Les oiseaux que l'on met en cage

by Miss-shiva-adler

When inner demons come to surface and self-destruction seems like the only way to survive, the path to healing can be found in the most unexpected events.

Les oiseaux que l'on met en cage, peuvent t'ils encore voler ?

Title: Les oiseaux que l'on met en cage.

Rating: NC-17

Words : 12.330

Summary : When inner demons come to surface and self-destruction seems like the only way to survive, the path to healing can be found in the most unexpected events.

Prompt :Mozart + Salieri. Salieri is sub because he needs to deal with all his heavy emotions. Mozart is playful enough to try it out, being a Dom. Admit it, he's had plenty of experience, the oddball player ;) Lots of aftercare.

Art by: Mewsol (check her deviantart to see the full image)

"In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice."
― Marquis de Sade

It had become a habit, a stupid, foolish, habit. But he tried to forget, to forget it had become a ritual. Each time he wasn't there, each time he left the music room unattended. He walked swiftly, the heels of his shoes clicking on the wooden floor; the adrenaline rushing through his veins, making him alert for everything around him; his eyes scouting every corridor and watching carefully around each corner. Nobody could see him, nobody was allowed to see him and nobody ever would.

He stopped in front of the oaken door and laid his hand upon the rough decorations of the only barrier keeping him from attaining his goal. He tried to calm his racing heart, he had to listen. Nothing. A single and brief smile on the corner of his lips disappeared as fast as it came. His fingers circled the handle and he opened the door.

He had exactly 6 minutes, 6 minutes to get in, get what he wanted and get out. If only that idiot Rosenberg hadn't tried to strike a conversation, he would have had more time. But the rules of aristocracy had prevented him to just roughly dismiss the count and walk past him.

His eyes scanned the room; as always the fortepiano was buried under the music sheets. A quick glance at the floor made him aware that he had to be extra careful when he walked; the carpet was almost unrecognisable as the various drafts of compositions were laying around. A thought of picking one of the music scores appeared in his mind, they were so shamelessly displayed, begging to be taken a look at. He dismissed the thought; no, he wasn't here for mere drafts. His eyes continued their journey in the chaotic room; the curtains were open and on various chairs more stacks of music sheets were piled up. But even through all this clutter there was always that one spot; free from any misplaced or torn shreds of paper, always clean, always perfect in order. The desk, a wooden throne ruling over the room.

He approached, avoiding as much as possible to step on the music sheets. His inspecting eyes settled themselves on the overpacked satchel hanging on the back of the chair. Finally, so close to him, there was his prize. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his hands from trembling. His heart was racing; he could almost hear it himself. With method and care he crouched and picked up the soft and worn leather bag; the storm of impatience raging inside of him as his hand unclasped the satchel. His dark eyes scouted for his prize. There, at the second row, between the two leather partings, yes, there it was. Slowly, he retrieved the little stack of paper. His hands were steadier now. Dear god, it already felt like the doors of heaven had opened beneath fingers. He took a moment to observe the title. Yes, this was what he was looking for. He laid his prize securely upon the desk. From his coat he carefully took and returned the 24th piano concerto to its rightful place; he made sure no corner of any page was turned on itself.

A satisfied smile appeared on his lips at his accomplishment. Precisely and methodically he closed the satchel and laid it back on the chair's backrest.

He then picked up his prize. The whole movement written by hand overpowered the white paper. There was that storm of impatience roaming in the depth of his being again. No, he couldn't yet, he had to get out first. Avoiding to step on the drafts was slightly more difficult this time, but he got back to the door safely. Once outside of the room, he closed the door behind him. Holding his prize between his hands, he couldn't still the rising urge to take a look again. One glance and the elegant curves of the adagio rhythm captivated his attention. As soon as his eyes started examining and reading, he became washed over by the pain; transported by the music, the familiar shivers of anguish and agony appearing as he saw how the second staff-lines of the oboe got connected -with pure beauty- to the next measure of the first violin. He turned the next page, needing to read more. His breathing had long stopped by then.

Suddenly, the sounds of walking. It startled him and immediately tore him from his torturous observation. Someone was coming. He cursed internally, he had to disappear, and quick. Perhaps too quickly and too hurriedly, he started walking. He vanished in a matter of seconds.

I heard someone walking or even running as I came back from my afternoon walk with Constance. I stopped. Right behind the corner: the glimpse a shadow. My instincts were telling me to try to find out who it was, but the shadow and its owner must have already gotten the chance to disappear completely. I shook my head and entered my study. Immediately I realised someone had been there, someone, that wasn't me. A few steps further and all my senses became assaulted by a peculiar perfume, his perfume. I closed my eyes and inhaled the rousing smell of mint that was so singularly his. I let the ghost of his presence rock me into the delightful feeling of drunkenness it created inside of me. As I allowed my sight to return I felt lightheaded. A detail caught my attention, there, on one of my drafts, a heel imprint. I couldn't keep a smile in. He definitely had been here. I walked over to my desk. I knew that my satchel had recovered a lost concerto; I knew that it was missing a new composition instead. I also knew that the new strayed composition couldn't be anything else but my newest finished symphony in D major, 'Prager'

He was short of breath by the time he arrived in his own music room. Nobody had seen him, he was sure of it. He rested himself against the door. The amount of adrenaline rushing through his veins was lowering as his heart rate came back to normal. He suddenly realised he was clutching the precious papers against his chest. Panic almost took him. A sigh of relief breached his lips; he hadn't rumpled any of the papers. He went to his desk and safely deposited his prize upon the dark wood. He didn't restrain himself to reread the title this time. A gnawing feeling of desire washed over him, his hands felt itchy to take another look. The want to lose himself became stronger as he laid his eyes once more on the first staff-lines. Yes, he wanted to hear it again, the connection between the music notes and the sounds he heard in his head when he read it. If he gave in he'd listen to how the bassoon entered in dialogue with the string quartet before joining the entirety in the allegro at the end of the exposition and how languidly the first and second violin would start the working through, the second movement, andante in G major. But he couldn't. He shook his head and averted his eyes. No, he had three students to teach this afternoon. It would have to wait. He realised his frustration and tried not to cringe. He had done it again. That stupid, idiotic, ridiculous habit of his.

A strong knock upon his door surprised him.

"Yes."

He had tried to conceal the sharp tone in his voice, but he was unsuccessful and had sounded terribly annoyed. His first student had arrived. He inhaled and exhaled deeply and sat down next to his pupil at the fortepiano and started his lesson.

For a few hours he forgot everything around him, lost in his music, concentrated on his lesson. Between the exercises and the more elaborated pieces he was able to forget what had made him feel on edge a few moments before. Teaching was a shared moment of happiness between teacher and pupil and Antonio Salieri valued those unique moments he had with his students. They always respected him and his talent. It was a great honour that they chose him out of all the others to be their teacher. He loved the sensation of accomplishment and pride when the final G of the last exercise resonated through the room.

