As the insufferable heat of the summer finally began to melt into gilded autumn, the emperor sent a group of his favorite composers to Innsbruck. They were meant to be representing the court at the opening of a new theater; Da Ponte chose to see it as a holiday.
The inn in which they were staying was rustic at least. Its portly proprietor eyed the lot of them with mistrust as they trooped in on the first day; the tranquil premises were suddenly awash with the conversation and laughter of writers and composers who were happy to be anywhere outside of their carriages. The grim old woman heaved a cooking pot onto the fire with apparent reluctance while the men dragged their own trunks upstairs. There was a lot of good-natured ribbing when it was discovered that they were one room short; Da Ponte was greeted with cheers and appreciative claps on the back when he offered to share the largest room with his colleague Salieri. It was hard to bite back a smirk as he hung his traveling cloak in the wardrobe.
Salieri was contained as ever, giving away nothing as he dropped his trunk at the foot of the bed. He perched cautiously at the edge of the mattress and began removing his shoes.
"What are you doing?"
Salieri fixed him with his cool stare. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you want to go from sitting cooped up in a carriage all day to sitting cooped up in this inn all night."
"I take it you have another suggestion?" Salieri crossed his arms, but Da Ponte knew him well enough to recognize the glint of a smile in his expression.
"Let's stretch our legs. We can explore Innsbruck. The festivities don't begin until tomorrow, and we'll be too busy once they start."
"Surely you could go stretch your legs without me, Lorenzo. I would have thought you'd have had enough of me after two days in my carriage."
Da Ponte seized him by his wrists and pulled him to his feet, bringing him a little closer than necessary. "I can never get enough of you," he murmured.
"Lorenzo," Salieri warned, shooting a pointed look at the open door and breaking his grip. At least that familiar flush had begun to spread over his cheeks. There was something particularly satisfying about being able to fluster Antonio Salieri.
Da Ponte took a step back, holding both hands up in a gesture of defeat. "Alright, stay here while I go out if that's what you want to do. I suppose I'm just surprised you can sit at all after all that riding you've been doing."
"For heaven's sake, Lorenzo," protested Salieri, snatching up one of his shoes. "I don't know why I tolerate you."
Da Ponte just grinned and tossed Salieri his hat.
At the suggestion of the irritable proprietor, Da Ponte and Salieri strolled down the dirt road that led to the inn, crossing a footbridge over a little brook and following a well-worn path into a section of the forest that she had referred to as a park. Da Ponte was a little disappointed to be off the main street: he quite liked the figure the two of them cut when they walked side-by-side. Lorenzo Da Ponte and Antonio Salieri, the court composer and court librettist, a pair of tall, long-legged, dark-haired Italians in a country peopled by jolly little Austrians. He also relished any opportunity to mutter inappropriate suggestions into Salieri's ear in their native language, smirking when Salieri stumbled and cast a frantic look at any bystanders to be sure they had not somehow understood. Of all the lovers he had had back home in Italy, none of them had ever been as entertainingly uptight as Salieri.
The afternoon sun filtered through the trees to cast dappled shadows over the path ahead of them, fallen leaves and pine needles rustling underfoot as they walked. After a few minutes of amiable silence, just gentle birdsong and the breeze whispering through the trees overhead, Da Ponte changed his mind about his preference for crowded streets. In public, the two of them were a performance, enjoyment coming from toying with Salieri and the way the locals would watch them pass. Out here, they were insulated from the rest of the world. Da Ponte was free to watch Salieri as he turned his head to gaze appreciatively at each tree whose leaves had begun to turn, as his honey-brown eyes followed the path of a squirrel through the branches ahead of them.
"Are you actually going to pay attention to this lousy excuse for a park, or are you just going to keep staring at me?" Salieri finally asked.
Instead of answering, Da Ponte caught Salieri's hand in his, threading their fingers together. Salieri hesitated and started to pull away until Da Ponte said, "Antonio, we're the only ones out here. And even if someone saw us, they wouldn't know who we are. This isn't Vienna."
"So I've been told," said Salieri levelly. His gaze flicked up toward the sky again. "The sun will set before too long. We should probably turn around."
Da Ponte tugged him toward him and kissed his cheek, grinning when Salieri blushed again. Their joined hands swung peacefully between them as they headed back. The pressure of Salieri's palm against his buzzed around Da Ponte's thoughts as though he were intoxicated. To walk hand-in-hand in public! Of course, a winding path in the woods behind an old inn hardly qualified as public. Da Ponte thought again of the lovers he had had at home in Italy, of sauntering through a well-kept park in the center of town with a woman's plump arm laced through his, or with his hand at the small of her back. Passersby hadn't so much as given them a second glance unless the front of his companion's dress was cut a little too low. But with men, with Salieri, it was always this: burning looks, clumsy kisses, endearments whispered in a foreign tongue lest they be overheard. Why did it have to be so much harder? Why did spending time with Salieri, the touch of him, the warmth of him, even the smell of the pomade he used to slick back his hair-why should he have to fight for it? To hide it?
When Salieri squeezed his hand and murmured, "What is it, Lorenzo?" he felt the prick of tears building up behind his eyes. Were his thoughts that obvious, or did Salieri know him too well? He shook his head, blinking away his frustration. There was no need to overthink this moment. He should count himself as lucky that the two of them were favorites of the emperor himself, and were unlikely to receive a worse punishment than exile if they were ever caught.
