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Figaro has been a success, storming through the Viennese crowds, causing them all to adore Mozart that much more.
Unsurprisingly.
The fact that this is the case has left a bitter taste in Salieri’s mouth that he doesn’t seem to be able to get rid off.
Also unsurprisingly.
And yet, when Salieri receives an invitation to a celebratory party – because, while his relationship with Mozart is miles away from amicable, they seem to have come to a point where they aren’t constantly at each other’s throats at least, though it does still confuse him a little – he decides to attend.
To keep an eye on the young composer, to figure out how to take him down, he tells himself, and to plant seeds of doubt amongst the nobility.
Or, at the very least, to enjoy his night, drink some good wine, perhaps seize some sweets…
This goal of his proves difficult – not for the lack of drinks or refreshments, there are, in fact, plenty – but due to the way all people here praise Mozart, enamoured with him, his music and charms, as he obliges to play for them, all eyes on him.
Antonio doesn’t understand how they cannot see beyond this mask, how they let themselves be affected by the, to be fair undeniable, pull the little man has, his easy smile which brightens up the room and his talented hands which compose the music of the heav–
No, he doesn’t understand how they don’t perceive that Mozart is truly just an irresponsible man-child of poor morals.
And yet despite this, Salieri’s eyes linger on Mozart, just as everyone else’s do, only darting away when the young composer, occasionally, returns his gaze.
When he arrived – early, too early to evade Wolfgang even if he'd tried particularly hard – he was welcomed in with a grin, a quick exchange of pleasantries, but before Antonio could even congratulate him on his success, – or ‘congratulate’, that is, spew bitter passive-aggressive comments, not that the man could tell the difference – Mozart was already off to greet other guests.
Come to think of it, it was probably for the best, because even that short interaction had Salieri questioning his decision to come, words freezing in his throat without warning.
Now, he’s been attempting to distract himself, picking up a glass or two of red wine to drink, joining conversations here and there, gravitating to smaller groups, and all in all having a fine night; after a while he can even drown out the piano and the irritating laughter…
No–
There is no music or Wolfgang’s voice anymore.
Odd.
As much as Mozart has an infuriating tendency to run off to wherever he wants whenever he wants, he isn't someone who would want to miss his own celebration.
Antonio gives it a bit of time, his eyes shifting around the room to look for him, in a hopefully unnoticeable manner, but when five, ten minutes have passed, he excuses himself from the current conversation.
He slips from the lounge, where most people have crowded, but he doesn’t find Mozart in the game room next door or in the surrounding hallways either, and the question of ‘where and why the man could have gone to’ gets that much more insistent.
Why?
Well he wants to congratulate him on the opera, of course, and hasn't got the chance to do so yet.
Of course.
He wanders through another hallway, alone now, and although he knows that practically none of the apartment has been set off limits, he feels as though he is intruding. Still, he ventures forth.
Salieri has never been a particularly curious man, but following Mozart around has become a sort of habit for him; normally when it comes to music, yes, hidden behind doors during rehearsals, unseen in his box during concerts as he sits covered by the curtain… but looking for him now also regards to music, he’s already convinced himself.
He spots a half-empty bottle of wine on a hallway table, with Mozart's obnoxiously flashy frock coat lying on the floor right next to it.
He blinks, mind already turning to rationalize, it is quite the hot night after all, or perhaps Mozart got too drunk and headed to bed, yes, and Salieri is just wasting his time here–
A noise as if something has fallen interrupts both Antonio's movement mid-turn – he was going to return to the party, he really was – and his thoughts.
It came from a door just past the table.
Before he even fully processes it, Salieri’s hand is on the door handle.
Some inexplicable pull to investigate what Mozart is up to; maybe he is in need of assistance, maybe he has found some 'assistance' from the women attending – the thought comes quick and uninvited, leaving a sour aftertaste –, maybe this is simply Salieri’s mind playing tricks on him.
A split-second decision, which barely feels like his own, later, Salieri has opened the door, stepping into the room without a second thought.
His jaw drops.
Lo and behold, Mozart is, in fact, in the room, a small study turned storage room by the looks of it; pressed against a wall, hands scrambling around – and likely having knocked down the book that now lies on the ground – shoving his tongue into the mouth of–
Da Ponte?!
Antonio can do nothing, a breath catching in his throat.
Luckily the noise seems to be too quiet for the pair to notice him, with them being too busy making out like their lives depend on it.
This–
Salieri isn't naive, he knows that there are men who seek out the company of other men, against the law of the country and of God, and, frankly, that Mozart is one of them is almost fitting.
Of course he is; just another addition to his obscenity, another sin the vulgar man commits and despite them all he stays in God's good graces…
Da Ponte's involvement does come as a shock, though, but perhaps it shouldn't – in the back of Salieri's at once frozen and raving mind appears a memory of their meeting, Da Ponte's irrefutable interest in Salieri that went far beyond professional, which at the time he couldn't make sense of.
And now–
Antonio realises in horror that not only has he been staring, but also heat has risen to his cheeks.
He should go and– and–
He steps backwards, unwittingly, and his back hits the door.
When and why has he closed the door?!
Instantly, the couple breaks apart, whipping their heads around.
He is damned.
