Work Text:
*The ink is still wet, but the blood in my veins is wetter.* Joseph scribbles this private thought into the margin of his ledger, a secret thrill humming in his gut.
He doesn't look up as the room swirls around him—the scent of beeswax candles, expensive snuff, and the oppressive velvet of the Camesina House. He is fifty-two, a man of measured habits, yet his chest feels tight, his skin humming with a sudden, electric heat that has nothing to do with the hearth fire. Across the room, Wolfgang is a whirlwind of gold lace and manic energy. The twenty-eight-year-old is mid-performance, his bow blurring across the strings of a newly composed quartet. The music is a revelation; it's a conversation between four voices that feels like a confession, a daring piece of architecture dedicated to Joseph himself.
Joseph watches the way Wolfgang’s wrist snaps, the way the music bends and breaks, and he feels a surge of visceral pride that makes his throat tighten. He leans toward Leopold, whose presence is a grounding weight beside him.
“Before God, and as an honest man,” Joseph says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates in his own chest, “I tell you that your son is the greatest composer known to me either in person or by name.”
The impact is physical. Leopold, sixty-five and weathered by a lifetime of discipline and travel, flushes a deep, sudden crimson. The blush creeps from his collar up to his cheekbones, a raw expression of paternal pride that leaves him momentarily breathless. For a second, their eyes lock—a shared, shimmering moment of recognition. Leopold’s gaze is heavy, searching, and Joseph feels a sharp, pulsing heat settle in his lower belly.
Leopold offers a small, shaking nod and turns back toward his son to offer a word of guidance, leaving Joseph alone with his thoughts. Joseph turns to his writing desk, pulling out a sheet of parchment to draft a letter to his brother, Michael. He writes of the music, the brilliance of the evening, and the prestige of the house.
But as he reaches the end, his hand pauses. The air in the room feels thick, charged with the scent of old wood and the musk of men in close quarters. He glances at Leopold, who is now laughing softly with a guest, the light catching the silver in his hair. Joseph’s pulse quickens. He flips the page and, in a hurried, frantic scrawl, drafts a small, flirtatious ditty—a piece of musical shorthand that suggests a very different kind of harmony. It is a dirty little joke of a melody, a rhythmic suggestion of skin on skin, a plea for a private encounter that involves less clothing and more friction.
He doesn’t fold it. Instead, he leaves the parchment resting face-up on the mahogany side table, tucked subtly beneath a silver platter of dates and almonds. It is hidden in plain sight, a lure set for a specific predator. As Wolfgang takes center stage once more, the room falling into a hushed, expectant silence, Joseph shifts his weight. He watches through hooded lids as Leopold reaches for a date. Leopold’s fingers brush the edge of the paper. He glances down.
Joseph sees the exact moment the realization hits. Leopold freezes, his eyes scanning the scandalous notes, his chest heaving once, sharply. The older man doesn't look away from the paper; instead, his gaze snaps up to meet Joseph’s. The look is searing, hungry, and utterly devoid of paternal modesty. The music swells, but the only sound Joseph hears is the heavy, synchronous thud of two hearts beating in the sudden, suffocating heat of the room.