The woods ended abruptly where the path met the main road. Da Ponte cast an apprehensive glance at the inn, half-wishing they could just turn back again. What would the emperor do if the two of them went missing on this trip to Innsbruck? He couldn't imagine the loss would be felt too keenly: there were plenty of candidates ready to take their positions at the court, and despite his favoritism of Salieri the emperor certainly didn't count either of them as personal friends. There were a few salons and taverns that might notice Da Ponte's absence, and a few musicians that might miss Salieri. But Da Ponte had only been in Vienna for a few years, and Salieri largely kept to himself. Perhaps they could get away with it. He tried to imagine a cabin in the woods cut off from society, the two of them alone with no one to judge them, free to go about each day however they pleased... but the idea of Salieri living off the land was so incongruous he couldn't even begin to picture it. No, they were both of them creatures of the city, doomed to be surrounded by curious stares and prying whispers for life. Any happiness that they found in each other would have to remain hidden away behind closed doors. He stole a glance at Salieri again, at his smooth skin and his neat beard, at his carefully-pressed clothes and flashy cravat, and he found himself grinning fondly. At least he was worth it.
They were not yet within sight of the inn when two alarming things happened at once, breaking through the illusion of safety: a voice called their names from only a few paces away, and Salieri snatched his hand out of Da Ponte's as though he had been burned.
Wolfgang Mozart was standing in the middle of the dirt road, his brow beaded with sweat and a chipped, dusty trunk resting at his feet. He had been beaming at them, his natural expression of greeting, but by the time Da Ponte had noticed him the smile was slipping off his boyish face and a strange look had come into his eyes. He was staring at the empty space between them where their joined hands had been only a moment ago. Da Ponte glanced at Salieri, whose face had gone ashen. His hands were clasped behind his back, his gaze roaming frantically along the treeline as though he was seeking a distraction. It wasn't until Mozart cleared his throat and fixed them with a sheepish grin, asking, "Is the inn nearby? I had to take a coach," that the muscles in Salieri's jaw relaxed.
No one would have described Mozart as subtle; it was clear that he had seen them holding hands, but he had quickly moved on. Would he be shocked? Offended? Did he understand? Even after everything they had been through in the past year, it was hard to know what to expect from him. Da Ponte grabbed the other handle of Mozart's trunk, pursing his lips at the feel of the cheap, splintery wood and then again at the weight of it as they set off toward the inn. He felt Salieri walking along behind them like an anchor. The urge to turn around and check on him with every step was almost irresistible. Da Ponte was used to being accused of impropriety, but it was new for Salieri. All of this was. Even if it was unlikely to cost them their freedom or their lives if Mozart were to say anything, it still might cost them their reputation. Salieri could lose everything he had worked for.
Da Ponte wasn't able to catch Salieri's eye again until they reached the inn and he held open the door for the two of them and Mozart's trunk: to his surprise, his inquiring stare was met with a smirk. To his further surprise, he felt his cheeks grow warm at the sight of it. In a way, receiving that look on the threshold of a crowded room was more intimate than holding hands alone in the forest.
They were greeted by a few enthusiastic cries from the others who were gathered around the main floor of the inn, and by a few dark looks at Mozart's disheveled traveling clothes. No one else had needed to take a coach, and Mozart's friends among the other composers were few. It wasn't until someone pointed out that all the rooms were already full that Da Ponte suddenly realized what had been going through Salieri's mind when he had smirked at him in the doorway: he had been thinking ahead, plotting his revenge for all the times Da Ponte had made him blush.
"Signor Da Ponte and I are sharing a much larger room than any of you have," Salieri pointed out in front of everyone. His voice was low and calculated, insufferably smug. "Tell me, Da Ponte, do you think we have room for Maestro Mozart too?"
Da Ponte just stared at him for a moment, resisting the urge to let his jaw drop. They had had a private room, a little retreat just for the two of them, and three whole nights to spend together! It had been perfect! And Salieri was ready to throw all that away just to make Da Ponte uncomfortable? Just to get him back for a comment he had made months ago? What an utter bastard!
He was spared having to think of a response when Mozart threw his arms around him in a messy embrace. "Thank you, Da Ponte!" he cried, before spinning around and dropping into a low bow before Salieri. "It's very kind of you! Thank you!" and he snatched up the handle of his trunk and launched himself toward the staircase so abruptly that Da Ponte, who was still holding the other side, was nearly tugged onto the floor. Da Ponte caught Salieri's eye as he was being dragged away; if they hadn't been surrounded by composers who wrote Italian opera, he would have given him an earful. As it was, he managed to hiss "Bastardo!" at him before he was out of sight, earning a stifled giggle from some dimwit poet seated at nearby.
After a dinner of soggy lentils (throughout which Salieri refused to make eye contact with Da Ponte) the others decided to go out and find a decent tavern. Salieri had excused himself from the table and gone upstairs before the meal was finished, which made it easy for Da Ponte to decline the invitation to go out drinking without looking suspicious. That is, there would have been nothing suspicious about his decision had Mozart not grabbed him by the arm and pointedly assured him that he would be staying out very, very late and would be sure to knock before he came back into the room.
Salieri was already in bed when Da Ponte came upstairs, reading glasses perched on his nose, hair loose around his shoulders, and a book open across his knees. He barely looked up when Da Ponte entered the room, but the tiniest smile began to twitch at the corners of his mouth.
"You're a terrible, terrible bastard," Da Ponte said as soon as the door was closed.
"Am I? I thought you'd be pleased. After all, aren't you the one who said that Mozart was... what was it? Charming and- how did you put it, exactly?"