The second their gazes meet, Da Ponte turns away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, as if that gesture could erase the evidence of what has just occurred.
Salieri wishes that Mozart would do the same, that he could slip out the door and they would all pretend nothing has happened – but of course the young composer stays exactly as he is, staring with wide eyes.
Antonio is frozen in place.
No words, no actions, no nothing can explain his continued presence, but he cannot move, pinned to the ground with the intense look. Wolfgang's hair is mussed and his chest heaving with short breaths and his lips seem redder than usual and why is Antonio noticing any of this?
He wants to disappear, wants to become invisible or for the ground below to open up to swallow him, wants–
"Maestro?!" Mozart exclaims, finally ending this spell of silence.
"Mozart!" Salieri answers, part genuine not yet processed shock, part a mocking imitation.
Da Ponte clears his throat. "Salieri, mio amico, it's not– I mean, it is, but…"
"Da Pon–… Mozart??"
"Maestro Salieri…" Mozart repeats anxiously, but when Salieri still doesn't move, he blinks away the panic from his eyes, giving way for curiosity to enter instead.
"Lorenzo?" he says, breaking their little chain, and a giggle escapes him, as he moves to give a peck onto Da Ponte’s lips again, much to the apparent annoyance and glee, both somehow, of the latter.
Mozart's gaze returns to Antonio's, eyes narrowing just a tad.
In an effort not to squirm at the intensity, Salieri's own eyes dart downwards and instantly widen.
Mozart's shirt is untucked, half of the buttons of his breeches undone…
Such indecency.
Antonio feels himself grow a few shades of red darker.
Promptly he looks back up. "I was– I have been looking for you, Mozart," he mumbles, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his coat.
"However," Salieri quickly adds, seeing Mozart's eyebrows rise as if intrigued, "it seems that you are… busy, so I should go."
"Nonsense!" Mozart says, stopping Salieri before he can even turn around,
"I mean– My plans can surely wait a moment…"
'The plans', that is, Da Ponte, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, to which Mozart simply grins.
"Tell me, why were you looking for me? Quite diligently, I must add, to find me here. I'm dying to know."
Antonio's mind searches for the reason that it has so helpfully thought up before.
"You– I– You invited me here to celebrate the success of your work," he says.
He tries to put on the mask of composure he's so used to wearing, but his inability to look at Mozart for long – gaze darting to the floor, to Da Ponte, anywhere else, really, before his eyes unsurely seek out Mozart's again – certainly betrays him.
The two other men are polite enough not to mention it.
"And I wanted to… I mean, I find it only appropriate to congratulate you on said success and I haven't yet had a chance to do so."
Mozart tilts his head before his grin widens.
"Oh, Maestro, I am infinitely flattered! The reception by the entirety of Vienna has been stellar," he boasts, adding, "Like I expected it would."
"Wouldn't be quite sure about 'entirety', Wolfgang," Lorenzo says.
"Fine. All the people that matter then, I don't care about the idiots who refuse to see the genius of my work and–"
Da Ponte cuts him off with a quick kiss, into which Mozart melts, much to the disgrace of Salieri, who decides it's as good time as any to go… and yet his hand does not find its way to the door handle and he just lets out a shaky breath.
"There are few of those whose opinion I truly value. What did you think, Maestro?" Mozart asks.
Antonio stares blankly for a moment, before his brain registers that he's being asked a question.
"I– Uhm– It was certainly something new. Effective, I have to admit…"
He decides to leave out the part where it felt like the music had replaced the blood in his veins, each chord one beat of his heart, and also the part where he cursed Mozart all the way to hell and back for it.
"I can understand why the public has found enjoyment in it."
Mozart laughs, incredulous in nature.
" 'Something new,' 'effective,'… See, Lorenzo? Even Salieri here 'has to admit' that it is a masterpiece."
"Never said it wasn't."
"I didn't say…" Salieri begins but trails off, because, once again, Mozart's tongue has found its way into Da Ponte's mouth and it doesn't seem like he is listening anyway.
Why do they keep doing that?
"Why do we keep doing what?"
Oh. Oh no.
Salieri did not mean to say that out loud.
Words freeze in his throat.
Mozart's eyes glimmer, a corner of his mouth raising up in a sly smile.
"This, you mean?"
He moves to peck Da Ponte again, who evades the attempt, a halfhearted scolding "Mozart…" leaving him – but he does not try to dodge the second one.
Salieri crosses his arms, an instinct to protect himself from… something.
If looks could kill, he would have likely had to bury Mozart a thousand times over, but, as it is, he can only settle for the daggers in his eyes being metaphorical, his jaw setting as the younger composer faces him.
"Because, well, I enjoy it and Lorenzo enjoys it, simple as that. Why, do you mind?"
"Do I–? Yes, I mind! It's– It's sinful and it's wrong and–," Antonio starts, stumbling at each word.
"And?"
Mozart's teasing tone only intensifies Salieri's exasperation.
"It's illegal and against God, Mozart! You could be sent to prison and that you would lead Da Ponte down this path is even worse. How can you do this to him, to yourself, how can you do this to your wife?!"
He is breathing heavily by the end, shaking with anger and surely just that.
Momentarily, Mozart's eyebrows furrow, as if confused.
