Beethoven cracks his eyes open slowly, blinking at the gentle, pale white light seeping into the room. The heating is still turned down, meaning it is very early, and the duvet is pleasantly cool over him but not cold. He stretches one foot idly, and then the other, yawning widely - he probably resembles a very large cat with shaggy white hair.
Despite the early hour he feels refreshed and awake, so he makes no effort to go back to sleep but instead rises - there won't be anybody else up at this time, so he might as well stay in his sleepwear rather than waste time getting ready yet. With a soft grunt he lifts himself up off the bed, quietly making his way down the hall.
The hall light is on as always, the brightness clashing with the paler wintry glow. Beethoven hasn't noticed until now, but it seems that they have had a sudden bout of snow overnight - he almost doesn't recognise the garden with it. He goes into the kitchen to get a hot drink and perhaps get a better look at the snow - it is times like this when, depsite his brisk nature and fast-paced lifestyle, he can take a breath and step back to look at the bigger, more beautiful picture.
To his slight surprise, Beethoven sees Schubert at the counter, stirring a cup of tea with a spoon. He knows that the younger composer is something of an early riser, but even he wouldn't normally be up at this time.
Schubert turns around and startles, almost dropping his cup. Beethoven hurriedly takes half a step forward lest he needs to catch it, but Schubert manages to right himself. He calms, drawing himself up slightly more, but still manages to look marginally flustered. He takes several steps, setting out for the direction of the living room.
"So sorry, Senpai! Don't worry, I'll just be out of your way-"
He is cut off by Beethoven's arm in front of him, preventing him from progressing any further. Beethoven turns to look at him, eyes softened slightly at a sleep-rumpled Schubert in a dressing gown the exact colour of his coat, eyes still slightly bleary, clutching a cup of green tea.
"You'll do no such think. Do not fret, Franz - it was not my intention to startle you."
Schubert's eyes widen slightly, and he opens his mouth to protest against disturbing the man he admires so. Beethoven silences him by moving the arm to rest on his shoulder with a gentle but firm grip.
"Stay. Please."
Schubert looks like he might still argue, but then the tension in his frame begins to ebb away as his shoulders relax. He nods once, and makes his way back to the table as Beethoven drifts over to the window. He rests both elbows on the counter, peering out at the pristine low of the snow covering the house and garden. The cello-shaped pond is iced over, causing Hasshie to retreat from his usual domain and huddle under the porch. At Kanae's request, Liszt had built him a small wooden lean-to in the corner of the patio and placed a portable heater inside it - the stubborn bird had refused to come inside.
The snow covers the stone walls, transforming them into slabs of white marble, and a large mound of snow has piled up outside the gates - Kanae will most likely not be going to school today. Beethoven has cast his eyes down to the window boxes on the outside sill, calculating how long until the snowdrops begin to grow, when he hears a soft clearing of the throat, and turns.
Schubert has risen from the table and is holding out a delicate china cup filled almost to the brim with green tea, a tentative smile on his face. Beethoven returns the smile, also with a hint of gratitude, and takes the cup. He walks over to the table and gestures for Schubert to sit back down, sinking into one of the chairs opposite his.
Franz watches hopefully as he takes a sip of the tea, the peachy aroma wafting around the room and softening the edges of both their consciousnesses. Beethoven's breath is an almost inaudible sigh as he drinks - it tastes sweet and almost nutty, the tip of his tongue detecting a hint of liquor. Suddenly everything seems lest sharp and crisp, rather more warm and rounded.
As their eyes meet once more and Beethoven carefully sets the cup down, Schubert finally breaks the silence.
"Is... Is it to your liking?"
Beethoven nods. "This is good - very good. Thank you again, Franz."
He sees the slight quirk at the edges of Schubert's mouth at the fond use of his first name - nobody else ever seems to use it, and even Beethoven isn't always sure why he differs from how the others address the younger composer. "May I ask where you got it? I don't recall seeing it in the house before."
Schubert nods, clearing his throat more out of habit than necessity. "I acquired it at a small tea shop a few streets away. I recently saw a vacancy there for a few hours of work each afternoon - it doesn't earn an awful lot, but I suppose it is some form of income for the landlady, and I'm given a sample of the stock at the end of the shift when there is enough to go around. This particular brew is known as Dragon Well - I'm quite fond of it."
Beethoven nods in acknowledgement, listening closely - Schubert's voice is hushed and softened at the edges by the soothing effects of the tea, and scarcely echoes even in the small kitchen.
"I'm sure the girl is pleased that one of us is paying the rent. She seems to have given up hope on getting anything from the rest of us - you are a generous and hardworking individual, Franz."
Schubert fidgets slightly in his seat, staring into the dregs of his tea - but Beethoven can tell by the almost-blush and the light in his eyes that he is pleased. He wishes the other would look this way more often, rather than keep up the irritable, worshipping facade he so often wears during the day.
"Well - that is, if you'd like, I was wondering..."
"Yes, Franz?"
Schubert finally looks back up at him, with anticipation clear on his face. "If you wanted to, I would not object to having some company down here to share a cup of tea with in the mornings. It... Occasionally feels a little too isolated even for my taste."
Beethoven looks at him with interest - he can read the offer's plea for understanding, hear the evident longing for a companion that the other man feels he cannot voice. Perhaps he thinks he has already shut himself off from socialising on a casual basis too much to go back now. He reaches out and places a hand on Schubert's wrist.
"I understand the feeling. It is perfectly fine to be alone - it can even be what one needs to heal, sometimes - but being lonely is a part of it best avoided."
That is the last significant thing he remembers them sharing before the rest is a haze, only punctuated by their muttering about anything and everything. Gradually, Beethoven feels his consciousness beginning to slip as Schubert's is, until in the end he realises that his head is resting on one of his arms on the table, one hand still wrapped around Schubert's wrist. The younger composer has leant slightly closer since they began to doze off, and with that knowledge and a feeling of warmth inside of him Beethoven for once fully relaxes and lets himself drift until he has sunk into the darkness.
This is how Kanae finds them some hours later, having slept in longer with the knowledge that she will most likely not get to school today. She shakes her head, pouring herself a coffee and heading for the stairs again, before stopping momentarily. She looks back at the two of them, and makes up her mind.
The two composers wake as they fell asleep - sitting across from one another, leaned forwards until their heads are almost touching, There are two differences, however - each of them has a blanket draped over their shoulders, and Schubert's hand has moved slightly until they are both gripping one another's wrists.