"You asked for an honest answer! I didn't expect to be punished for it for the rest of my life!"
"'Charming, grave, and wild,' was that it? Was there something else?"
Da Ponte threw his wig into the wardrobe and kicked off his shoes. "I should have gone out with the others," he grumbled.
"Something about his breeches?"
"You're the one who asked me to work with him! I wanted to write the Goldoni piece with you, but you insisted I introduce myself to Mozart! You said, 'know your enemy, Lorenzo!' For God's sake, it's been a year!"
"'Charming, grave, and wild... with breeches that seem to be containing as much talent as his mind'."
"Antonio!"
"Well, perhaps tonight you'll find out," Salieri said, turning a page in his book. "You should be thanking me."
Da Ponte planted his fists on his hips and scowled at him. Salieri continued to stare at the book, turning another page far too soon to have finished reading its contents. Anyone else would have seen an unaffected man, but when he tucked his hair behind one ear Da Ponte noticed that the tip of it was turning pink. "You are, without question, the most infuriating person I've ever had the misfortune of loving," he heard himself grumble.
Salieri looked up at once, his eyes wide, that sarcastic grin wiped away. "What did you say?"
"I don't know. I called you infuriating." Da Ponte turned his back on the bed and got to work shucking off his hose, shoving his jacket and waistcoat haphazardly into the wardrobe. Love! What had he been thinking? The man had just worked up the courage to hold his hand when they were outdoors this afternoon, and Da Ponte was going to stand here and declare that he loved him?
He didn't hear the whisper of straw or the creak of footsteps, but Salieri was at his side when he turned around again. For once, his expression was hard to read: there was a crease between his brows and something in his eyes Da Ponte couldn't name. "Lorenzo?"
God, it was true, wasn't it? Even if he hadn't said it before. He loved him, he loved his warm eyes and his warped sense of humor and the taste of his mouth. He loved his low, silky voice and his soft hair. The sound of his deep breathing at night, the way his cheeks flushed whenever Da Ponte whispered in his ear. Da Ponte tossed his cravat at the wardrobe and caught Salieri's face in his hands, bringing him into a crushing kiss. Then Salieri grabbed his waist and ground his hips against him, and there was no more room for doubt.
Keeping their voices down and the sheets clean required that they be gentle and deliberate. That suited Da Ponte's mood just fine, as he wanted nothing more than to breathe in every inch of Salieri through the filter of this new word, this new freedom to admit that he loved him. Their bodies curled together, the smell of oil mingled with sweat, Salieri's obscene little gasps, the taste of his skin-his shoulder, his neck, his lips... Da Ponte remembered the first time he had thought about kissing Salieri: they had been preparing to see the emperor himself, where Salieri would introduce him as an old friend though they had only known each other for a week. Just before they were announced, Salieri had touched his arm and murmured, "None of that nonsense that got you exiled from Venice. After today, my reputation will be yours." The turn of phrase had been so charming, so like a wedding vow, that Da Ponte had placed a hand over Salieri's and squeezed it. Before pulling away, Salieri's gaze had flicked down to his mouth and the color had risen in his cheeks. Even now Da Ponte could recall every detail of the look on Salieri's face, the way he had cleared his throat and tugged self-consciously at his waistcoat, but he couldn't remember a word the emperor had spoken.
Salieri had tried to keep his distance as the heat between them mounted, but it was no use: each enjoyed the other's company too much. It had always been destined to end up here. Innocent touches had lingered, had turned warm, had become caresses. They had been working on an original opera, their chairs drawn close enough together that their knees were brushing under the desk, when Da Ponte had suggested the Italian title Così fan tutte, "it's what all women do", and Salieri had furrowed his brow and asked, "Is it?"
Da Ponte had lain down his quill and Salieri had gone on: "I suppose I haven't known that many women. Have- have you?"
"Yes," Da Ponte had answered frankly, and when Salieri had dropped his gaze he had added, "Men, too."
Salieri's eyes had widened at that; he had swallowed hard and sneaked a glance at Da Ponte from beneath his lashes. His fingers had twitched, he had licked his lips, and finally Da Ponte had taken pity on him and taken his hand in his. Salieri had let out a long breath, but he had not pulled away as Da Ponte had traced the outline of Salieri's thumb with his own, then lifted his knuckles to his lips. He had made each move gingerly in case Salieri changed his mind, studying his face for any trace of hesitation. When he tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear with his free hand, he had noted with mounting satisfaction the way Salieri leaned into his touch. It wasn't until Da Ponte was already moving forward, the back of Salieri's neck cradled in his hand, the first whisper of Salieri's shallow breaths ghosting across Da Ponte's lips, that Salieri had cleared his throat and mumbled, "I've never- No one has ever-"
Da Ponte had paused, their faces so close together that it was hard to meet Salieri's eye, one of his hands intertwined with Salieri's and the other behind his head. "Would you rather we continue writing?"
"No!" Salieri had answered quickly. "No, I only meant- I wanted you to know that I'm not- that I haven't-"
And Da Ponte had closed the space between them, catching Salieri's soft lips in his, releasing his hand to slide his arm around his waist, smiling against his mouth when he felt Salieri relax against him, when he felt that hand perch delicately on his shoulder. He had pulled away with a grin, possibilities heating his blood, and said, "Now you have."