"You did great Joseph," he said as he looked at his 20-year-old student. Joseph had worked hard on their compositions and lessons. He was a very quick learner and was asked by many to play in their orchestra.

"Thank you maestro, you are also very good teacher."

The Italian composer couldn't help himself to feel flattered. Even when Mozart had requested his pupil's help with 'Die Entführung aus dem Serail', Joseph had come back and showed immense gratefulness toward his mentor. Without any further hesitation, the young man had asked to resume his education. They had then had continued working on the young man's musical growth. Salieri stood up and gathered the used music scores, the lesson was finished. Another knock on the door interrupted them. The door opened after a quick 'yes' from the teacher, in the doorway appeared his dearest friend and librettist, Lorenzo Da Ponte.

"I am sorry to interrupt. I was wondering if it were possible to have a word with you, Herr Salieri."

The maestro nodded in agreement. One glance at his pupil and Joseph started to gather the rest of the music sheets. Salieri stood up and walked over to the poet. They greeted with a handshake.

"What can I do for you my dear friend?"

"I came with the libretto of Horace by Pierre Corneille, which you requested to be delivered to you as soon as possible."

The librettist handed him the text. A smile appeared on the maestro's face. This was one of the next big projects he was requested to work on. He was glad Nicolas-François Guillard had worked so quickly.

"Thank you, Da Ponte, your services and friendship are deeply appreciated."

Da Ponte bowed his head slightly. The composer walked to his desk and flipped through the pages. A few words sparked his inspiration. The ouverture, brass instruments joined by strings. He felt liberation when reading the first dialogue line. He could go free with this one. This project was the perfect opportunity to honor his mentor Glück. Yes, this could work. He wanted to sit down and start making notes of how he was going to proceed, but was interrupted in the middle of his momentum, right when he overheard a name.

"Is Herr Mozart playing tonight ? "

It took all of his willpower to not turn around. Showing that he was interested was something he'd avoid.

"Yes he is."

His dark brown eyes traveled over the surface his desk where the symphony was still lying.

"Any idea if he is playing anything in particular?"

He stood a bit more upright, curious about the answer himself.

"I heard he was playing a new composition, a first draft of a piece of music for piano, a fantasy."

He turned his head slightly to hear his student's answer better.

"Sounds interesting, perhaps I'd come by the club tonight. It's still on the 6th of Mainstreet, I presume."

"Yes it is."

A gentlemen's club on Mainstreet? He had heard Count Rosenberg talk about it. But he couldn't recall in which context. The count had the tendency to talk and make up rumours about other parties of the nobility. The composer had since long stopped paying attention to the babbling nonsense the man could proclaim as truth.

"Would you care to accompany us, Herr Salieri?"

The question took him by surprise. He turned himself completely to his interlocutor. Had he somehow showed he was interested by the subject?

"I'll have to decline your offer. I sadly cannot spare the time to accompany you."

Da Ponte laughed loudly. It startled him and he narrowed his eyes, seeking the meaning of this laugh.

"You work hard Salieri, Vienna is blessed to have such a great composer as one of its most hardworking noble citizens."

The poet patted his shoulder. Salieri kept in a shiver, he hated when people came into his personal space. The librettist saw that the composer didn't react to his compliment. Well perhaps the man didn't know how to react. The dark haired man never talked about his feelings anyway. He turned himself to Joseph and they both decided it was time to leave.

The door of the music room closed behind the two gentlemen. The silence stirred his thoughts and soon his mind started racing trying to puzzle out what he just had heard. So Mozart was playing a first draft of a fantasy. It was a little strange because he had heard that the composer couldn't handle non-finished work. Never give an un-finished composition to the public to see, it'll water her beauty. He shook his head. He couldn't care less about whether or not Mozart was playing tonight.

He gathered his stuff. Joseph had been his last student of the day; it was time to go home. He put everything in his satchel and made sure he was extra careful with the newly acquired symphony. Tonight he would work on Pierre Corneille's play and forget about anything else.

The carriage was awaiting him and his journey home was short. When he entered, he was greeted by Maria, the head house maid. She announced that his supper had been served. She took his coat. He thanked her and went to the small dining room. There was a humble meal prepared. Sophia, the cook, knew that he preferred something light when he came back from a full day of work. He finished his meal rather quickly. Perhaps he'd been hungrier than he had expected. Right before he went upstairs, Lukas, the butler, asked if he needed anything else.

"Not immediately, I will be working late in the music room tonight."

"Very well, mein Herr."

A nod from him made the butler clear he could dispose. On his way up, Salieri noticed that the dark red paper on the walls and unlit corridors made the house feel empty tonight. Since the loss of his adopted father and the departure of his father's widow with her two daughters, the residence had felt too big for him. There were many rooms he rarely used. He hardly ever had guests at his home and if there were, they never stayed the night. The rooms were only there to gather dust nowadays. Sometimes, on nights like these, the silence and lack of laughter made him remember that he was living alone in a house that used to be filled with numerous people. It didn't always bother him, but tonight seemed different.

After a few steps he arrived at the door of his music room. He couldn't help but smile when the warm and already lit room welcomed him. He felt the most at home here. His violin was displayed on a table next to the window, his desk and fortepiano were strategically placed together.

He sat down and took his working papers from his satchel. It was then when he saw it. He had been able to forget when he was working with his students and that moment after he had come back from the palace. But now when finally everything seemed quiet in his mind, temptation had crawled back into him; like a succubus spreading her legs, trying to lure him into sin. His hands traced the stack of scores. He read the title again, 'Prager'. He knew Mozart had lost quite some popularity with the Viennese but the bohemian public stayed true to the famous and brilliant composer that the Austrian man was. Perhaps he had written and created this symphony for the capital of Bohemia to honour them.

He gritted his teeth. What was he doing ? He needed to work. He deposited the symphony at the right side of his desk. It'll wait. He took a pencil and opened the libretto. He drafted, scribbled, read, or at least he tried. More than once he caught himself glimpsing at the symphony. He had been staring at it for 5 minutes already when he gave up. Verdammt, he needed to read it.

He pushed his pencil and other papers away. It was no use to pretend to work. Delicately he took the music sheets in hands. He realized he had been waiting for this, waited and longed to have the time where he'd lay his eyes upon the music, the genius of Mozart. He had craved to feel the sensation of the beauty stabbing him once more in his soul.

He flipped the pages; and the whirlwind of emotions crushed him, the first movement, passionate, long, elaborated, starting lively. The D-major mixing the seriousness with the playfulness of the allegro. The second movement, more classical in choice, giving him the sensations like only Mozart could give him, more humble and flowing. The finale, the reëxposition, the theme being taken over by the flute, making the symphony come alive once more, each instrument having a theme for itself and then the symphony ended in a positive and beautiful note. No music notes misplaced or scribbled, they never were. Mozart always wrote with a quill because he never made any errors. He knew exactly where to write and draw the art of his music. There it was, his genius laid bare to his eyes and reducing him, Antonio Salieri, to nothing.

