Salieri watches as Mozart’s wide eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile formed on the musician's fairy-like face as he stretched out on the bed like a kitten. It was deeply upsetting to Salieri that the other man looked so heavenly after the night that they had just had. If it wasn’t bad enough that the sight of Mozart looking like that made him feel things, Salieri wanted to slap himself for reminding himself of their sinful activities the night beforehand. Because that made him feel even stronger things.
The memories caused Salieri to cough uncomfortably with a flush, interrupting the silence that the room had established before. He took a sip of the hot cup of black coffee in his hand, gripping it so tightly that the risk of breaking the handle was a genuine concern.
Mozart seemed to finally realize that he was not alone and moved his head to look to the side directly at Salieri with his head still resting on the pillow. His head of golden hair messily stuck out in all directions, his lips red from previous trauma, the skin on his neck was bitten badly and looked like a sunrise on the composer’s pale canvas of skin. Salieri wanted to curse his own heart for skipping a beat.
A part of him felt satisfaction and happiness because it was he who had made Mozart appear so wrecked. The smile on Mozart’s face only widened as the other seemed to realize who it was that was also in the room with him.
“What are you doing here?” Mozart asked languidly, making Salieri want to engulf the other in his arms once again at the tone of Mozart’s sickeningly soft tone. His words slurred together like the flowing notes in his symphonies, evidence of the fact that Mozart had only just woken up.
Salieri stares, unblinking at the endearing imbecile in front of him. “This is my house?” He replies questioningly.
“Oh. Right.” Are the gentle words that Mozart says like he had forgotten where he was and Salieri had finally jogged his memory. There’s a monumental sequence of things that happen next because then Mozart seems to eventually process the situation he was in and the expressions the young composer was making honestly amused Salieri more than he thought was possible. Well, that was an understatement.
Mozart made Salieri feel more than he thought he could feel in an entire lifetime. It was to where he had separated his life into two halves, before Mozart, and after Mozart. He had been bitter prior to meeting the other man, and bitter still after having met the other man. Yet it was different because the bitterness afterward was caused by a maelstrom of emotions that Salieri didn’t understand and still didn’t understand fully, emotions such as affection and jealousy that had confused him to no end.
But was it foolish to say that life was better with Mozart around? Could he, Antonio Salieri say such things? How could he dare to hope that happy days with Mozart will continue on?
Despite that, he takes another sip of his coffee and takes a deep breath as he feels the sting of the near-boiling liquid against his tongue. Mozart is experiencing some strange mental montage he observes because the evidence is plastered on the eccentric musician's face. The once neutral drowsy expression of having just woken up was gone, having been replaced by a sleepy smile, then for a look of realization and utter surprise, to a look of absolute embarrassment, and so on.
"Mozart? Are you alright?” Salieri asks as he places the cup of coffee on his work desk, balancing on his heels as he uses his now free hands to push himself off from said desk. He takes two long strides and arrives at the edge of the bed, where Mozart lays with cheeks redder than a tomato. When they make eye contact, the other somehow gets more red, if that were even possible. Mozart’s eyes widen and he brings a hand up to cover his face with before Salieri reaches over and stops Mozart’s hand mid-motion, holding onto the other’s wrist tightly. “Mozart?” He asks once more.
“It’s just that—last night was wonderful, but I want more than just occasional hookups, Maestro! And if you never see us being some more than just this, then please tell me now so I can leave your home with at least some of my dignity, which you know I also have little of anyway but—” Mozart rambles, raising his other hand up to make dramatic emphasis for his words.
Salieri doesn’t know if he’s ever seen the composer like this before, a strange mix of emotions being represented on his face and in his tone that seemed so far off from the confident Mozart that Salieri knew on a day-to-day basis. He sounded unsure of himself, and Salieri wasn’t sure that he liked it. He also thinks that he would prefer it if they didn’t just have occasional hookups, as Mozart had previously said.
Salieri sighs heavily and leans down, pressing his lips against Mozart’s and he instantly regrets not having done this earlier during Mozart’s rant. If he had known that it was this easy to shut Mozart up, then he would have done it earlier. The man under him lets out a surprised noise but melts into the kiss. The act seems to last for hours and Salieri doesn’t want it to end, but he separates himself from Mozart’s soft lips. The other looks breathless and wrecked beneath, so small and fragile. “Does that help?” Salieri asks gently.
Mozart’s signature smile blooms on his face, and Salieri thinks he could get used to being blinded by the musician daily. Mozart nods enthusiastically, his nervous features relaxing. Salieri smiles, and when had he become the man who smiles, does the only thing that he can think of at the moment, and decides that he would kiss the smile right off of Mozart’s face.