It happened again that night in the inn. Scrubbed clean and dressed in their nightshirts, they cracked the window enough to mask the scent of sex and curled up together beneath the sheets. Salieri was absently tracing the neckline of Da Ponte's shift, his fingers brushing gently over his collarbone every so often, the quiet rhythm of it lulling Da Ponte to sleep, when suddenly he heard Salieri murmur, "Do you really love me?"
Da Ponte blinked a few times until the soft features of Salieri's face came back into focus in the dark room. "I think so," he said, "yes." And when he saw the glimmer of Salieri's smile in the shadows he added, "Desperately."
"Good," Salieri said quietly. He patted Da Ponte's chest and rolled onto his back, apparently unaware that the darkness wasn't hiding his smile.
"I'm glad you think so."
That smile slipped as Salieri confessed, "I've- no one has ever said it before. To me."
"Really?" Da Ponte asked. He propped himself up on his elbow, searching his face. "No one? What about your-?"
Salieri cut him off with a look.
Da Ponte dropped his head back onto the pillow and sighed, tucking his arm around Salieri's waist and pressing his lips to his shoulder. "I suppose I shall have to say it a lot more often, then," he murmured.
"Good," Salieri said again.
Da Ponte closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of Salieri, the lingering smell of sex, the crisp smell of the autumn air as it curled into the room. He heaved a contented sigh at the thought of the despair that had nearly overtaken him while they walked in the forest earlier that day. How could his thoughts have been so bleak with Salieri at his side?
"I'm sorry I invited Mozart to stay with us," Salieri said suddenly. "I just wanted to see the look on your face."
Da Ponte chuckled. "Was it worth it?"
"At first."
"We'd better make room for him on the bed," Da Ponte teased, scooting closer to Salieri until they were pressed front to back, one arm curled around Salieri's waist and the other crooked beneath his head.
Salieri grunted in protest and tugged the quilt back up to his chin. "You're going to push me off."
"It's no more than you deserve," said Da Ponte. He leaned his forehead against the back of Salieri's neck and closed his eyes, grinning as Salieri let out another of those long-suffering sighs.
It was still dark out when Da Ponte jolted awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling above him and the shadow of the wardrobe in the corner. At first he thought that the icy chill in the room was what had awakened him, or the fact that one of his arms was pinned under Salieri and had gone numb, but it didn't take long to recognize the real culprit: beyond Salieri's heavy breathing, a series of uneven, rasping snores were filling the room.
Da Ponte slowly worked his numb arm out from under Salieri, grateful that he had always been a sound sleeper, and flexed his fingers while his eyes adjusted to the room. The thin sheet was wrapped around Salieri's waist and only covering Da Ponte up to his knees. Where was the quilt they had been curled under that evening? If he had any hope of getting back to sleep, he was going to have to close the window, then find the quilt. Maybe Salieri could sleep in a freezing room, but Da Ponte was still used to Italian weather.
He slid to the edge of the bed and very nearly planted a foot directly atop Wolfgang Mozart, who was lying on the floor wrapped in their missing quilt with one of his ugly jackets rolled up beneath his head, snoring loudly enough to rattle the window panes. Da Ponte chuckled to himself and climbed off the foot of the bed instead, walking lightly over to the window on the icy floorboards. He had rather expected the young composer to crawl into the empty spot at Da Ponte's side and slowly shove the two of them onto the floor during the course of the night. Instead, he had been willing to leave them some of their privacy at the expense of his own comfort. Poor Mozart didn't deserve his bad reputation.
Da Ponte was one of the few people at the court who still liked their resident genius. There was something about his flashy exuberance, his eagerness to compliment his own work, and his ridiculous fashion sense that reminded Da Ponte of his friends back home, or maybe of his younger self. He had secretly been pleased when Salieri had asked him to write with Mozart, even if it was simply to bring back gossip that he suspected Salieri had intended to use as a weapon. Salieri had settled down, at least around Da Ponte, when it became apparent that on the subject of Mozart the two of them disagreed. If he ever happened to mention his name in conversation, he would see the tiniest smirk at the edge of Salieri's lips, or the subtlest roll of his eyes, and that was the extent of it.
But it was Salieri's fault Mozart was sleeping on the floor next to their bed right now, Da Ponte thought as he slid the old window closed and finally cut off the chilly breeze that had permeated the room. He turned back to the bed and contemplated Salieri, who was lying with his face squashed against the pillow and his mouth slightly open. He grinned, fighting the urge to sweep a few errant locks of hair away from his forehead lest he wake him. "Bastardo," he whispered fondly, and then his gaze settled on Mozart.
He was an attractive man, Da Ponte reflected, but no one knew that better than Mozart himself. He was boyish and careworn all at once, with a small, sturdy frame and unevenly-shorn hair that he rarely bothered to hide with a wig. He was energetic, open, flirty, and flamboyant: everything Salieri didn't deign to be. Today, however, he was proving himself to be discreet. Da Ponte hadn't expected that.
He briefly considered waking Mozart and insisting he use the bed. It would be a tight fit, but it was better than imagining the poor man tossing and turning on these cold, uneven floorboards all night. He looked back over at Salieri, and at the narrow expanse of empty bed on his other side, and he thought better of it. After all, what if he roused Mozart and Mozart ending up being noisy enough to wake Salieri, or crowding them off the bed once he had gone back to sleep? It was probably best to let him stay there, even if he had taken their quilt with him.