Struck by the beauty and the feeling of destruction coming with it, he laid back in his chair. He looked at the ceiling, letting the symphony sink in. His fingers brushed the strands of his hair away from his face and he closed his eyes. He felt pain, the pain of humiliation, the pain that he'll never be good enough. The pain of his skin crawling upwards, the pain of his guts burning him from the inside. A knife digging its way to his chest, to his heart; trampling his being, he was reduced to nothing. Never ever good enough. Mozart, overpowering him, holding him down, taunting him in the humiliation and the joke that was the Italian composer's music, Mozart truly was a genius and, he, next to him, was a mere insect.

Then, like always, the feeling of wanting more took over. Each time when he finished watching, listening, reading one of Mozart's masterpieces. Each time when the pain was over he wanted more. Each time he was taken into that turmoil caused by the grace and refinement of the eccentric composer. It made him want to scream, scream in frustration, scream in bliss, scream in hurt, yes he wanted to scream for the sensations that raged through him.

It took him minutes or hours even, he didn't know, he lost track, to pick up the pieces of himself. His mind wandered to the conversation earlier that day. Mozart never did this. Presenting a composition without it being finished was a heresy. If it were a fantasy he wouldn't have called it a draft. Unfinished piano sonatas were everything Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was against. He opened his eyes again. He, he wanted to see it. No, he needed to hear it.

He tried not to think about what he was doing when he stood up. He tried not to think when he asked for his carriage to be brought. He certainly tried to forget that he gave the address on Mainstreet.

It wasn't difficult to find. A bald man was furtively looking everywhere; Salieri presumed that the man wanted to be sure no one was following him. The man knocked on the door and whispered a few words to the one servant that opened. Salieri walked to the door.

"I am sorry Herr, you are not allowed inside anymore."

The man looked very displeased by the young servant's answer; a growl at the back of the man's throat had made that clear. But the composer didn't have the time to assist to the upcoming fight. He interrupted.

"Am I permitted inside?"

He asked with a very calm voice. The servant jumped in surprise and looked at the Italian composer, his blue eyes widening. Ah, he had recognized him, thought Salieri. The next sentence was stammered.

"Yes, you may enter, Herr Salieri."

The young man gave him space so he could enter. He heard how after his entrance, arguments were exchanged between the bald man and the servant. But he couldn't care less. He went up the stairs and got greeted by a footman who opened the door for him, another proposed him a glass of wine, which he refused.

"Welcome to Vienna's most finest gentlemen's club. No vice, no virtue is to be judged, do what thou wilt- are the rules of this house. Please enjoy your stay."

It seemed like a hallway with various rooms. He walked and took a few turns. Out of all the rooms, the biggest one was the one that attracted his attention; it was also the most lit. He entered; women and men were talking, laughing; some had masks; some hadn't. As he walked further through the room, he didn't recognize anyone and nobody seemed to notice him either. A glimpse in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Between the couches and small tables there was one of the biggest Fortepiano's he'd ever seen. He walked up to it. It was decorated beautifully, small flowers and vines intertwining themselves around the edges contrasted wonderfully with the dark red wood. His hands caressed the keys, he wanted to play and find out the sounds the instrument could give birth to. But he didn't want to attract attention to himself and therefore he settled his mind to finding another distraction. His eyes locked themselves on the bookcases next to the huge windows. Intrigued he approached; he reached out for a thick leatherbound book. Salieri loved novels. He often found inspiration inside of them for his compositions. After reading a few titles he realised that he knew none of those novels. Perhaps he could ask the owner to let him borrow one or two pieces of his bookcase, who knew the undiscovered riches the books had buried between their pages? Suddenly he felt the atmosphere of the room change. Something made his senses alert. He turned around to observe. People seemed very close to each other. Somehow it didn't seem quite right. Then he noticed someone, a slender but strong figure; short, ruffled and eccentrically cut hair, a soft-edged straight nose, powder upon the eyelids and juvenile brown eyes. He'd recognize that face anywhere. He stood next to one of the couches, a cream white shirt with a purple waistcoat and black breeches enveloping his figure. The prodigy composer walked up to the instrument. His heels clicked hard upon the floor as if to make the occupants of the room aware of what he was doing. Salieri felt his heart starting to pound in his chest. He was pleased; he had come right in time.

He inhaled sharply when he saw the Austrian composer sitting down in front of the fortepiano. As always he didn't need any music sheets. Mozart closed his eyes; his fingers touching the keys. A first note resounded through the room, then another and another. They made a first accord, he watched as the music came as naturally to the prodigy composer as breathing was for him. A first sentence was played, a question. The room became quieter and more filled. People came in to listen. Mozart continued playing; his hands flowing over the keys, an answer. Salieri closed his eyes, taking in the music, forgetting everything around him. He tuned down the urge to sit down next to the younger man, to play with him, to crack open his skull to know what it was made off. Mozart's genius was everything he admired. If only the man knew how not to behave so childish in public, he'd be welcomed in the highest circles of aristocracy.

He furrowed his brow as abruptly there was no music anymore. Salieri blinked, coming down from his reverie. Everyone applauded and many bravos were shouted. Was it already over ? But… it wasn't enough. The younger composer smiled and bowed. Mozart hadn't noticed him.

"Thank you, thank you. It's always one of the greatest pleasures to play for you, dear gentlemen and women."

The applause continued and after another bow the composer left the room. People started talking again, some left; some stayed. But the sounds of conversation didn't still the bothersome emotion of unsatisfied hunger inside of him. It had been too short. Therefore he briefly wondered if Mozart was going to come back and play more. But it seemed like the younger man was not going to come back. Suddenly an aura made him aware of a certain woman, a woman who was apparently walking up to him. Her yellow and bombastic dress took quite the space and she had a mask she held in front her eyes. He had a bad feeling about this as she stopped right in front of him.

"Good evening, Herr."

He shifted uncomfortably upon his feet. She was already too close to him. But he knew he still could give different turns to the current situation. At least his face didn't show his discomfort.

"Good evening, Fräulein"

She giggled, he tried to truly smile at her, but she suddenly put her hand upon his arm. It took him everything not to push her away. He didn't like to be touched in the first place and a stranger's touch was the worst. She approached her mouth to his ear. He tried not to shudder in pure disgust.

"This party seems to become quite dull."

Salieri's eyes widened as she almost plastered herself against him. He tried to avert his eyes from the top of her breasts she displayed so shamelessly to him.

"Would you care to… go somewhere more intimate."

The last sentence gave him a jolt of adrenaline. Did she just suggest what he thought she suggested ? He almost brutally took her by the arms to shove her away from him. But Salieri was always in control of himself. He gently put his hands upon her wrists and forced himself to smile.

