his way to the piano. He takes a deep breath, placing his fingers over the keys. Then, suddenly, his shoulders drop and he whips around to look up with bright, pleading eyes. “Frederic, I–”
“It is alright,” Frederic soothes. He moves a book to sit beside his friend on the bench. “Play for me, Franz.”
As always, Franz does.
All of his signatures are there: the cascading arpeggios, the octaves, the long runs. But here, from the corner of the cramped apartment, they sound different. Softer, perhaps. Franz does not fling his hair about, does not look at all possessed as he plays this time. Instead, a sweet, earthy timbre resonates from the instrument as Franz touches it lovingly, the melody engulfing them both as Frederic feels himself rising far from the dusty room and into heaven itself. And for a moment he believes that beside him must be an angel instead of a man.
“It is… beautiful. Paris will be shocked when you publish it.”
“I do not intend to,” Franz responds quickly. “It is not for the public.”
Frederic raises an eyebrow. “A mistress?”
“No!” Franz’s cheeks color uncharacteristically. “Far more than that, I assure you. Alas, this person, I can not have.”
A strange feeling twists in his chest. “All of Paris knows Franz Liszt can have anyone he so desires.”
“Not him.” Franz shakes his head emphatically. His voice is reverent, dreamlike. “He is… the most perfect man I have ever known.”
“Has the sun risen from the West? Do I hear Franz Liszt actually falling in love?” Frederic teases, pushing down the sudden pain in his chest. “I must be allowed to speak at the wedding, if I do not die before then.”
“Do not say that!”
“It is a perfectly valid concern!”
Franz seems unreasonably agitated, and Frederic almost tells him not to be so morose over what neither of them can prevent. But then:
“I will write you a biography when you are dead. The greatest, I promise you!”
There’s a silence. Then Frederic bursts into laughter.
“I tell you that I may be dying, and you respond by flaunting your writing skills!” There’s mirth in his eyes now. “Forget what I said about love. You are as heartless as they say.”
“I am entirely in earnest!" Franz protests, clutching his chest in mock offense. “It shall be so evocative that the streets will be filled with the sounds of your fans wailing and your critics repenting–”
“Then I shall endeavor to live a little longer, if only to spare the world such prose.” Frederic rises, bowing slightly. “I regret that I have another appointment which must cut this visit short.”
He turns at the door, eyes glittering. “But I must thank you for the lovely playing, my friend. And for the tea I never received.”
The door shuts on the sound of Franz’s indignant spluttering, and that alone is enough to have Frederic smiling like a fool as he walks back into the street.
… It’s not until he’s two blocks from his own apartment that Frederic realizes he is utterly, absolutely screwed.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They are both busy enough that Frederic does not see him again until Lady Franziska’s next ball. Even then, Franz is surrounded by a throng of admirers, and Frederic is on the opposite end of the room, sipping a glass of champagne, blending into the wallpaper, and stealing the occasional glance at his more popular friend. Perhaps he has had a little too much to drink already, for three times he thinks he has caught Franz staring back at him.
Even amongst the hall full of whirling waltzers, each a bright star of Paris, the virtuoso somehow manages to stand out. The opulence of the golden leaves and marble floors seem to accentuate Franz’s godly beauty: the sharpness of his features, the curve of his lips, the light in his eyes. But above that, he possesses an air of quiet confidence as he greets the greatest names of their time, kissing each hand and graciously weaving through dance after dance, song after song.
Yet, for all his polished elegance, Franz is remarkably sloppy at hiding his distraction.
More than once, the flamboyant dancer skips a beat of the waltz, eyes widening in confusion as his partner pulls him back to his senses. Frederic actually watches him trip over a girl in a bubbly pink dress, fumbling to catch himself with an apology too flustered to be considered charming. He can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it, smiling sheepishly when Franz sends him a flushed pout from across the floor.
“You seem truly intent on torturing the man,” A voice comments, and Frederic turns to find none other than George Sand, smirking at him, plopping down on the sofa with a drink in each hand. “I’m glad of it. He doesn’t have to work often enough, you know. But by God, Frederic! I didn’t know you had it in you to be so heartless.”
Frederic frowns. “I have no idea what you mean, George.”
“I mean Franz, of course!” She elbows him in the ribs, hard. “Just look at him! I’ve never seen him so hung up on a beau, not even when he was chasing Marie.”
The familiar tightness in his chest returns. “Ah. So the rumors that Franz has found a new lover are true, then?”
George whips around to glare at him, wine nearly flying out of her hand “Frederic. Frederic, no. Even you can not possibly be this clueless.” Her eyes meet his. “You can.”
“George, please.” Frederic takes one of her precariously balanced glasses and places it back on the table. “Has he not?”
“Oh, Frederic. When was the last time you saw Franz with a woman? Or a man, for that matter?”
“Since… October, perhaps? Around when he first started behaving strangely. As a matter of fact, I intended to ask you about it. He gifted me this pair of gloves in October, and since then there has been no end–”
“So Franz stops having lovers around the time he starts giving you gifts.” George stares pointedly at him. “Franz Liszt. For over three months.”
Gloves in October. Flowers in November. The coat in December.
And oh.
Oh.
“I– really– it doesn’t– oh God–”
George pats him pityingly on the shoulder and waltzes off in search of crumpets.
Frederic sits there dumbly for a moment. It simply could not be. All reason stands against the conclusion that George had just put into his head. Franz, the epitome of inconstancy, brushing off countless beautiful men and women to– dare he even think it?– woo the one person who had criticized him since the beginning? The idea is almost laughable.
And yet, and yet, and yet.