Taking care not to tread on Mozart, Da Ponte crawled back into the bed and pulled the sheet over himself and Salieri again, sliding as close to him as he dared with Mozart in the room. He smiled to himself when Salieri sighed in his sleep and rolled back into Da Ponte: his body was warm enough to compensate for losing the quilt. After making sure that the sheet was pulled high enough to hide it, he draped his arm around Salieri's waist. Maybe in the morning they could ask the innkeeper for another blanket.
Mozart was already gone when Da Ponte was awakened again by Salieri sliding out of his embrace. It was morning: the sounds of voices, footsteps, and creaking floorboards echoed all around the inn. Pale sunlight was filtering into the room through the window, casting ominous shadows behind the wardrobe and Mozart's dusty trunk. He stacked both pillows behind his head and leaned against them, watching Salieri wash and get dressed through half-closed eyes. He noticed that the quilt was folded neatly at the corner of the bed. Mozart, neat? Another surprise!
"You have to get up, Lorenzo," Salieri said, brushing pomade into his hair so that it would stay in its ribbon. "I'm not facing this ridiculous festival without you."
Da Ponte heaved himself out of the bed with a groan. "I was hoping you'd suggest we both skip the festival altogether and stay here for the rest of the day."
Salieri shot him a look. "I'm dressed," he said, gesturing to himself with one hand.
"Maestro Salieri! I don't know what you're suggesting," teased Da Ponte, but he couldn't keep the smirk off his face when Salieri flushed in response.
Preparation for the opening ceremony was as tedious as they had suspected. The composers were faced with a relentless parade of city officials as well as local singers and directors, all of them crowing over their new theater. The building itself, which the composers briefly toured in anticipation of tomorrow's festival, was everything Da Ponte knew Salieri hated in German design: gleaming brass statues and outrageous chandeliers cluttered the space, presided over by a ceiling that had been clumsily painted to resemble an Italian cathedral. The day would have been unbearable were it not for the occasional acerbic grumble from Salieri, or the half-restrained looks of disdain that kept passing across his face. Da Ponte wondered how the other composers could resist him. The only person paying him any attention was Mozart, of course, who kept sneaking glances at them and turning away if they happened to make eye contact. Da Ponte found himself worrying that he might have been wrong about Mozart's ability to be discreet after all. He wasn't exactly sure what they would do if it word got out about the two of them. The whole thing was making him regret putting his arm around Salieri last night while Mozart was in the room.
The group was dismissed late in the afternoon, and Salieri, true to form, chose to return immediately to the inn. One of the poets made the same decision, but he was a timid, anxious little Prussian who spent less time socializing with the others than even Salieri did. The rest of them trooped through the town toward the tavern, a parade of rowdy artists. There was one sure way to duck possible suspicion: Da Ponte chose to join the others for a drink, laughing along with his companions at their tedious humor.
Only an hour had passed when the others decided to relocate to a seedier tavern in the center of town, giving Da Ponte his excuse to beg off and return alone to the inn. Night was already settling over Innsbruck. Had he not been so eager to get back to their room, Da Ponte would have enjoyed the solitary walk. Dried leaves crunched moodily underfoot, soft candlelight glowed in frosted windows, and a bat was even wheeling overhead. The chill had seeped into his skin by the time he arrived, however; he barely acknowledged the irritable innkeeper before taking the stairs two at a time.
Salieri was already sitting up in the bed as he had been the night before, the blanket and quilt gathered around his waist and that same book resting on his knees. He looked up at Da Ponte over the top of his reading glasses with a smirk. "You took your time."
"I was enjoying myself," Da Ponte lied.
Salieri rolled his eyes. He turned his attention back to the book, absentmindedly running a hand through his loose hair. How could anyone be so accidentally alluring?
Da Ponte changed into his nightshirt, pretending not to notice Salieri's gaze lift and roam across his form. He put away his clothes with deliberate care, neatly folding each stocking over his breeches and lining his shoes up at the edge of the wall. He waited until Salieri let out an impatient huff before he asked, "So what is it that you're reading?"
"Uh-" Salieri lifted his book and glanced down at the cover as though he had never seen it before, "some- just some drivel the emperor wanted adapted into an opera for his birthday."
"So you really have given up on Così fan tutte, then?"
Salieri leveled that sarcastic stare at him. "Nearly a year ago, Lorenzo. You know I tried."
"I remember a distinct lack of focus," Da Ponte said. He took the spot at Salieri's side, pulling the blankets over his lap as well. "You're easily distracted."
Snapping his book closed, Salieri leaned in and pressed his lips to the side of Da Ponte's neck. "Very easily," he murmured, his warm breath tickling the exposed skin.
Da Ponte shivered at the touch, which made Salieri chuckle in that self-satisfied way. So Da Ponte caught Salieri's face in his hands and rose to his knees on the lumpy mattress, dropping a gentle kiss first on his forehead, then each eyelid, then at the corner of his mouth. "I don't care about Così fan tutte," Da Ponte breathed. He kissed Salieri's lower lip, drawing back and taking in his upturned face, his half-closed eyes-and then Da Ponte released him and sat back down. "Then again, maybe I'll ask Mozart to finish it with me."
"Now who's being a bastard?" Salieri huffed.
With a grin, Da Ponte slid lower beneath the blankets and dropped his head onto Salieri's thigh. "So? Tell me about this new opera, then. Who's he commissioning for the libretto?"
"Not you," said Salieri, tapping Da Ponte's forehead with the spine of the book.
"Because I'll be writing Così fan tutte with Mozart."
"Obviously."
"What's Così fan tutte?" a third voice asked from the doorway.