"I am so sorry, Fräulein. You are very beautiful and your charms are ravishing but sadly I am not interested in engaging such activities. I hope you'll accept my most sincere apologies."

Without any further words he escaped the woman's embrace and left the room. This was a very upsetting situation. He walked through the hallway, intending to find the door to the way out. He stopped to observe as to where he was and which turn he had to take next. It's then that he heard whispers from the room next to his right. He recognized that voice. A strange feeling crept up on him, his heartbeat increasing. In the end he didn't know which thought had steered him to put his hand on the door handle.

He froze, his whole body taken by the shock. There on the couch, almost fully dressed, was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, a masked young lady on his lap. Her long waving dark hair hung loose on her back; but between the locks he could see how her wrists were bound together behind her by a leather belt. She had a white ribbon between her lips, attached to the back of her head. Mozart had one hand upon her hip, supporting her with the back and forth movement. His other hand traced her upper arm, then her shoulder. He had his eyes closed, perhaps taking in the scent of her flesh underneath his nose. He leaned into her and kissed her on the clavicle; as he did this, his hand went to the nape of her neck. He tugged forcefully at her hair; an utmost pleasurable moan escaped the woman's lips. She grinded herself even more into his lap. Then two brown piercing eyes looked right into his. Mozart had opened his eyes, the dilated pupils focusing themselves on the other man. It was right there that he realized; how his own breathing had become erratic, how his own lips were slightly parted and dried out, how his fists were clenched, how his whole body felt frozen but also at the same time burning with heat; he realised how indisputably aroused he was.

His mind connected the last two remaining dots. A hellfire club, he was at a hellfire club. A gentlemen's club where libertines met to be able to abandon themselves to vice. Rosenberg had been talking more than once about it. How scandalous it was that such sinful place could exist here in Vienna.

Without his agreement, his feet turned him around and he started to walk away. He felt dazed, his mind lost in a fog. He couldn't hear anymore, everything had faded. He became aware of his surroundings again when he stood in his music room. His eyes wandered through the room, from his fortepiano to the stack of uncomposed music sheets on his working table. He walked over to it and took the symphony in his hands. They trembled; he flipped the first page; his feet gave out, he fell on the floor, tears running down his cheeks.

His tall stature stood proud, he was dressed in black as usual. His brooch was slightly crocked and more on the left. His dark cold eyes looked around as he played with the ring on his finger. He had left a few locks lose from his ponytail this time and I felt the deep longing to undo the ribbon of his hair creeping upon me. This man was unequivocally handsome in his stiff and reserved nature. I couldn't have not seen him when he had entered the room. My eyes locked upon his frame, he looked disoriented but not immediately uncomfortable. I knew that my words exchanged with Da Ponte would stir his curiosity. The right words in the right context and there he was. I briefly wondered if he actually knew where he was. He walked up to the fortepiano, he wanted to play, I could see that in the way he delicately caressed the keys. He turned around; apparently he hadn't seen me since he went over to the bookcases. Lady Leana was in my arms whispering the most unorthodox things into my ear. She had put her hands upon my shoulders, making sure I noticed the round form of her breasts. On another night I would have gladly accepted her seduction, I would have fulfilled every single fantasy of her. But not tonight. Tonight, I wanted to catch the cat that escaped each time I approached. I chuckled and laid a kiss upon her cheek, startling her. I stood up.

I felt his gaze following me as I sat down in front of the fortepiano. It gave shivers down my spine. I started playing. The most wonderful thing with a fantasy is that I could let my imagination go. I had made a small draft 2 hours before arriving. But everything was improvisation.

I played with my heart, letting my mind open, unbound by rules. My hands flowed as I recreated myself in sound, in the music that is mine. I am what I play, I am what I transcribe, every sound comes from my spirit and soul. I forgot where I was, who I was as I became one with my music. I let it flow like a untamed river. My fantasies, my art, coming to life once more underneath my fingers.

I finished rather quickly, the ending I had chosen was good. I didn't want to change it the slightest. The last note resonated in the room. I sighed with content and stood up to bow to my public. I caught a glimpse of him. He seemed dazed and lost. Lost in my music as much as I was when I created it.

"Thank you, thank you. It's always one of the greatest pleasures to play for you, dear gentlemen and women."

I bowed another time under the applause. I wondered what Salieri was going to do next. It seemed that he didn't want to make himself known to me or to anyone else. I decided to leave the room. If Salieri wanted to stay anonymous to me, there was no reason to stay. As an extra there was also Lady Leana asking too much of my attention already. I realized that I actually deeply hoped the Italian composer would explore more of the house. I knew he had liked the fortepiano; the way he looked at it had made me slightly jealous. I shook my head, jealousy was never the best emotion to have.

I spotted Lady Susan talking to another woman in one of the rooms. I smiled and walked over to the young couple. Her eyes, contoured by the mask, were piercing. We had shared several nights together last winter. Since then she had always craved for more. A few words were exchanged. In terms of sex I always was straight to the point and soon she followed me into the room that was reserved especially for me.

Susan was a beautiful woman. Her perky breasts and rosy nipples were exquisite and the patch of brown curls between her thighs hid one of the most delightful pleasures. But her hair was what I liked the most, dark and waving, feeling like silk between my fingers. Then there was her mouth, red with lipstick and with a tongue that rightfully praised me. I liked how she moaned as I bound her hands behind her back with my belt. How her blue eyes would say yes as I put the ribbon of her dress between her lips. How she'd submit to me, accept me as I inserted myself into her. How "Ah, Maestro!" breached her lips. Susan was truly a magnificent creature and I would devour her whole.

I heard him enter. I felt how the atmosphere in the room changed. How he froze. He found me and now I'd let him see, watch, observe, how I took control. I saw how the first thing he noticed was the belt around her wrists. I saw how his body became rigid, how his own lips parted. I saw how his pupils dilated, how his body reacted when I tugged on Susan's hair. His cheeks slightly flushed and the control of his breathing escaped him. His nails digging into his hands trying to fight his way back to reality. I laid my lips on Susan's clavicle and I looked him straight in the eyes. I saw lust, craving, arousal. His eyes told it all. His body showed me he wanted me more than anything. And when he realized that desire had immobilized him, he fled like a thief in the night.

I knew from the beginning something was off, when my compositions started to vanish and reappear the next day right where I had left them in my satchel. Even when I didn't need them, I saw that they were gone. I knew I was a chaotic man, but there has always been order in my chaos. What actually gave away that I had acquired myself a borrower was the peculiar fresh perfume I smelled right after the deed was done. A strange fresh addictive scent. When I saw that my music came back to me with no scratch or damaged papers I decided that the borrower was perhaps a mere admirer of my music. I wanted to start an investigation as to whom it was but one day at a banquet in a summer's afternoon gave me the answers I was seeking. I had by accident dropped my stack of music sheets on the ground. Salieri had come to help me gather them. His eyes had lingered a second too long before giving me the last part of the concerto. Then there was his scent, the same fresh scent of mint, invading all my senses. It's right there that I knew, my secret admirer was no other than my colleague and rival, Antonio Salieri.