"I can assure you that Stanzi is perfectly fine with this – in fact, she is just as likely to have found company tonight as I have…"
She knows?
That– well, no, that is not all that surprising, when it comes to it.
If Mozart is able to be anything but fully and stupidly sincere, Salieri has not seen it happen. The fact that she doesn't mind, however…
"And, in any case, why do you care? Not God, not law, not society – you."
"I– As I said you could… I don't–"
"Why do you fret so much? You did not run out for the police, you did not run out to tell my wife, no, you stayed. The way you don't look away as you feign your disgust… you seem all but jealous. One might almost be led to believe that you have never kissed anyone."
With each word smugness returns to Mozart's expression and by the end of it his lips wear an insufferable self-assured smirk and his eyes are blazing.
"What–" is about as much as Salieri can get out before his mouth refuses to cooperate.
How does the little man dare, he will ruin him, he–
Da Ponte hums.
"It is true that I cannot recall a single time I have seen that happen, not once since having met you. Now, of course I have not been in your presence at all times, mio amico, but…"
Salieri huffs, shooting Da Ponte an angry look to which the man responds by apologetically raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
Antonio would defend himself… the issue is that Da Ponte isn't wrong, exactly.
All the very limited experience with pleasures of such kind that Antonio does have comes from his early youth, still in Italy, as after arriving to Vienna he's committed himself to God and to his music.
And admitting this, that it has been two decades since he's kissed anyone, somehow feels even more embarrassing than letting Mozart believe he's never done it at all.
"No wonder you're always so pent up…" Wolfgang says; and, heavens, is it pity in his tone, amongst the sickening sweetness of mocking?
Salieri will never live this down.
"Would you like to?"
"Like to what?" Antonio responds with a question, to double-check what he means before he allows himself to react to it, because surely, surely, Mozart didn't just imply–
"Kiss someone? Specifically right now, more specifically me or Lorenzo here." Mozart answers, his voice light and jovial, most certainly boosted by the liquor he has consumed over the night, as if he isn't suggesting that Salieri partakes in such a sin
Salieri's eyes widen and he nearly chokes on his words. "Shut your mouth at once! How dare you even suggest that I should-"
"I'm not saying you should, I simply asked if you wanted to – it seems like you might, the way you keep staring. I, for one, would certainly like to, you're very handsome after all, and I can't deny I've thought about it before."
Very handsome. Thought of it before.
What–
"Mozart! Let the poor man be, for God's sake," Da Ponte chimes in, blessedly taking away the expectation of Salieri giving an answer.
Mozart pouts, clearly put-on as his eyes still sparkle. "Wasn't it you, dear Lorenzo, who told me how much–"
He cuts himself off with a giggle at Da Ponte raising his hand in a warning.
"Besides… I think it would be of great benefit. Always so composed, always abiding by the rules. It must be exhausting and…"
The end of that sentence is lost to Salieri, because Wolfgang leans in to whisper it to Da Ponte.
Whatever it is, it causes the latter to shudder, closing his eyes when Mozart's lips touch just under his ear.
Antonio is fighting not to react the same at simply the sight.
"I suppose…" Lorenzo says then as he looks at him again, his voice just a tad rougher, "that it isn't the worst idea under the sun."
Et tu, Lorenzo? Salieri thinks briefly.
Such a betrayal deserves a proper response; however, words are of strikingly low supply right now and he ends up just opening and closing his mouth, wordless.
Mozart grins and starts slowly walking towards him.
"What do you say, Maestro? Would you allow us to aid you with loosening your stiff morals, to teach you to let go a bit…?"
If it is at all possible, Salieri blushes further.
Mozart's tone is teasing and playful, sure, but there is a quality to it that hits him somewhere deep and low, and his eyes, blazing like two hot embers, melt away at Salieri's walls of ice.
What he says is nothing, which Wolfgang seems to take as… if not as a 'yes' then certainly not as a 'no' either, his steps stopping just shy of 'too close.'
If Antonio were to reach out his fingers would likely touch Wolfgang's chest, would feel it expand and contract with each breath, would feel the pulse of his heart. Could grasp at his shirt and–
Salieri swallows dry, feeling as though his own widely-beating heart is lodged inside of his throat, and takes a step back. His arms are crossed, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeves in an attempt to get a hold on himself, but with Mozart so close slipping his mask back on proves impossible.
"Wolfgang, are you sure…?" sounds from Lorenzo; the voice of reason – even if it is clear that he's putting himself into that position by force – after all.
But when has Mozart ever listened to reason?
"Quite sure, yes," he responds with a smirk.
"Despite what you might think, dear Salieri, I don't throw myself at people without thought. I would not have suggested anything, have I not believed you wanted it too."
"I do not–" Antonio answers automatically, anger bubbling up once again, or, more an echo of it, another emotion masquerading as anger.
Which one it is, he is not sure.
Fear perhaps, not of Mozart, out of all people Salieri certainly isn't scared of him, the fact that he has to shift his gaze away momentarily notwithstanding.
It's just… the way the man is studying his face, as if he can see through and inside of him, uncovering secrets hidden even from Salieri himself.
"No?" Mozart says, eyes following the lines of Salieri's body, too slowly to be by mistake, "I would say that your interest is pretty evident, Maestro. But…"
Too busy contemplating his emotions, Antonio hasn't given much thought to the state of his body, but the words, Wolfgang's eyes, make him observe himself.