The shock of having been observed hit them like a bolt of lightning: Da Ponte launched himself out of the bed and Salieri somehow managed to send the book hurtling into a corner, the two of flying apart as though they could still convince whoever had been listening to them that they had not been curled up in a bed together with Da Ponte's head resting in Salieri's lap.
It was Mozart himself who hurried the rest of the way into the room-of course it was!-waving his arms and calling, "No, wait! You don't have to lie to me, too!"
Da Ponte seized the door and pulled it closed, pausing long enough to note that the hallway was empty, and that only Mozart seemed to have discovered them. He threw the latch and took a deep breath before he turned back around. If their situation had not been so precarious, the sight of Salieri clutching an old quilt to his chest like a maiden who'd been interrupted in the bath would have struck him as funny. Instead, Da Ponte shot a glare in Mozart's direction and went to retrieve Salieri's book from the corner where it had landed.
"I'm sorry I startled you!" Mozart was saying, still holding out both hands as though he were approaching a pair of wild animals. "I was going to knock, but you said my name and I forgot you might be-"
"Wolfgang!" Da Ponte snapped. "For god's sake, man!"
Mozart dropped his arms. "I just meant that you can trust me," he mumbled.
Da Ponte set the book on the nightstand and, at the sight of Salieri's stricken expression, clasped his shoulder. He scowled at Mozart again.
"Honestly! I won't mention it! I can keep secrets!" Mozart insisted.
Salieri scoffed.
"I can!" said Mozart eagerly. "You can trust me! Lorenzo, I never told anybody about the time you kissed me, did I?"
"The time you what?" Salieri asked, his head snapping in Da Ponte's direction. "You what?"
"Wolfgang," Da Ponte groaned.
"He- he didn't know?"
"Wolfgang! God!"
"You what?"
"I was drunk!"
"We both were."
"You kissed him? Him?"
"Antonio, honestly, it was just-"
"Hold on, what's so bad about kissing me?"
Da Ponte knew his grip on Salieri's shoulder must be getting too tight. The wide-eyed shock on Salieri's face was ebbing into incredulity, that crease appearing between his brows. He was staring at Da Ponte as though he were studying a mythical creature.
"I've never had any complaints before," Mozart was saying, scowling petulantly at Salieri. "Lorenzo didn't complain either."
"It was ages ago. They'd just canceled Figaro and I stopped by Mozart's place to check on him. I brought him a bottle of wine and he offered to split it with me-"
"And you were so grateful that you kissed him?" Salieri asked. He pried Da Ponte's hand off his shoulder but didn't let go of it.
Da Ponte glanced down at their joined hands, then up at Salieri again. "He was upset."
"I was upset!" Mozart echoed. "He's a good friend! We finished the wine and then he grabbed both of my shoulders and put his face close to mine and asked if I would be alright, and uh-"
"If you'd seen him, Antonio, carrying on all night about how his work was doomed to be forgotten, and then he said his wife was visiting his sister-"
"It's alright though. Nannerl and Constance, they- sometimes they need each other."
"-and he just seemed so alone and- and vulnerable, so I... I didn't think, I didn't mean anything by it!"
"I just assumed you didn't mind," Mozart shrugged. "Like Constance and me. Sometimes there's an opportunity, or you need something your marriage can't provide. We don't mind. I thought the two of you must be the same. It's what some people do."
Both of them fell silent, anxiously watching Salieri. Perhaps if it had been anyone other than Mozart, a drunken, thoughtless kiss would have been forgivable. It was hard to know. Da Ponte was always aware that Salieri was new to this. While Da Ponte had passed his youth in Italy flirting and taking lovers, Salieri had dedicated himself to his work. It was one of the things that made him so charming. It was also the reason Salieri seemed to hate Mozart, who was able to live like Da Ponte while writing with all of Salieri's hard-earned talent. Only last night, Da Ponte had been the first person to tell Salieri that he loved him, and now, less than a day later, he was learning that he had betrayed him in the most thoughtless way.
But to Da Ponte's surprise, the edge of Salieri's mouth quirked up into a suggestion of a smile and he murmured, "Così fan alcuni."
Mozart's large eyes flicked uncertainly from Salieri to Da Ponte. "What?"
"It's what some people do."
"Antonio, I meant everything I said last night," Da Ponte said. "If you feel betrayed, or if you want me to sleep on the floor tonight-"
Mozart suddenly clambered up onto the bed, sat back on his heels, and said, "Or I'll kiss you, too. Then you'll be even."
Da Ponte let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort, and the color drained out of Salieri's face. His grip on Da Ponte's hand tightened.
"That's fair, isn't it, Lorenzo?" Mozart pressed. "We kissed, so now if I kiss him you'll be even."
"Uh- well, yes, it's fair, but it's not the most logical way to resolve these things. Antonio, you don't have to-"
"Why does everyone think kissing me is such a bad thing?" Mozart cried. He scooted closer on the bed. "I told you I'm good at it."
Da Ponte glanced down at Salieri: to his surprise, Salieri was staring at Mozart's mouth, his lower lip drawn ever so slightly between his teeth, his breathing shallow. Da Ponte hadn't seen that look on his face since they had worked on Così fan tutte together. Since before the first night they had kissed.
He dropped to a seat on the bed, cupping their clasped hands with his free one. "I suppose it would make things fair," he ceded, watching Salieri carefully.
Salieri tore his gaze away from Mozart and met Da Ponte's eye, brows knitted in uncertainty.
"If you want to, that is."