I felt pleased and perhaps even flattered that the Italian composer was one of my greatest admirers. But the man was unapproachable. So I decided to observe him. It's there that a completely different man unfolded himself in front of my eyes. I saw how Salieri was more alive than what he wanted other people to believe. How he concealed everything behind his cold and distant nature. The more I watched him, the more I started to see the cracks in his armour. I saw how he lost himself in music, how his eyes lit up each time he finished composing something beautiful, how he turned into himself when he was hurt, how he was kind toward the staff of the emperor's house. What I also saw was how he always wanted to be in control. When I caught that peculiar and intriguing detail, I finally started to see in the depth of his soul and that his hatred toward me was just how he dealt with the loss of control he felt when I was around him.

We were two weeks after the incident at the hellfire's club and I was starting to get furiously annoyed. I heard Da Ponte talking about how Salieri seemed elsewhere lately. He came to the palace and left immediately after his duties were done. He never stayed to talk, was rarely seen outside of his music room and had cancelled all his dinners with the high society. People started to notice: Salieri was more distant than ever.

"You did well Johann, now start at the third musical stave and play with more vivacity."

The boy of eight happily complied as he replayed my sonata for beginners. The boy had a lot of potential, he had talent to become a real and renowned virtuoso; I was very glad when Constance agreed to let the boy reside with us. A wrong key was touched and I cringed. Well, he still had a lot to learn. I finished my lesson rather quickly. I had not the heart to teach today. The boy left the room when I gave him some last instructions as to what he needed to exercise for the next lesson.

Constance was going to visit her sister today, so our afternoon walk was cancelled. I was free to continue to compose the new piece of chamber music which I felt inspiration for. It would be a trio for clarinet, viola and piano dedicated to the daughter of my dear friend Nikolaus von Jacquin. But I knew immediately there would be no composing today. My mind wandered to Salieri again. I realized that my desire to see and touch him had increased these past few days. His addictive smell that stilled my most basic instinct was gone. I felt like I was missing something. That I was missing him; that I actually wanted and desired the man more than I wanted to admit. Perhaps I was losing control myself. I smirked, well then, it was time to take the control back.

He didn't knock, he only entered the music room without caring if its occupant had agreed to his intrusion. Salieri stood up from the fortepiano, startled by the arrival. No, he didn't want to see him, he wasn't ready.

"Well, it has been such a long time since we talked with each other Herr Salieri. So I thought I'd come by and pay you a visit…"

The younger man lingered a moment and locked his eyes into the dark brown ones across the room.

"And I also came to retrieve my 38th symphony, which you so keenly borrowed from me two week ago."

It felt like an explosive had been set off in the room. The atmosphere changed, it felt extremely heavy. Salieri tried as much as he could to hold his gaze. So the prodigy composer knew. He felt alarmed but also strangely relieved. In the end he averted his eyes. Mozart was still looking at him. He knew it, he felt it. The burn on his shoulders, on his face.

Flashes of what had happened two weeks ago came back to him. When he had come home and broken down on the floor. He didn't have a clue as to what was happening to him. He didn't know what he felt. He didn't know what he was supposed to think. He didn't recognize himself, he was lost, so lost he was crying for it. How long he had been clutching the symphony against his chest on the floor was unknown to him. But the tears dried out eventually. He started to feel a horrible headache and once the fireplace died out the cold came over him, he decided that he was too tired to lament himself further. His bed had been the most favourable option.

He had hoped that rest would come to him once his eyes closed but it was mere hope. When he reached the realm of dreams the images haunted him even more. He didn't get why, why seeing Mozart with that woman had been so upsetting. He tossed and turned, stared wide awake at the ceiling. But in vain, sleep didn't come to him that night; neither did it come the next. On the fourth restless night, when finally his eyes had closed themselves and his mind calmed itself to start dreaming; his body reacted, jolting him awake, he felt like he was made of fire, the pain, the heat in his body, he was aroused… and craving. Several times the remembrance of what had happened in that room had startled him awake –which had caused him to suffer from sleep deprivation- But this time it was different, this time it hadn't been to the image of Mozart and that woman. No, this time; it had been him. Him and Mozart. Mozart kissing his neck, his lips, tugging his hair, digging his nails into his hips. Mozart touching him there; strapping him down, looking him straight in the eyes as he made him beg and moan for more. In horror he had stood up, trying to distance himself from the bed, from the dreams. His guts felt twisted and wrong. He wanted to scratch at his skin, erase the feelings he was having. He had gone barefoot to his washing room and splashed his face with cold water. In the reflection of his mirror he had looked at himself. The incomprehension, the unknown, it scared him; what was happening to him? Why was this happening to him ? Why did it feel like his world had shattered in million pieces and he was unable to pick it up ?

The next day he went to the palace without any breakfast. He worked with difficulties, his mind kept him from immersing himself completely into the matter. He taught his students absentmindedly which resulted in one leaving his lesson earlier than expected. The small lunch he took later that day was the only thing where he got his energy from. Rosenberg had paid him a visit but the composer hadn't listened to one word he had said, to which the little man had taken offence and stormed out of the room. Salieri thought he perhaps should send a letter of apology to excuse himself for his rude behavior. Hopefully, the count would easily forgive him. When he came home Salieri composed until the moon was already high in the sky. He avoided sleep as much as he could, wanting to stay away from his thoughts and dreams as much as he could. Eventually he gave in and closed his eyes and fell asleep on his desk. But the dreams didn't leave him alone. He woke up for a second time. The ache in his back made it clear that there was no real purpose to staying away from his bed. He needed to sleep, otherwise he would become unable to perform his duties at the palace. He had undressed very quickly and tucked himself into bed. The dreams increased when the days passed by. Not even once he touched himself, he didn't dare to, not while thinking about that, and in the end it wasn't needed. He'd wake up with spilled sheets anyway.

Today wasn't any different from the others. He had woken up in the middle of the night from his own moaning and like every other night he had then walked to his washing room to splash cold water on his face. Looking at his reflection he realized that something had changed inside of him. He felt tired and empty, desperate. He was losing the fight against himself.

Now the haunter of his dreams was right in front of him. His mind flashed to his dreams. He internally shook his head with force. No, he couldn't nurture such filth, such disgraceful thoughts right now. Not with the protagonist of his debauched delusions in the room.

Salieri walked to his desk to take the symphony. His hands didn't tremble, which he was grateful for. He had his back to the younger man. That had been a mistake because the other man had walked up to him and caught him completely off guard. He turned himself to the Austrian composer, who was right in front of him -their bodies almost touching. The proximity made his pulse quicken. He felt bewildered, what sort of games was the man playing with him? He tried to find a way to escape but the prodigy composer put his two hands on the desk behind him, arms millimetres from each side of his body. Why, why was he still looking him in the eyes? He tried to calm his breathing; he could only take control of the situation again if he controlled his inner turmoil. He'd just need to tell Mozart to take his distances.

