CHOPIN / LISZT SLASH.

THE MUSE

He the silent man: pensive, sweet, a little brooding and melancholy at times. He with the curl of hair playing about his forehead, the angel's smile, and heavy, lidded eyes. When he played the piano, his hands caressed the keys like a lover, shaping landscapes and new tonalities. He painted his worlds in lacey veils and whimsical sighs.

But Franz was different. He was cosmopolitan, a wicked, envious smile and sleek hair, and he loved to experiment and forge forth. He loved newness and raw energy, painting his music with shock and excruciating difficulty. No one else was like him, the virtuosic pianist, the magician.

And so Franz had everyone, but Frederic.

The best he could get was Frederic's acquaintance.

They wrote and discussed music together, supposedly musical rivals in the small-minded salon world of Paris. The critics were forever contrasting Liszt's technical flair with Chopin's delicate, almost frail intimacy. And Franz could never truly understand this phantom-like figure some called Freddy, and others Chopinetto – this bothered Franz, who had plenty of women in his favour and sometimes even men. Well, Frederic had his new friend, or mistress, or whatever she was now. (They said she lay beneath the piano when Frederic played, soaking in the sound. She was crazy in her own right, but brilliant). And what an interesting pair they made – she, George Sand, the fierce and cigar-smoking writer, and Chopinetto, the pensive and androgynous man. Together, they looked almost like little brother and older sister. Sometimes Franz wondered if he had made the right choice, to introduce her to the pianist. He had done so out of whim, thinking it was high time Frederic found himself a woman. But sometimes Franz wondered if he had introduced her because of this slight little shadow, or impression, in the back of his mind.

That George, or Aurore, now kissed that dear pianist's cheek, and perhaps even knew his body in the heated night both fascinated and sickened Franz. There were rumours that Frederic was unusually cold, ungiving to women, and perhaps – for all his feminine ways – who knew? Sometimes at midnight, when Franz himself sat by the piano, he visualized – with deliberate unclarity – his good friend Aurore, loving the find features of his beautiful, androgynous, near-angel.

Franz could only keep sane because he had never, and never would, approach his platonic, bluestocking-writer friend. But the occasional contact he had with Frederic – the brotherly handshakes and goodbye hugs – only left him wanting more.

Then, the Countess D'Antan, in an attempt to cultivate herself, invited some of the leading artists and thinkers of the Parisian salon to her country estate. As luck could have it, she had Frederic and Aurore, the painter Delacroix, the poet de Musset, and Franz himself to entertain her with their newest artistic attributes.

One night, after dinner with the Duchess and other guests, Frederic slipped away as soon as the dishes were cleared. The Duchess clucked obstetrically, but Franz entertained her with such a grand and humourous childhood anecdote that the rest of the guests were soon consumed with laughter

You couldn't blame the poor man, thought Franz. But soon it too, was time for bed. The Countess herself would wander off with Delacroix, and Musset to his next satirical play. Meanwhile, Franz had the night to himself to do whatever he liked.

He wandered down the long hallway, thoughtful, until he heard the music come from the locked door. It sounded like a piece of the night, as though someone had taken down the moon and rendered her into music.

It was Chopin's room.

Again, the music stirred in Franz. He knew Frederic liked gentle harmonies, small touches of chromaticism and falling harmonies, gossamer textures and songlike melodies. The nocturne he was playing at the moment lilted gorgeously, and Franz secretly wondered if he would ever perform it someday. And why couldn't he? Any pianist would have vied to have his works performed by the great Liszt.

To Franz's surprise, the door was ajar, and so he peeked in with all the expertise of an experienced lover. He saw darkness. Then, the shape of a grand piano, lit by the gentle orb of a single candle. The candle cast light on him too – face, hands. Frederic's profile was half-veiled by shadow, his eyes closed as he rocked in rhythm to his music.

And his shirt was, quite deliciously, unbuttoned. The social restrictions of the lace cravat, white gloves – tossed away. A lock of hair tumbled down his face.

I could get Delacroix to paint him sometime. Right here, in this moment.

Franz took a breath and dropped his cigarette case on the floor.

A clatter. The music jolted, Frederic was looking up, eyes wide. "Who's there?" he called. "What's going on?"

"Oh God! It's me, Franz. I saw rat just now, a fat little thing – and in the Countess' house, too! I tried to follow it, and dropped my case by accident. Ah, I'd hoped I wouldn't interrupt-"

"Ah. That's fine. I thought it was something else, for a moment. But I see it's only you, Monsieur Liszt."

Franz pushed the door open and, in a smooth motion, entered the room and closed it behind him. Now his face was hid in half-shadow, very strategic. Even the way Frederic had mouthed his name – well, it confused yet also piqued him. For a moment.

"Was that a new piece, the song you were playing?"

Something flitted in Frederic's eyes. "Yes. It will be a nocturne once I flesh it out completely. I think. I suppose." He lifted his hands off the piano.

"What I heard so far was quite lovely." Then Franz wished he hadn't said that. But as he continued, he stepped closer, and his voice rose a little higher. "In fact, I have been thinking of performing one of your pieces in public sometime, Freddy. It would honour me very much, that is, as long as you're fine with my offer!" and, grinning his flamboyant smile, Franz stepped over to stand beside his friend.