Salieri cleared his throat. "I, uh-" he glanced back and forth between them, then cleared his throat again. "I can't stand unfairness," he said at last.
An enormous smile broke across Mozart's face as the color began to rise in Salieri's. "Me neither," he said, edging forward until his knees were brushing the outside of Salieri's thigh. He draped his arms around Salieri's neck. "Ready?"
"Uh- yes," Salieri answered. He removed his reading glasses with his free hand and glanced over Mozart's shoulder at Da Ponte one last time before Mozart leaned in.
It was a strange experience, watching Mozart kiss the man he loved. Their lips met gently at first, tentatively, but then he caught a glimpse of Mozart's tongue, then Mozart's hands slipped through Salieri's hair, then Salieri's nails dug into his palm and the quilt in his lap twitched.
They broke apart, both of them breathless; Mozart leaned back on his heels again, and Da Ponte noticed that his ears were turning red. For a moment, Salieri sat with his eyes unfocused and his lips slightly parted. Da Ponte was trying to think of something lighthearted and dismissive to say when Salieri blinked, shook himself, and seized Mozart's threadbare cravat in his free hand, dragging him back down into another kiss.
Da Ponte shifted where he sat, swallowing hard. That tipsy night at Mozart's flat, had the two of them really kissed this long? Had it been this intimate? He remembered the taste of Mozart's tongue, the sweet smell of wine, and Mozart's hands raking down his chest, grabbing hold of his hips. He hadn't wanted him to stop. It wasn't until Mozart had begun fumbling with his breeches that Da Ponte had finally pulled away, cupping Mozart's cheek in one hand as he did. Rejected, Mozart had slumped back into the chair and watched him forlornly, the look on his face alone nearly convincing Da Ponte to change his mind. But even then, even before he had admitted it aloud, Da Ponte had been a man in love. He had gone straight to Salieri's house after that, sliding between his sheets and waking him with frantic kisses until the taste of Mozart was faded.
The second kiss was getting messy. Mozart was holding Salieri's head in both hands, catching and releasing his mouth greedily, his tongue meeting Salieri's, then his teeth, then his lips again. Salieri's hips kept arching up off the bed; he suddenly pulled Da Ponte's hand up the length of his leg, guiding it to his lap. To his erection.
"Uh- Antonio-" Da Ponte began, but Salieri broke away from Mozart and caught Da Ponte by the back of the neck, pulling him down into a breathless kiss instead. Da Ponte shivered, letting his eyes close. Here was the taste of Mozart's mouth again, but on Salieri's tongue this time. He edged closer to Salieri until he was perched at his side, trying to stay out of Mozart's way without straying too far from Salieri's lips.
"God!" Mozart cried, flopping backward onto the bed.
Da Ponte pulled away from Salieri, readjusting his position on the bed while he did so to better hide his own situation. He cleared his throat: the glib remark he had been searching for earlier still wasn't forming, not while Salieri was carding his fingers through Da Ponte's hair, his chest heaving in time with Mozart's, his eyes dark, his lips swollen.
Mozart propped himself up on his elbows and looked back and forth between them. "No wonder!" he said, and then he dropped onto his back again.
"No wonder what?" asked Da Ponte.
Mozart drew a long breath before answering, "You two. No wonder you risk everything for each other. For that."
Salieri caught Da Ponte's eye and grinned wanly. He leaned his head against Da Ponte's shoulder with a sigh.
"It's what some people do," Da Ponte said, and he was rewarded with a low chuckle from Salieri.
With Mozart lying on his back like that, still fully-clothed down to his shoes, it was easy to see that he was just as affected as Salieri and Da Ponte. Da Ponte thought back to the report he had given Salieri after meeting Mozart in person for the first time: charming, grave, and wild, with breeches that seem to be containing as much talent as his mind. He glanced up at the closed door, then at the rolled-up jacket Mozart had used as a pillow the night before, tucked neatly alongside his trunk on the floor. "Antonio?"
"Hm?"
"What would you say if I invited young Mozart here to squeeze onto this mattress with us tonight, rather than staying on the floor?"
"Hmm," Salieri said again, fixing him with an appraising stare. Mozart pushed himself up, that bright look on his face again just as it had been when Salieri had rescued him from sleeping in the stables yesterday afternoon. "I'd say that that seems... fair."
"And we know how you hate unfairness," Da Ponte agreed.
Mozart scrambled to his feet, that silly grin plastered across his face, and began shucking off his jacket, shoes, and cravat. As he was unbuttoning his waistcoat, his hasty fingers tangling together, Salieri leaned in until his lips were brushing against Da Ponte's ear. "Lorenzo?" he murmured. His voice was low enough that Mozart didn't seem to hear.
"What is it?"
When Da Ponte turned to face him, Salieri pressed their foreheads together.
"What?" Da Ponte asked again.
"I love you, too."
The old bed had hardly been built with two people in mind, much less three. Da Ponte found himself thinking of what they could have achieved together if the three of them were at Salieri's townhome in his stately four-poster bed, where there was no need to stifle Mozart's giggles or Salieri's gasps, and no need to take such care with the bedsheets. Perhaps one day they would be.
Despite the times he had imagined what kind of lover Wolfgang Mozart might be, Da Ponte could hardly stand to pay him any attention tonight. His thoughts were on Salieri, as they so often were: Salieri dropping his head back against Da Ponte's shoulder, his back arched against him while Mozart's hand traveled up his chest; Salieri's nails digging into Da Ponte's thighs, air hissing between his teeth as Da Ponte moved inside him, eyes clenching shut at the first delicate touch of Mozart's tongue; Salieri finally coming undone in his arms, letting out a strangled cry and clenching a fist in Mozart's hair, the convulsions putting Da Ponte over the edge as well.