"Well, Herr Salieri, aren't you going to say anything ?"

His voice, sharp, hard, mocking, demanding. The older man tried to ignore the fact he, his body, was reacting to the sound of that voice.

"I have nothing to say."

He saw the smirk appear on the younger man's face. Mozart was leaning into him. A feeling of panic woke up in him, their faces were only inches apart and lips already too close. Their breathing conjoined and he became aware of the prodigy's spiced scent. He started to feel dizzy; the smell was making him feel drunk.

"Are you sure ?"

The hurricane of emotions didn't want to calm down. He closed his eyes. He pressed himself against his desk, a poor attempt to create a distance between him and the composer. He was losing all of his willpower, losing himself into the madness of the moment.

"I have nothing to say to you Mozart."

He tried to think. His lips moved but his mind was elsewhere, Mozart was too close. He opened his eyes again. But the piercing brown eyes were still there, baring his soul.

"If we keep our birds caged, will they ever be able to fly again ? When are you going accept you want me, Salieri?"

He felt the control of his face snap. His eyes widened in surprise. His mouth fell open. Mozart was leaning into him. But his lips never made contact with his. Instead he felt their cheeks pressed together. Salieri's hands now definitely trembled. He felt one of Mozart's hands touching his arm, crawling up, caressing his shoulder. Even through the clothing he felt burnt by the touch. His breathing had become erratic. The tip of his fingers traced his clavicle, neck, hair. They intertwined themselves with the ribbon of his hair. He mustn't shiver, he mustn't let see what was happening inside of him. A gentle tug made the bow come loose.

"You know where to find me," he whispered in his ear, leaving a brush of his lips on his cheek and with the symphony in hand Mozart just walked out. First there was nothing, his hair came to rest upon his face with a strange angle. His eyes wondered if everything had been an illusion.

And then suddenly everything cracked. He felt anger rising in him, goosebumps, the warmth of hatred spreading through his body. Hate and frustration, poisoning him, driving his hands. First he shoved his papers on the floor, the ink drenching the already written notes, he didn't think twice to step on them. He proceeded by flipping over his desk. The wood making a horrible sound when it collided with the floor. He picked up his chair and made it waltz across the room, it broke. A brutal and animalistic cry escaped from his lips as he fell on his knees, his hands gripping at the music scores he had just composed. He tore, crumpled, destroyed, until there was nothing left. His hair in front of his face, his eyes were full of madness, his pupils heavily dilated, his body, his ragged breathing, his control, everything was gone. The burning sensation of the hands touching his shoulders and the cheek touching his. He felt like a distorted puppet freed from its strings by a madman. But the worst of all, what made him feel even more grotesque, was the unmistakable erection between his legs.

The sound of the door opening made him almost jump in surprise. Lukas came in with a cup of black tea and a small sandwich. He had gone home after the incident, taken refuge in his music room. The butler walked up to his desk intending to deposit the tray upon it.

Back at the palace some servants, alarmed by the din, had come into the room to inquire if everything was alright. He dismissed them immediately, saying that no help was needed and that they didn't have to bother, he'd clean after. When he had come home he'd sat down at his fortepiano and played until the night had fallen. He looked at his music rack. He had played one of his old, unnamed, fortepiano compositions to find rest in his mind again.

"Do you think I'm a bad composer, Lukas?" he asked from behind his fortepiano. He saw his butler raise an eyebrow.

"Permission to speak frankly, Herr."

Salieri nodded. The butler deposited the tray securely on the desk.

"I have yet to forget the applause, the cheers and bravos that were given when you presented the beautiful concerto for flute, oboe & orchestra you composed, your first request as Kapellmeister at only the age of 24. 'Europa Riconosciuta' was acclaimed by the different courts all over Europe. 'La scuola de' gelosi' was performed more than sixty times and is still very much loved. Then you have : 'Les Danaïdes', your most recent success. This wonderful and magnificent opera is still the talk on the lips of the court of France, maestro. No, Herr Salieri I don't think you are a bad composer. You seem to always compare yourself to others, especially with that young composer Wolfgang Mozart. But what you seem to forget is that you yourself are a renowned and respected composer. Your compositions are celebrated and hailed by people past the borders of our lovely Europe. Your compositions will be remembered and praised through the ages. When Herr Gassmann, may god rest his soul, came back with you from his visit with Herr Mocenigo he said to me: this boy will do great things, he'll rise above so many others and he'll have Vienna in the palm of his hand. He will be one of the greatest composers of this time. No, I don't think you are a terrible or bad composer mein Herr. I think you are a modest, brilliant and life changing one."

What Salieri did next was a thing he hadn't done in the last fifteen years of his life. He stood up and hugged the man. The butler was really surprised by the sudden affective outburst from the master of the house. Antonio Salieri didn't like to show his weaknesses to other people. He softened, remembering the fifteen year old boy he saw having his first scowl, his first heartbreak, his first successful composition. The man had his talent and success seen challenged more than once. It was unordinary to give in to emotional outbursts sometimes, especially if the master of the house didn't have many friends to hold on to either. Salieri let the man go and for the first time in many years he saw how his Herr truly smiled to someone.

"Your words warm my heart, Lukas."

He took the cup of tea, drained it, ate his sandwich, and gave the tray back to the butler. He felt at peace, rested and actually content of himself.

"I'll be working very late tonight. I will not be needing anything else."

Lukas bowed his head and went his way. Right before he left he turned himself to his master.

"Mein Herr, would you like that I bring you another ribbon for your hair?"

The butler's observation felt like a blow to the heart. He had forgotten, for a slight moment, what had happened. His hand went to the locks of his hair, as a shiver went down his spine when he remembered how Mozart had stolen his ribbon, when he remembered how his body had reacted, his dreams. Strangely he didn't feel the crushing unrest and disturbance this time. There was no pandemonium, no whirlwind of emotions. He felt calm and serene, allowing his mind to open up to the truth he had been hiding from himself since the very beginning: he wanted it; he wanted it more than anything. Perhaps he had wanted it from the very first time; the very first time he had heard his music; the very first time the pain was the most pleasurable thing he had experienced. There was no point in fighting it anymore.

"I… Yes. And Lukas? Can you prepare the carriage? I have somewhere to go."

A good butler makes sure that everything gets in order in time. A good butler never asks why there was a change of mind. 5 minutes later when Herr Salieri came down, everything was ready. He gave the dark haired man his requested coat and a red ribbon. A good butler works swiftly and with discretion, and most of all, a good butler doesn't judge.

Salieri refused to think further than his arrival. Thinking and overhtinking would make him change his mind. He got out of his carriage. The young blonde servant was the one that opened again. He smiled and let him in.