Quick pulse, shallow breaths which hitch in his throat more often than not and just the slightest weakness in his knees.
His face, tips of his ears even, feel hot and he realises, flustered, that his cheeks are not the only place to which blood has rushed.
Uncrossing his arms, he hurries to cover the… predicament, but stops his hands half-way, grabbing at his frock instead, in an effort not to draw any more attention.
Mozart bites back a chuckle, but it doesn't seem unkind.
Salieri's lower lip is drawn ever-so-slightly between his teeth.
And his eyes are, for a change, fixed on Wolfgang's lips – how long has he been staring?
Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight a bit and makes an effort to meet Mozart’s gaze. "I– Even if I did, that would be… wrong."
It is Da Ponte who replies.
"So you've explained, however, sometimes our selves don't align fully with this stilted morality… Tell me, am I wrong for this, then? Do you consider me lower now, a wicked man?"
His lips dare quirk up into a smile, that bastard, proud of this low tactic.
While Salieri is quick to gossip – a skill needed to survive at court – and even quicker to judge, in Da Ponte he has found a friend, an actual friend. He wouldn't denounce him, not for something that is, in the grand scheme of things, truly inconsequential, and Da Ponte knows it.
"I do not, I just…," Antonio says," It's complicated."
'Complicated' doesn't even begin to cover all that Salieri thinks and feels, from what has been instilled in him since birth to what he barely started admitting to himself in this very moment, but he can't say all of that either, so it has to suffice.
"I wouldn't say that it is, really," says Mozart, because of course he does, the fire in his eyes now softer, more just a warm glow, almost calm, "one feels desire and acts on it, simple as that. Doesn't hurt anyone..."
"…and brings you pleasure. And there is nothing wrong with wanting that, mio amico. Just some fun," finishes Lorenzo, voice dropping lower at the end, seductive.
The fact that there is two of them, Antonio considers deeply unfair, eyes darting between them. Twice the power to overwhelm him with pretty sounding words and pretty–
His mind goes a little hazy as he tries to push away the thought. Absentmindedly, he licks his lips.
Mozart takes a step closer to Salieri – who does not back away this time – seemingly bored out of his mind having to wait a few seconds.
Surprisingly enough, though, he stays silent, and it is precisely this quiet closeness that drives Antonio to retort, part of him unsure whether he wants to retort at all.
"It's still a sin."
"Who cares what- never mind," Wolfgang begins.
"It's not as if you're the married one here, who would be committing adultery. And we aren't talking about sodomy, either, are we? Just a simple kiss."
He says it in a tone that conveys he is perfectly aware that his interpretation of what constitutes as 'sin' is… liberal, at best.
And yet–
"What's a little affection between friends?" Mozart muses, then, slowly raising his hand as if to stroke his cheek.
Reflexively, Antonio grabs his wrist to stop him, letting go almost instantly, the mere touch burning, heat spreading up his arm and to his chest.
But, the age-old bitterness within him stirs, and before he can think to stop it, the words are already spewing out of him.
"We are not friends."
Mozart's wide eyes lose their glimmer in an instant, followed by his smile turning into a pout – a real one this time.
This–
Antonio curses himself.
He did not intend to–
"Mozart, I…" he mumbles, unsure how to continue, so he just looks down, unable to meet the sadness in those eyes.
Are they not friends?
Well, they aren't enemies, despite Salieri's envy working to convince him of it.
They aren't indifferent even if at times they pretend.
And yet, friends? Not exactly… on the path to it, maybe?
There is something connecting them, perhaps since the first day they'd met, that has been the reason behind their eyes keeping on meeting in hallways, too often to be accidental, that had fuelled their rivalry with heightened emotion, that drove Salieri to secretly seek Mozart out; something that compelled Mozart to send out the invitation, that made Salieri accept it, and that now urges him to apologize.
But, before he can do so, Wolfgang recovers, remarkably fast and well.
"Maybe not in your eyes, Maestro–," he says, that teasing tone of his slipping in again at the title.
Salieri's gaze snaps back to him.
"–but you and Lorenzo are, are you not? So, if that's the only issue, then him and you…"
The question of why Mozart is so adamant about Salieri kissing anyone, even if not him, briefly crosses Antonio's mind, but he is in no state to ponder that.
He looks to Da Ponte, who simply raises a brow and smiles a bit, warmly; not pressing. Inviting.
"I– I mean," Antonio tries, "Of course that's not the only issue… I shouldn't– I cannot want that."
His jaws tightens.
It feels almost pathetic, that he seems unable to get out a single coherent sentence, but the mockery he fears doesn't come, only the sympathetic looks from both men.
"You don't have to," says Mozart and in the same breath crowds Salieri's space further, very much giving impression of the contrary.
His hand moves and Antonio's heart skips a beat as it just so brushes against his coat, separated by the layers of fabric and yet close to the skin of his ribcage, in which that very heart resides – but it continues, grabbing at the door handle.
"The door is unlocked," he says, turning the handle as if to demonstrate, "You could have left at any time."
His tone is mostly teasing and accusatory, as if Salieri's continued presence is evidence of… something, but there is that ever-present sincerity of his, too.