There were the gifts, of course: the gloves, the flowers, the coat. Excessive, at first, but surprisingly thoughtful nonetheless for someone who had rarely seemed to descend from his world of fantasies. Then the gift of his time– which, Frederic admits, is far more precious than his wealth. And then, beyond that. There was the way Franz had looked at him with genuine awe when he first began wearing the silk gloves, then the coat. The way Franz had looked at him with such tender concern at his sickness. The way Franz had looked at him with a certain desperation and pure affection in the privacy of his small apartment, and again tonight. Even the best of performers could not have feigned those.
And, a traitorous part of his mind whispers, Do you not secretly wish for it? How long has it been since you have spoken contemptuously of him, and truly meant it? How long since you have started to welcome his company, and how long since you began to hear his music in your head?
And what music it is! Music that Frederic never wants to end.
He needs air. Shakily, Frederic rushes up the stairs and all but throws himself onto the balcony. From here, the brilliant waltz below is almost muted, and the images of swirling dancers grows fainter in his mind. He pulls the blue satin coat tighter around his body. The winter wind stings bitterly, but for once the Pole wonders if the cold is truly the source of the sudden constriction in his chest.
A soft click sounds behind him.
“Frycek.”
“Franz.”
There’s the sound of footsteps approaching before Franz leans over the railing beside him, blonde hair billowing with each gust of wind. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“Are they worth so little?” The attempt at humor sounds weak, even to his own ears.
“Frederic.” A gentle hand upon his shoulder, softer than the fading notes of the waltz. “What bothers you?”
Briefly, Frederic wonders if he is ready to admit the truth to himself, let alone Franz, and is surprised by how quickly the conclusion comes.
“You…” Frederic begins slowly. “You have given me many gifts since we met.”
“Yes. Did you not like them?”
Lovely, Frederic. Now he must think you an ungrateful brat, on top of a fool. He takes a deep breath and turns to face the man. “I wished to thank you. I am only confused as to how I have merited such attentions.”
Franz looks away in thought, letting only the sound of violins linger in the night air. Yet when he begins to speak, it is not to answer Frederic’s question. “You lost your best gloves on September twenty-second as you hurried away from our first meeting due to your cough. You give camellias as a token of your affection, but only because violets are not plentiful this season. You don’t ask anyone to visit because you hate loud crowds, but you can’t stand the silence when you’re too weak to compose. Your stomach hurts when you are anxious, but a few chords will calm you-“
“Enough!” Frederic cries. “Why do you say this, Franz? Why do you know this?”
“Because these things are important to you. And you, dear Frycek, are important to me.”
“As a fellow musician, perhaps. But that hardly justifies such behavior, even for you. Do you remember such things of all composers?”
“No. But then,” Franz smiles, “You are not like other composers, are you?”
“Weaker, perhaps.”
“No– stronger.”
“Melancholy.”
“No– thoughtful.”
“Lonely.”
“No–“ Barely a breath separates them now. “Beloved.”
The dance ends, and they fit together like a prelude and a fugue.
So this is music of the heart, Frederic thinks. Kissing Franz is like meeting him for the first time, fireworks and colors exploding and crescendoing to no end. Kissing Franz is like hearing that secret piece in a small apartment weeks ago– for me, he realizes belatedly– soft and sacred in their corner of heaven. Kissing Franz is like writing the coda of his favorite ballade– elation, bliss, pure joy. And Frederic can hardly breathe, yet the weight in his chest has never been lighter than it is now, pressed against Franz’s beating heart.
He expects the man to be fast and harsh as he always is on the piano. Expects to be taken, perhaps, the way Franz takes his Parisian girls, ruined by a devilish smirk and wandering hands. Part of him shivers in the anticipation of it. Perhaps he would not stop Franz from tearing him apart, piece by piece–
Yet it seems Franz is truly the master of surprise. The bitterness Frederic waits for– has always been waiting for– does not arrive. Instead, one hand cups Frederic’s cheek gently, almost reverently, as Franz’s lips coax his apart. Kindness. The taste is sweet, like fresh violets in summer, and Frederic is addicted.
Experimentally, Frederic nips at Franz’s lower lip and is fascinated by the desperate whimper he gets in response. An unfamiliar feeling curls within him. More. He wants more.
“My God, Frycek–” The blonde whines as Frederic’s hands and lips wander to his neck, his shoulders. “I have never– ah– I have never wanted someone like I want you.”
He wonders if Franz has ever said those words before, but then the blonde pulls him back into another kiss and somehow he is sure that the man has never held someone else with such gentleness, such affection.
The night air sends chills down Frederic’s spine, but Franz’s body is a burning warmth that he never wants to leave.
Regrettably, air is a necessity, and Frederic breaks off with a breathless gasp. And perhaps it’s not so bad, for now he is granted the sight of Franz with flushed cheeks and mussed hair, ocean eyes wide with a blue that could encompass Frederic’s whole world.
“Why do you stare at me like that?”
“You’re beautiful.” And he sounds so starry-eyed that Frederic finds himself blushing violently for the second time this night.
“Stop it. I’m not the one who has Paris swooning at his feet.” Frederic gestures helplessly. “I am simply… as I am.”
“And I love you for it.” Franz says it as simply as breathing, and perhaps it is. Then, the antecedent: “Do you love me?”
Antecedent, consequent. Half cadence, full cadence. Franz, Frederic.
Frederic smiles– truly smiles– at his rival, his friend, his love. Below them, the orchestra swells again.
“God help me, I do.”
Fin.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Which poor florist made that ghastly bouquet you gave me? I’d like another one.”
“There was no florist, pillangóm. I spent five hours on that.”
“In the middle of a tour? You did not!”
“Mm. Worth it.”