"Good evening, Herr Salieri. We are very pleased to have you tonight."

The composer looked at him. That sentence had felt like something exceeding was implied but the servant merely smiled. Salieri walked up the stairs. It felt like he had known the way all his life. When he passed in the hallway he stopped right in front of the door. A moment of doubt took his heart prisoner. No, he shook his head, he wanted this. He had always wanted this. And it's with a pounding heart that he opened the door.

The room was lit more brightly than last time. Candles everywhere, the curtains had stayed open. He took the time to observe this time. There were two book shelves next to tall windows and the couch was in the middle of the room. It was made of dark wood and red velvet cushions. Mozart was sitting there, one hand in his hair and the other one holding a quill. He was scribbling notes upon white parchment. His white shirt was loosened, his waistcoat gone. The candlelight gave a bronze shine to his skin. The prodigy noticed his entrance immediately. He looked up at him and a smirk appeared on his lips.

"I am glad you were able to make it, Herr Salieri."

He stood up, moving as graciously as ever. Quill and paper were put away and he walked up to the older man. His heart had calmed down and when the prodigy composer stood right in front of him to look him straight in the eyes, he felt at peace. The man pierced him with his gaze; stripping him from shame, stripping him from guilt. His body relaxed and Mozart's hand came up to his face to caress his cheek, it felt warm and rough. It's there that a detail caught Salieri's attention. Around the other man's wrist was his black hair ribbon. The one he had stolen from him earlier that day. His train of thoughts got interrupted when Mozart's fingers brushed his beard, his jaw, his chin. The hand then rested on the nape of his neck. He inclined his face and their foreheads rested against each other. He laid himself bare to the prodigy composer. Mozart slowly closed his eyes and he did the same.

"Thank you."

That was all the younger man said. Recognition. They both opened their eyes. Mozart took a few steps back.

"Requiem, say requiem and you make everything stop."

Salieri nodded, he understood. Mozart smiled genuinely at him and sat down on the couch.

"Now, undress."

The older man took off his coat and hung it over coat rack next to the door. He slowly undid the buttons of his waistcoat. Mozart's eyes felt like they'd had already stripped him bare. He worked away the black brooch and at the same time he started to undo his shirt and neck-cloth. The younger man's gaze burned, it made his heart race. He let his shirt drop on the floor. He undid his shoes and unrolled his stockings. His feet touched the soft carpet. He never had set foot on someone else's rug. In any case, it felt different from the one at his home. His hands moved on to his breeches, they trembled. Salieri smiled internally. Patience wasn't always one of his virtues. Button by button he felt Mozart watching intensely. The younger man seemed not to want to miss one single movement of the occupied hands. Salieri knew that the staring didn't leave him indifferent and when he discharged his breeches, his growing erection was clearly visible. His cheeks flushed and he looked away from the Austrian composer. He felt shy, it was the first time someone had seen him naked in such a highly lit room, but Mozart's calm composure made him relax. Slowly he dared to look into the younger man's eyes again. They looked excited, controlled, alive and perhaps even tender?

The other man stood up and walked over to him. The same eyes lingered over his chest, stomach, hips, legs and looked back at his face. Salieri felt like a prey ready to be willingly eaten, he felt desired. Mozart walked behind him then. He closed his eyes as the fingertips of the other man traced his arms and his shoulders, goosebumps rising at the touch. When he used the palm of his hand on the nape of his neck his whole body shivered. He wanted to lean into the hand to increase the sensations it was giving to him. Then the fingers tugged at the red ribbon in his hair. The locks fell upon his shoulders. The younger man's hands caressed each side of his waist. He shivered even more, the warmth spreading in his body. He let out a sigh. It felt so good.

The younger man then plastered his back against him. A sigh got stuck in his throat to let out a moan. His pelvic started to feel like he was on fire, he felt himself harden. He was starting to lose the north. Mozart presented his hands to him, the loosened red ribbon between the fingers of his right hand.

"Switch them."

Salieri delicately took the hands in his. He undid the knot of the black ribbon around the wrist, gently rolling it up and laying it in the prodigy composer's other hand. He took the red ribbon and laced it in a bow where the black one had been. The younger man took a few steps back and traced his hands over the older man's shoulders. His fingers unfolded the ribbon in front of his face. Salieri understood and he closed his eyes as the silk made contact with his eyelids. Mozart tied the two ends together at the back of his head. The pressure made him sigh. His lips parted slightly. The loss of his sight made him more aware of every touch, especially the kiss the younger man laid upon his shoulder.

"You doubtlessly are a beautiful man, Salieri."

The imprint of his lips set his senses ablaze. He wanted more, more of those sensations; he leaned back against the younger man's warm and exhilarating body. The spiced scent taking him in, consuming him. Mozart then took possession of his wrists, making his arms fold against his chest. He felt safe, he felt good. And when the other man pressed their bodies together, his head rested against Mozart's shoulder, he let out another sigh. The other man laid his lips against the soft flesh of his shoulder again. His hands left his arms, they travelled downwards, to his waist, to his hips, to his stomach. He was almost arching himself in the touch, he felt like he was boiling from the inside.

Mozart took a step back. Salieri whimpered at the loss of contact. The younger man came to stand right in front of him. Skilled fingers encircled his wrists once more, the soft touch of silk joining them. A knot was made and a hard tug followed. A moan breached his lips before he could keep it in. His mind was clouded, the sensation of restrain had never been so arousing before and if his erection hadn't been fully erected yet it surely was now. His breathing became erratic as Mozart tugged on the silken ribbon once more.

"Kneel."

He complied, his mind disconnected from his body. The carpet felt soft under his knees. The other man joined him. He took the ends of the silken ribbon, and tied them into a bow. He then brought himself closer to him, both of his hands upon the sides of his neck. Salieri inhaled sharply when the thumbs caressed the underside of his jaw. They travelled upwards and traced the corners of his mouth. It felt so intimate having the prodigy composer's hands upon his face like that. Salieri's lips parted slightly and the tip of the thumbs became wet. If he had seen Mozart's eyes he'd see how suddenly the brown eyes had gotten hypnotized by the action. The thumbs left his mouth and two soft lips pressed against his. It felt warm, it felt welcome, it felt like something he had needed all his life. The younger man brought their bodies even more closer, his knees on each side of his. The touch made him drunk with desire. He wanted more and when the tip of the other man's tongue caressed his lips he accepted the invitation and let the tongue inside of his mouth.

The touching of their tongues made him moan. The other man tasted so sensuous and rough he felt like he was descending into madness. Mozart's tongue started to explore, licking every corner of his mouth and soon he was ravished as the kiss became more carnal. The hands travelled to his hair. They tugged at his locks, making sure that the blindfold stayed in place. Salieri cried out and when Mozart released his lips, he had completely lost his ground. The hands tugged once more on his hair, he gasped, moaned so loudly he surprised himself. The other man's lips laid themselves on his neck, they licked, sucked, bit the flesh of his shoulder and what came out of the older's man mouth wasn't a moan anymore, it was a growl, a growl which reflected such an animalistic urge. The hands left his hairlocks and went to his nipples. The jolts of pleasure assailing him made his hips move uncontrollably. Between the torture of his mouth and the restricting feeling of the ribbon around his wrists he didn't know what was happening anymore. His breathing was short and wild. He was desperately looking for some kind of friction.