Frederic nodded slowly, pensive. Then he said, at last, "Well, it would truly do me much honour."

"Yes, it could be a salon, a smaller setting as fitting your music. Plenty of ladies and their men, the high society. I could play a newer pieces. Maybe even your nocturne."

It seemed like he was, finally, processing the offer. It was the offer of a great friend. Frederic said nothing again. Then at last, "I – I'm flattered, Franz. I don't know what to say."

"Say 'thank you'."

"I would. But – how should I explain it? It's an unfinished nocturne."

"Finish it, then."

Franz bent over to peer at the manuscript. He was inches off Frederic's shoulder, and his long hair barely grazed it.

"As in, it will be unfinished. I have the concept in my head, sketches of the beginning. I play the opening bars over and over and yet... they go nowhere. If there's a voice in my head, or a Muse, it's silent."

"Then maybe, you just have to liven her up."

"The muse?"

"Yes, the woman, the idea, the poetry, or whatever that keeps you going. Perhaps."

Frederic turned a moment and his eyes met Franz's now. Something wistful crept into his gaze, this bewitching man. As though he wanted to say something, but couldn't. And Franz met his eyes, one hand on the arm of the piano, not challenging, just direct. Then Franz broke the gaze, shifting away towards the music.

"But then again, that was just an idea. There's no need to perform if you don't want to. No need to force out that Muse."

"That's not the problem."

Oh? Franz thought as he leaned against the piano. And the dark eyes were on his again.

"I am fine with all manners of performance, Franz. You'd do better than me, honestly, anyways." Frederic paused. "But sometimes I wish, if only, there was this additional element…"

And so Franz lifted his hand and slowly touched his hand to the composer's cheek

Frederic stilled for a moment, stunned. He made a sound but all that came out was a whisper, perhaps an affirmation. Franz lowered his hand a bit and trailed a finger down the man's cheek, watching him all awhile, a smile on his lips. He paused just at the hair, by his delicate temple.

Then he lowered his hands to Frederic's. His, long, lean, and majestic, over Frederic's smaller ones. Still touching, he guided those fingers to the piano and felt, through them, the monochromatic ivory beneath.

"Franz," he said.

"Like this?"

"I would think so."

Franz smiled as Frederic began to play, shaping once more his haunting melody. His hands, though petite, stretched immense expanses over the keys, sketching out the beginnings of accompaniment.

"You think this would work?" Frederic murmured.

"Why not try this? A little more direction here. You could explore a new theme, modulate, or such," Franz touched his hand over Frederic's again.

"I don't even know."

"You'll find it. You were always in tune with your own music, like a poet. All you had to do was find the right words."

"And all you had to do," Frederic spoke as he shaped the music, further, and the harmonic wandering began to take structure, "Was take the music and give it wings."

Frederic closed his eyes. Their lips met, Franz's hair sweeping past his shoulder, warm and familiar. Franz did not see stars, he never did. He only heard the melody of now, the soft cadenced breathing between them.

"Yes, wings," Frederic whispered as he parted his lips. His mouth was warm, his tongue light, as Franz held him. He was not even a bad kisser himself, not inexperienced. All this crossed Franz's mind as he smoothed over the man's shoulders, his chest, the deepness of his waist. Frederic's words were slurred, delicious, as he spoke between the kisses. "It was always – so much easier – for you to find your muse, Franz…."

"Not always."

"She came when you called. All the ladies came when you called."

"No," Franz touched his friend's belt and slipped his hand beneath the thin shirt. "I worked long and hard for it. Imagine all those concerts, and all that practicing! You'd forget about the Muse after awhile. She'd be nothing more than concert bills."

But even Frederic, too, was reacting, his hands in Franz's hair, smoothing down the collar of his shirt. Frederic moaned a little, but maybe it was his quickened breathing – he was never robust, and his health complications sometimes worried Franz. But all this only tantalized Franz more at the moment. He kissed more deeply, warmer.

Frederic jolted as his arm knocked against the piano side. But he was falling into the heat of the moment in his own shy way. Franz took Frederic's hands in his once more and leaned the smaller man towards the keyboard, until his back almost touched –

Clang!

Keys jangled. Frederic bolted upright. He brushed his friend's hands away, turning.

Franz stood upright himself, breathing. He smoothed his hands down his rumpled shirt.

Again they looked at each other, in silence. Then Franz spoke.

"Well, that was that, I suppose. You have your piece to finish, it's getting along. I won't disturb you."

Frederic reached inside for words. "Yes, I have my piece to finish."

"Just lay out some thematic materials, before you fill it out," Franz continued, but the words felt dry in his mouth. "I know you're meticulous with your writing, so that wouldn't be a problem."

"Yes, of course, certainly. I'll get to it right away." The candle flickered, casting their reflections onto the black piano. Then they had a mutual understanding, realizing how absurd both looked all the sudden. Franz burst out laughing first, and Frederic followed gently. When it ended, Franz strode towards the door but not before sweeping one last glance, over his shoulder.

"Frederic?" He said.

"Yes?"

"When you find your muse, tell me."

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