Wolfgang leans in even closer, almost whispering, "Nobody is holding you here," after which he backs away.
Salieri would beg to differ, that there is someone holding him here, but the fact is that it's himself and saying that would be admission in and of itself.
He inhales slowly, forcing down the quickly diminishing part of himself that tries to convince him he is 'supposed' to leave, and stays as he is.
"You can stay and just watch, you know? I'm sure Wolfgang wouldn't mind," Da Ponte suggests.
"Lorenzo!" Mozart chides with feigned shock and a wide grin he doesn't care to hide. "And to say that I am the one corrupting you… tsk tsk."
He lets out a giggle in which Da Ponte joins him, but it dies down quickly, the grin turning more into a sly smirk.
"You could, I most definitely wouldn't mind having your pretty eyes watching me. Or, dear Salieri, you could give in to your desires. Believe me, it can be so. Very. Gratifying."
His eyes, little flames of yearning dancing in the darkness, his words, like honey dripping down those sinful lips and a little rough on the edges.
"I don't know–"
Antonio swallows, forcing his breathing to slow down, looking at the ground.
Does he not want this?
He shouldn't, but–
But–
Suddenly, Da Ponte walks up to him, and takes his hands in his own to steady them – Salieri didn't notice they were trembling – asking, softly, "Is this alright?"
Antonio nods, or he thinks he does at least, the pressure of the hold grounding him and making him hazy all at once. Slowly, he dares to meet Lorenzo's eyes, welcoming, calm; if his own reflect a tenth of what he feels, it is too much.
His friend is smiling, a reassuring kind of smile, and lets his gaze drop to Salieri's lips, and Salieri mirrors this, feeling the heat of Lorenzo's breath on his cheek, the touch of their joint hands; close, but, he realises, not close enough, and in this moment he wants, oh, he wants, and so he whispers a breathless "Yes" before the scared part of him can stop it, and Lorenzo leans in and–
It's not so much a kiss as a peck, really, their lips barely brushing together, painfully gentle and considerate; Salieri has to tighten his hands around Lorenzo's to not crumble.
The heady feeling that enters his mind, working to push away uncertainty, the slight pressure of the satin soft skin and the tiniest hint of sweet wine, the care with which he is being handled; it feels... good.
Despite his doubts, despite his fear, despite being taught to judge these desires, to put them into a box and bury them deep inside, and even though – or perhaps because – it is a sin.
It feels good.
It's everything.
A moment later the feeling is gone, leaving Salieri with parted lips, stunned, Da Ponte looking at him out of attentive eyes.
Salieri's hands slip from the hold – no longer trembling – and his right comes up to press against his mouth as he gulps and clears his throat. Not to wipe away the kiss, no, rather to press it further into his skin, not to be forgotten.
He realises after a moment that both men are looking almost expectantly at him.
"So?" Mozart asks.
" 'So?' What do you…? I don't know what to say," Antonio starts, words escaping his grasp.
"So, did you like it?" Mozart specifies, "You seem like you enjoyed it at least. I, for one, certainly enjoyed looking at it. Though, well, I would have preferred to–"
"Wolfgang," Da Ponte says with a little laugh, giving Salieri a kind look, "Please let the man breathe for a second."
"But–" is all that Wolfgang manages before his protest gets cut off by Da Ponte, who pulls him in by his lapels and shuts him up with yet another kiss, one that looks… a bit less gentle than the one Salieri has received, but no doubt at least as enjoyable.
"It is incredibly rude to interrupt people when they speak!" Mozart complains as they part, pouting – prompting Salieri to share an incredulous look with his fellow Italian, because, really? – but his expression quickly turns into a grin and he takes a half-step in Antonio's direction.
The way he very nearly bites his lower lip… if Salieri didn't know better, he might think that Mozart is nervous, but the glint of his eyes betrays seduction.
"I just– I just find it a bit unfair that you've given Lorenzo a kiss but not me; don't you want to? Besides, you might like another kissing sample, non? To compare?"
Salieri fights hard to keep down both the gasp and the scoff that threaten to escape him, at the suggestion and the 'explanation', respectively.
The thought of kissing Mozart… it stirs something within him, something deeper, along with 'mere' desire. And yet…
"I– I'm really not sure if I, if that– Mozart, why would you want…?"
Wolfgang's hand, quite suddenly, comes up to cup Salieri's cheek.
"Please, Antonio, just the one? I promise I won't mention it ever again."
His eyes are impossibly big, pleading.
The usage of Salieri's first name is entirely disarming – that is, if he had any defences left standing at this point.
After all the years of resisting his desires, he is, for the second time this night, going to give in, that much he knows. He wants, wants to feel good again, wants to touch the young prodigy, wants to taste those insolent lips.
And so, he gives a curtly nod, as if he were doing Mozart a favour and this wasn't exactly what he longs for, has been longing for, as well.
Mozart doesn't wait for more and kisses him – and, heavens, he kisses him.
The sensation, the taste of Wolfgang, wine and stronger liquor and something else, entirely of his own, sweeter than any chocolate Antonio has ever eaten, the careful urgency with which he holds Salieri's face in his hands – it brings Antonio's heart to its knees.
If before it felt 'good', then this is stellar, and will every subsequent kiss feel even better?