Mozart sat up and ran the back of his hand across his mouth as he contemplated them, his unshakable grin almost wistful. Da Ponte imagined that a pair of Italians tangled together in a pile of sweaty limbs must cut a strange figure, both of them panting, their dark hair loose, their mouths open as they tried to catch their breath. He pulled out of Salieri gently and let him settle back against the pillows while Da Ponte went over to the basin. He dampened a rag and tossed it to Salieri, then took a second one for himself.
"I have to admit I'm a little ashamed. I've been foolish," he heard Mozart say sheepishly.
Da Ponte looked over his shoulder: Mozart was still kneeling in the middle of the bed before Salieri, who seemed to be collecting himself at last.
"How so?" Salieri asked.
Mozart shrugged. "I- I've always thought you didn't care for my work- for me."
Da Ponte saw a muscle flex in Salieri's jaw, his fist tightening around the cloth, but Mozart didn't seem to notice. He leaned forward, delicately tracing a line from Salieri's temple down over his cheek, the pads of his fingers following the outline of his beard. He paused when his fingertips were at Salieri's lips. "Will you forgive me?"
"Wolfgang," Da Ponte interrupted, crossing the room and sliding onto the bed next to him, "look at the state of you! You can't let us be selfish!"
"Selfish?" Mozart repeated. He followed Da Ponte's gaze down to the bulge beneath his own shift. "Oh!" He dropped his arm, releasing Salieri. "I didn't think-"
"We're Italian, Wolfgang. Our people have their reputation for a reason."
Salieri chuckled at that, but Mozart only managed to say, "Oh- ah!" before Da Ponte had slipped a hand beneath his shift.
It didn't really surprise Da Ponte to learn that Mozart was the kind of person who falls asleep almost immediately after finishing. By the time they could hear the other composers returning from the tavern and trooping upstairs, the three of them were packed into the bed with Mozart sprawled in the middle, snoring much more merrily than he had been the night before.
"Lorenzo?" Salieri murmured. He wriggled onto one side and propped his head up in his hand.
Something about the sight of him brooding in the dark on the other side of a snoring Mozart struck Da Ponte as amusing. "What is it?" he asked, barely succeeding in keeping the smile out of his voice.
Salieri sighed, his dark brows drawn together. "When you tell me I'm a bastard, you mean it, don't you?"
"Sometimes. Why?"
"Because you're right."
"I know," he teased, but the furrow didn't disappear from between Salieri's brows. Da Ponte leaned up on one elbow as well, bringing himself to Salieri's eye level. "Antonio, it doesn't matter. I wasn't exaggerating when I said I'm in love with you, bastardry and all. What's wrong?"
Salieri glanced down at the sleeping Mozart and heaved another long sigh. "I don't hate his music."
"You don't say!"
Even in the darkened room, the stern look Salieri shot him was scathing.
"Alright, I'm sorry," Da Ponte ceded. He reached across Mozart's chest to seize Salieri's free hand and bring it to his lips. "After the things you let that man do to you tonight, I should hope you aren't still pretending to hate him, either."
He expected another reprimand, or for the hand he was holding to be snatched away, but neither came. Salieri was staring down at Mozart again. For once, his expression was hard to read.
"Antonio?"
"I never hated him."
Da Ponte folded Salieri's hand under his chin. "I know."
After a long pause, Salieri murmured, "Does he?"
"He does now."
"It's just- the idea of him. All my life, I've wanted to write. Then this boy comes along and passes wind and it comes out a symphony."
"Is that what he does?"
"Ceaselessly," Salieri said. The corner of his mouth was finally beginning to turn up into a smile.
"No matter how brightly his work shines, it can't diminish yours," Da Ponte assured him. "That isn't how it works."
"And if music comes as easily to him as breathing, while I have to lock myself in my study and tear each note from my very heart? If I have to pore over empty pages late into the night just for the scantest of melodies?"
Da Ponte shrugged. "Sometimes it's like that," and even as he said the words he knew how Salieri would reply. "It's what some people do," they said in unison. Salieri dropped his head back onto the pillow, letting the arm that Da Ponte was still holding relax against Mozart's chest. Before laying back down onto his own pillow, Da Ponte verified that Salieri was smiling to himself in the darkness.
Here he was again, holding Salieri's hand in front of Mozart, he thought idly, though the circumstances had certainly changed. He ran his thumb along Salieri's knuckles, listening to the harmony of his breathing and Mozart's uneven snores. Again he thought of the despair that had overtaken him in the forest upon arriving in Innsbruck, that gnawing fear that there would be no future for him and Salieri. How unfair it was that a love just as strong as any he had ever had with a woman-stronger, maybe-should be conducted entirely in secret, in fear. Unfair, but it was inescapable. He glanced up at Mozart, remembering that wistful grin as he had contemplated the two of them. The sympathy. Their connection was important, no matter what the law said. It deserved a chance to run its course just as much as any other. And if they spent the rest of their lives worrying whether their behavior was suspicious, or whether someone might catch them together, whether they might lose their positions at the court or their right to live in Austria at all, well, they couldn't let it drive them apart.
Da Ponte closed his eyes and let out a long, shallow sigh.
It was just what some people had to do.