"Please…"

He breathed.

"Maestro."

Mozart stopped the assault on his body and stood up. God, he felt dizzy and so, so aroused. He raised his head. He knew what was going to happen and when Mozart undid the buttons of his breeches he instinctively wet his lips. The younger man's hand laid itself upon the back of his head and guided him to the extremely erected and swollen member. Salieri kissed the tip, tasting the salty preseminal fluid upon his lips. Mozart tasted like heaven. His tied hands went to the shaft, holding it at its base. He stuck out his tongue and with the tip he let it trail upon the swollen member. The hand caressed his head, very pleased by what he just did. The thought made him want to please the other man even more. He flattened his tongue and licked from root to tip, taking in the taste once more. The other hand joined his tied hands at the base while the hand upon his head leaded him forward. The tip rested against his mouth before he let it breach the barrier of his lips. A sigh escaped from his Maestro. He liked the way the shaft felt in his mouth, against his roof, his tongue on the underside of the glans. Slowly he let the member slide between his lips and held the base with a steadier grip. He slightly sucked the tip and Mozart's bucked his hips, which made the older man moan very loudly. He felt awoken by new kind of hunger and went down the shaft again, his tongue pressing the member even more against the roof of his mouth. He applied suction and his Maestro inhaled sharply. It boosted his confidence, he was doing good. He went up and down again, trying to settle a rhythm and soon both Mozart's hands intertwined themselves once again with the locks of his hair. He knew it was becoming harder for the master composer not to move his hips to meet the movements of his mouth. He picked up a pace, his Maestro groaned. He was on the edge. His lips encircled the tip, his tongue licking the slit and he then sucked hard. Mozart let out a growl and his body became rigid. He liberated himself in Salieri's mouth, digging his fingers into the man's scalp.

Salieri tried to take everything in but he choked and the seed spilled from his mouth. The younger man smiled and took off his shirt and kissed Salieri on the lips before invading his mouth with his tongue, tasting himself upon the older man's lips. He couldn't help but moan as the younger man caressed his jaw. Mozart pushed Salieri on his back before joining him on the ground. The Maestro laid himself next to him, putting his forearm above the older man's head. Salieri forgot everything about the tingly sensations in his knees when a warm hand travelled from his hips to his stomach. He gasped, suddenly aware that he had been aroused this whole time as well. He laid his tied hands upon his chest to give better access to his body. Mozart then took his blindfold off. He blinked, his vision was extremely blurry, but he recognized the frame of the other man. Mozart took him in hand and Salieri arched his back, panting more than ever. He was close, so verdammt close. The thumb massaged the preseminal fluid around the tip. His body jolted, arched, looking for more. The pace his Maestro took was a slow one, the hand moving up and down, slightly twisting when coming back up. It made him growl, moan, cry and he was about explode. The other man kissed his forehead and he came, hard, really hard. His whole body was taken over by spasms, spreading the feelings of bliss. His breathing was erratic and his mouth extremely dry. He didn't know what made him voice what he had buried into the depth of his soul.

"Your music is sublime."

The words did not surprise the younger man and he only smiled as he saw how tears formed themselves in the corners of Salieri's eyes. The older man inhaled sharply, trying to keep in the sobs that were threatening to come the surface.

"Let it go, Salieri."

The sentence wasn't even finished and the man broke down in a wailing cry, a cry of desperation, the cry of a broken soul. Mozart took his head into his lap, knowing it would help the man calm down. He undid the knot of the man's tied hands. Liberated, the older man encircled his waist clutching to him as if he was his only hope of salvation. He cried and screamed as he felt reunited with himself, his emotions guiding him. His fear, his pain, his relief finally laid bare to the eye of the Austrian composer.

The younger man smiled with affection and whilst sitting he took a woolen blanket from under the couch to cover the man's naked body. Quite some candles had burned down and he knew that the room could get very cold very fast. His hand played gently with the loose hair locks in front of him. He didn't say anything until the calmness had returned to the Italian composer. Salieri's breathing steadied gradually and even the sobs died out. He looked up, his vision had come back bit by bit and now he could see his caretaker's face again. He moved his arm from the waist and his hand went up to the hair, the cheek, jaw of younger man. As if to assure himself the other man was real. A handkerchief cleaned cautiously the corners of his mouth.

"Can you lay on your back?"

His voice was soft and delicate. He complied and laid on his back, the blanket still upon his body. The younger man stood up and took the rest of his clothes off, the nudity not bothering him at all. He walked to the couch and took one big velvet cushion as he came back. He kept smiling at him when he softly picked up his head to put it on the cushion. The younger man settled himself beside him and took him into an embrace, rearranging the blanket upon them both.

There was a short silence. Salieri's head laid on the younger man's shoulder. He felt calm but a sensation of wanting to suddenly flee was lurking. This wasn't right, this want good, what in god's name had he done? Mozart felt the negative thoughts appearing into Salieri's mind and he started to talk with a calm voice:

"Salieri, listen to me. You will never trust a man as much as you trusted me tonight. You've given yourself to me, despite the turmoil of hatred towards yourself. You're afraid, afraid not to be good enough, you suffer, you agonize and whilst you see failure in yourself I see something else. I see someone who is mature, respected, talented, adulated by the court of Vienna and far beyond, I see compositions that are products of hard work and wit, I see a man who became Kapellmeister because of a unique musical gift. You are everything I want to be. But you let dark thoughts cloud your judgment, you've let yourself live in my shadow and you have let it fade you away. But not tonight, tonight you've been brave enough to show me the man you are inside, you've not been a disappointment, and you never will be. You truly are one of the greatest composers of our time."

He didn't know what to say or feel. The words sounded so false in his head. A part of his mind said he had imagined them and the other part hoped desperately that they were true. He furrowed his brows.

"Do those words have any layer of truth in them?"

The other man chuckled, his brown eyes becoming playful.

"I always mean everything I say."

He fell quiet but didn't think further. Right now it was easier to just accept the words.

"So what will happen now ?"

A smirk appeared upon the other man's face. He kissed his forehead and looked into his eyes.

"We'll let fate decide. But I wouldn't be against seeing you again."

The end

Author's note :
I did a lot of research for this fic. I am, myself, a student of classical music (if you're wondering which instrument I am studying Opera) I choose to test my knowledge and how well I mastered it. I am sorry if there are any errors in the technical babble. Last minute I also saw that I made an error in the timeline. I am sorry if you've felt any bothers when you encountered them.