Every subsequent kiss?
Suddenly Mozart darts his tongue between Antonio's lips, and like a spark igniting him, a wave of fire rushes from that point of contact through Antonio's whole self, leaving him pawing uselessly at Mozart's chest and gasping against his mouth, more, oh heavens, more.
And then, tease that he is, Wolfgang pulls away, taking a step back.
Salieri is horrified by the loud whimper of protest that escapes him at this.
Mozart, on the other hand, seems perfectly pleased with himself, short breaths coming out his parted lips.
"Thank you, Maestro," is all he says, blinking through his eyelashes, and after that stays uncharacteristically, infuriatingly, still and silent, perhaps waiting for a response.
But Salieri doesn't have a response, every thought inside his head having melted, evaporated along with his doubts, and all he can do is yield to this desire.
He crashes their lips together in an instant, swallowing the surprised 'ah!' Mozart lets out as a result, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.
Mozart reciprocates soon enough, kissing him with fervor, and there is the fire again, heat in Antonio's cheeks and spreading downwards to his chest, heat lower still, his arousal even more evident than before.
And Salieri realises that he's been wrong – he's thought Wolfgang to be an angel amongst men, chosen of God, or perhaps a devil, but the man is nothing short of a succubus, once again teasing the seam of Salieri's lips with the tip of his tongue and Antonio lets him in, opening his mouth on a cut-off gasp.
After a while, Salieri, regrettably, has to pull away – to breathe, yes, but also not to fully fall apart as he stands, leaning on Mozart's shoulders for support, inhaling slowly.
"I only asked for the one – don't get me wrong, though, I am not at all complaining about this development," Mozart says with a smirk.
All that slips past Antonio's lips is a needy whine, "Wolfgang…" and while he doesn't say it, the 'please' in his voice is clearly audible; begging for Mozart to cease the teasing, begging for him to continue, begging to be let go and to be held tighter.
His tone must be at least half as pitiful as he feels, because Mozart is merciful after all, eyes flickering between amused and sympathetic as he brings his thumb to run along Salieri's lower lip.
"For someone this inexperienced you are quite the natural. And eager, it seems…," Mozart remarks, "You know, if you wanted more, you need only have asked, I am more than happy to provide."
As if to prove that, he leans in to place a soft kiss, just at the corner of Salieri's lips.
But Antonio has had enough of softness, enough of teasing – with a sound, that, were it be louder, could be classified as a growl, he snatches Wolfgang's wrist to shove it aside and claims his lips properly, with a ferocity that surprises himself, pushes into him, making him take a half-step back to not falter.
The sudden energy melts immediately as Mozart meets him in a short but brutal kiss, even more so when his free hand slides into Salieri’s hair, pulling him away, holding it tightly enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain all the way down his spine.
Another almost growl forces itself out of Antonio's throat and he tries to chase Mozart's lips again, but his efforts are halted.
Wolfgang's eyes sparkle intensely, desire, fascination perhaps, and he, experimentally, pulls a bit more, making Salieri shudder all over.
"You like this, then, dear Antonio?"
"I- uhm, I believe I do… yes," he mutters, compelled to tell the truth, casting his gaze downwards under the weight of oddly pleasant embarrassment.
His honesty earns him another kiss, Mozart gently biting down at his lip during and, oh, that feels magical. They break away, but Wolfgang stays close, placing kisses along his jaw.
"Should I give the two of you some privacy, then?" Da Ponte asks from next to them, all of a sudden, only half-joking based on his tone.
Right.
In the midst of it all Antonio might've momentarily forgotten that they're being watched.
Their eyes turn to find Lorenzo with arms crossed in front of his chest, casually leaning against the wall, a perfectly genial smile on his face and only his dark eyes betraying his enjoyment of the 'show'.
"I don't see any reason for you to leave," Mozart says, "Do you, Antonio?"
Salieri shakes his head almost instantly.
"Very well. In that case, would anyone mind terribly if I were to join back in?"
At that, Mozart laughs, bright and loud – why, exactly, Salieri doesn't understand – so it is Antonio's job to give a proper response.
"Join us, Lorenzo." And then, so quietly he's not sure he says it at all, "Please?"
In a second, Da Ponte strides the short distance between them, and in two more, his lips are firmly pressed against Antonio's – with more abandon than before, rougher, yet still quite soft, and maybe that's simply how Lorenzo likes to kiss, searching mutual satisfaction, giving and taking interchangeably, in just the right amount.
Salieri dares to lick at his lips, earning an appreciative hum, and then Da Ponte pulls away, seeking out Wolfgang's lips instead; and the sight, oh, just like before when it started all of this, sends a wave of pleasure through Antonio's body, his knees growing even weaker, his cheeks even redder, and his pants tighter.
His lips part on something between a sigh and a whimper and before he knows it, he is being kissed again. This time it is Mozart claiming his mouth – yes, claiming, because, that's simply what he does, is it not? Claim.
His tongue is pushing into Salieri's mouth, a hand once again slipping into his hair right at the base of his skull, taking – and Antonio lets him take, anything he wants, gives it freely, trying to mirror his movements, his fierceness.
