Chapter One

It was probably around midnight when a raven-haired man, clad from head to toe in black, formal attire, exited a rather extravagant house in the centre of Vienna. The first flakes of white snow were beginning to fall, and the man turned up to collar of his coat to protect himself from the cutting north winds that threatened to freeze him to the bone.

It took him quite a while to reach his final destination - fifteen minutes and a good deal of grief after almost slipping over on a particularly icy part of the cobbled lane that he had followed. He did, however, reach the hall eventually, and was rather surprised. Was this really where the esteemed Mozart was working on the Emperor's commissioned opera?

Contrary to his expectations, it was rather small and average; not at all the grand and majestic hall that he had envisioned. He was about to turn around and head back to his own home when he noticed a light on in the hall - who on earth could be working at this hour? That would be lunacy, so perhaps someone had simply forgotten to turn off the lights.

He pushed the oak wood door, surprised and horrified to find it open, something that he would never have expected. Personally, he couldn't imagine doing such a thing himself. Leaving a door open would annoy and aggravate him to no end, and he would almost constantly be worrying about someone sneaking in. Either Mozart was incredibly naïve or incredibly forgetful, and neither trait placed him in the man's good books.

It didn't take him long to find the room where the light was still on - he was blessed with a good memory, and the layout of the building ensured that it wasn't particularly taxing to navigate. He knocked on the door to the room but received no answer, prompting him to enter and ensure that whoever was in there was alright.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, esteemed and praised composer, one of the most widely revered musician in Vienna, was asleep at his desk, cheek pressed onto his unfinished composition and his fine embroidered coat tossed aside on top of the grand piano in the left corner of the room, by the window. He was clearly exhausted, leading the other man to draw the conclusion that he probably wouldn't care if one were to, say, chance a hasty look at some of his music.

Swiftly and quietly, he slid a sheet from out of Mozart's hand and checked it over; as expected, the music was brilliant. Though it pained the other composer to admit it, Mozart was the best choice for this, or any, opera. His music stirred emotions and ideas that wouldn't ordinarily be brought on by music. Listening to his compositions, in the mind of the dark-haired man, was not so much to do with hearing the notes as it was to do with feeling them. The swell of the music, the emotions poured into it, the story it told. Mozart, the puppeteer, the composer, almost oblivious to the heightened emotions that his music forced others to feel, yet so aware of every note, every dynamic, every key change and every differentiation in time signature.

He placed the sheet that he had borrowed onto the table, ordering some of the other pages in an attempt to tidy up the desk somewhat. He paused before heading out of the door, pondering whether he should do anything else before turning off the light and leaving. Eventually deciding that, on this cold winter's night, it was incredibly likely that Mozart would wake up freezing unless covered with something, he picked up the other composer's coat and placed it over him, disappointed at how flimsy it was - more for style than for actually keeping a person warm, it was very much a summer coat. With a despairing sigh, he reluctantly took off his own coat and placed it over the sleeping Mozart before scribbling out a note on a scrappy piece of paper:

"Mozart,

This is not a gift. I expect the coat back.

Sincerely,

A. Salieri."

He turned abruptly to leave the room, just beginning to close the creaky door behind him when he heard someone murmur his name.

"Salieri…"

Looking back over his shoulder, he quickly realised that Mozart, who he had presumed to be deeply asleep, was very much awake and holding the note that Salieri had written in his left hand. Salieri gave a quick prayer that Mozart hadn't caught him snooping around the room and checking over his music; Heaven alone knew how he would live that one down.

"A touching gesture, Maestro, but I was perfectly fine," Mozart's confident voice interrupted his thoughts. As per usual, a cock-sure smirk was fixed on the composer's face as he offered the thick black coat back. It took Salieri a great deal of willpower not to either walk out of the door or snatch the coat out of Mozart's outstretched hand. "What were you doing here anyway? I must say, I wasn't expecting to see you until the morning. Did you find that your life was simply unbearable when away from me?"

Salieri bit back a stinging retort, knowing full well that he was only so irritable because he desperately needed some sleep, and that anything rude that he said to disrupt his cool façade would not serve him well in the long run.

"I simply arrived to check what progress you might be making on your compositions," he replied coldly, narrowing his eyes. It was a half-truth, at least; he had originally arrived at the hall to ensure that no one was in there, thus allowing him to carry out a plan for sabotage – orchestrated by that damned fool, Rosenberg, of course – but his intentions had changed when he had realised that Mozart was still in there.

"You were worried about me? About my music?" Mozart laughed; almost fittingly, his laugh was melodious and lilting. It made Salieri incredibly frustrated. How on earth could someone be so well liked? So good at music? So attractive? It simply wasn't fair. Nature – and life – was cruel, he supposed.

"I was acting under the instructions and supervisions of Rosenberg and the Emperor, your employer," Salieri all but snapped in retort. For some reason – whether it was from lack of sleep or from his stressful day – Mozart was particularly annoying him at that moment in time. "You would do well to remember that you are far from a free man, no matter what you say. You still rely on the opinions of people, and they can change easily."

"Was that a threat?" Mozart questioned, his tone rather dangerous and far from his usual, cheerful, self-assured demeanour. One might almost believe that the musician was unnerved, though he rarely let anything, or anybody shake his confidence in any way. He received no answer, however, as Salieri had exited the building, leaving the door open to let the cold air in; whether this was deliberate was debateable.

It was at that moment that Mozart realised he was still holding Salieri's coat.

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A/N: Sorry if this is a sub-par and short chapter, I wrote it in a German lesson because I was bored. There's going to be more of the actual ship (and Constance, because I absolutely adore her) in the next chapter, I promise! Please remember to leave a review telling me what I can improve and what you liked, as it is greatly appreciated.