At first he doesn't realise it, only when he very nearly stumbles over his own feet does it dawn on Salieri that Mozart is pushing him backwards again, and he's allowing this, being moved like a rag doll; and he knows he will curse himself for this behaviour later, but right now his mind is hijacked with the taste of the young genius on his tongue and any pretence of composure or common sense is long gone.
They part just as Antonio's back hits the wall.
"Wolfgang–," he begins, a bit startled, meaning to figure out Mozart's intention – but that becomes clear even before Salieri gets an answer, his body automatically leaning backwards to steady himself, taking some weight of Mozart, who shoots him a wide grin.
"Feels like the ground beneath your feet is liquid, doesn't it?"
Salieri can only nod.
"That's quite normal. So I figured it might be a bit easier like this…" Mozart explains, prompting Da Ponte, who closes in on them, to chuckle.
"Sure… Beside the practical reason, though, it seems that he quite likes the sight of you like this. Trapped," Lorenzo murmurs, as he trails his knuckles over Salieri's cheek, and it causes Wolfgang's eyes to double in size and Antonio to nearly choke. "And I think I do too."
Whatever ungodly noise was about to leave Salieri's mouth gets muffled by Lorenzo's lips.
They stay like that for a time, trading kisses, soft and quick, long and passionate, quiet sounds, hot breath, the taste of the two men so intoxicating, and after a while Antonio can't be certain as to whose lips are pressed against his at any given moment; but it doesn't matter, he needs it, needs to be kissed like he needs to breathe air, like his very being is kept alive by the sweet sensation.
Someone's – Mozart's, likely – hands travel to unravel his cravat, unmake the top few buttons of his shirt, slow enough to allow for protest, but Salieri is well past wishing to protest.
Their a gazes meet during a break for air and then the younger composer places a soft kiss right over his Adam's apple, making Salieri swallow, the touch sending shivers through his skin, and when Mozart traces the tip of his tongue along his jugular Antonio nearly blacks out, a high needy noise escaping him, how dare he, how dare he stop.
Salieri tilts his head backwards to provide better access.
Lips, teeth, tongues, on his own lips, in his mouth, on his throat. Mozart biting down at his clavicle, Da Ponte sucking at the tender spot just below his ear. Working relentlessly to render him pliant, weak.
He gasps out of surprise, followed by a groan, when something suddenly presses against his need.
Antonio's eyes rip open – how long have they been closed? – to meet Lorenzo's apologetic expression.
"Oh, I didn't mean to…" his gaze darts downwards and Salieri's follows it, down to where Da Ponte's leg has slotted in between his; pinning Antonio to the wall with his knee, making him that much more realise the pulse of desire in his groin. He feels submerged in lava, hot all over, feverish, he needs, he needs–
"I tried to hold you up better, and didn't think to think, apologies," Lorenzo says, starting to move his leg back away, "I will just–"
"No," shoots from Antonio's lips, almost panicked, not quite a yell, not quite a whine, and then, right after, a choked out "Please…"
He turns his head away from Lorenzo's attentive gaze, from the words already forming on his lips, only to lock eyes with Wolfgang, who swiftly, yet gently, grasps him by the jaw to halt him from looking away again.
"Is that what you would like? Are you quite sure?"
There is no teasing in his voice now, just pure sincerity, his only goal confirming that Antonio does indeed want this, and that makes it worse, he is being so considerate now, they both are, and Antonio might just cry.
"Wolfgang, please, I need–"
"Shh, alright then. You don't need to beg, love, we will give you all that you need. Right?" Mozart says, eyes twinkling, causing Salieri to have to bite down a whimper, his breathing hitching as a part of his mind realises the word 'love'–
But then Lorenzo hums in agreement and puts his leg back, turning and moving a bit to find a different angle, a better angle, and in face of the maddeningly glorious pressure returning to Salieri's need, everything else becomes marginal.
Antonio, quite unceremoniously, simply starts rutting against his thigh, undignified and led by lust, needful moans spilling past his lips, as they continue to take him apart.
He is, in fact, trapped, deliciously trapped, trembling, his desires laid bare as if he were cut open, out for anyone to see and it doesn't take long at all, merely a moment or two, really, before he feels the twinge low in his abdomen, rare but not entirely unknown, that has him move his hips that much more desperately.
"Look at me." A soft whisper of a command, all of a sudden.
Salieri obeys – though he struggles, shivering under the care of Lorenzo, who places gentle bites under his jaw – opening his eyes, blinking away the tears which have apparently rimmed his lower lash line, and is met with Wolfgang's gaze, misted over with lust but there is… affection, too.
"You're beautiful," Wolfgang breathes, lips brushing Antonio's own, before he kisses him properly.
It is this simple stimulation, somehow, that pushes Salieri over the edge. He chokes out a broken moan-sob, swallowed by Mozart, as the wave of pleasure overtakes him and he spills into his briefs.
As he shivers through the remnants of his orgasm, he nearly collapses against the two men, head slumping down to rest on Mozart's shoulder, and then there is a hand gently carding through his hair, and another, squeezing his shoulder.
His racing heart rate begins to slow down, the quiet words – of praise, comfort perhaps? – he hears at the edge of his consciousness calming him further. For a moment, which seems like seconds and eons all at once, he feels at peace.
But, as the haze of desire begins to clear from his mind, the part of him able to feel shame, which has been silenced, quickly comes back to hold the reins, and he suddenly feels quite mortified about this whole ordeal, how selfish he's been about pleasure, chasing it like a whore, just how quickly he–
"I'm sorry," is the thing he says, mumbled into the younger composer, and it slips from his mouth quite unconsciously.
"Hm? In the name of everything holy, what are you sorry for?" asks Mozart, guiding him to lean back against the wall again so they can see eye to eye.
Salieri blushes, resisting the urge to close his eyes, and as he is unable to speak words, he just weakly gestures at his whole self, hoping to get the point across.
"Oh, don't be sorry about that at all, mio amico," Da Ponte smiles softly, "It's only natural, when you are… excited." The steady tone of his voice is so convincing that Antonio is compelled to feel reassured, just like that.
With an expression that clearly tries, and fails, to hide a wide grin, Mozart ghosts his hand over Salieri's groin. "It's a compliment, really," he says, and then, with a gleam in his eyes, "It's also an honour, Maestro, to have brought you so much pleasure."
Antonio just shakes is head and lets himself be embraced again. At peace.
His thoughts, steady and slow, dare to start wandering and he realises the time that must've passed since he had left the party, and how it might seem, and he needs to get home–
He pulls away, clearing his throat. "I do not to mean to seem ungrateful but perhaps… perhaps I should get going now? No, thank you, I would prefer to spend the night at my home, I think" he says, already anticipating Mozart's coming suggestion.
Mozart sighs, letting his arms fall down to release him.
Da Ponte just nods. "If you wish so, then it might be for the best to leave now, yes. Sadly. But first…"
His hands come to smooth over Antonio's clothes, lingering as he buttons up his shirt again, bringing a handkerchief to wipe the thin sheen of sweat from his brows, helping him regain composure.
Then, he leans in closer, pressing a perfectly innocent kiss to Salieri's cheek, a common farewell, one which Antonio reciprocates, leaving his fellow Italian with a contented smile.
Salieri turns to Mozart then, again, and has a million words on his tongue, but the prodigy looks at him so kindly, out of big eyes, that it knocks all the air out of his lungs, and all the words go away, leaving him to blurt out the first thing that comes to his mind. "Wolfgang, I'm sorry I said we weren't–"
He doesn't anticipate – though maybe he should, given he's seen Mozart and Da Ponte do it so much today – being interrupted by Wolfgang's kiss… but he isn't complaining.
"Don't even mention it," says the young genius when they part, smiling in a way that doesn't fully reach his eyes, or perhaps Antonio is just imagining that.
Salieri takes a deep breath, somehow nervous about this, of all things, before he answers. "I just meant… We could be friends. Officially. If you'd want to." Inadvertently, he fiddles with his cufflinks.
Mozart's smile widens and, yes, his eyes sparkle now, joyful. "I'd like that very much."
Antonio mirrors his expression, and they just look at each other silently for a moment, before one more burning question arises in his mind, one that he asks looking at Mozart uncertainly through his eyelashes.
"Good. Uhm, and, well… these sort of… activities, are they a requirement of being a friend of yours?"
He says it as a joke, more than anything, but he does wonder if maybe, just maybe, he'll get to taste him again, outside of this night.
Wolfgang laughs, bright and ringing, and Antonio wants to steal the sound, replicate it in his notes, write a symphony just for him, but there is no time to think about it, for Wolfgang calms enough to respond.
"No, not at all. Unless you wish for it, then I would be more than happy to indulge... Discreetly, of course."
"Of course," Antonio nods, and concludes that the warmth in his cheeks might as well be permanent, in Mozart's presence at least. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Da Ponte smirking at them, like he knows more than the two of them combined, but decides to pay him no mind.
There is a moment during which Salieri collects all the courage he can, during which Mozart seemingly makes a decision as well, and they both lean in at the same time, kissing sweetly. Something in Antonio sings.
They pull away shortly there after, and if Antonio looks at Wolfgang for a moment more he might never leave, so he walks towards the door.
As his hand falls onto the door handle, he turns back into the room, two pairs of eyes fixed on him. "So long, my friends," he says and, despite a major part of him wishing to stay, he sets out into the hallway.
His body puts on a quick pace, the cooler air of the unoccupied corridor hitting his searing skin.
As he walks, he catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror; lips swollen and red, hair all messy and tangled, make-up around his eyes smudged from his tears and he might even see a bit of Wolfgang's sparkle on his cheek, where it certainly has no place being.
His clothes, though tucked and smoothed down, are dishevelled still, and he is only lucky he's wearing dark breeches, masking the wet stain.
He examines his throat, pleased to find that there are no visible marks high up enough to notice, though lower, hidden by his collar, someone – Mozart, likely – has left a blooming bright purple bruise.
Salieri suppresses a shiver that starts at the base of his spine, and ventures forth through the corridors. The crowd of people in the living room has diminished, but he still has to hope not to be spotted, racing around the edge of the room, away from watchful eyes, and slips out the front door.
He sways a little, still, feeling boneless, walking into the night, as his mind replays the events that have occurred, and he can't fight the soft smile that forces its way onto his lips at the memories of the divine sweetness touching them mere minutes ago.
He realises, then, that all the bitterness he'd felt as the evening began has long since been erased.