Medianoche Ch. 10

Medianoche Ch. 10

PLEASE READ THIS: This story contains certain relationships between certain people that other certain people may certainly not be okay with. Certainly, do not read if you are certain you are offended by said certain content. (This was the best disclaimer ever, certainly)

Frederyk Chopin woke up in a fog. His head hurt, and he felt like he had been sleeping hanging upside down from a sofa. He blinked a couple of times before he realized that he was sleeping upside down on a sofa; not to mention the very uncomfortable, hard as a rock but pleasant to look at sofa of Franz Liszt. Chopin tried to remember what had happened that resulted in such a state. The only thing that came to mind was the absurd thought that a cross-dressing woman had barged into Liszt’s apartment late last night.

Oh wait.

Chopin groaned, rubbing his sore head. He was still in his clothes from the day before, and he felt disgusting. It took him a second or two after that to realize that the owner of said uncomfortable sofa and the estate in which it was located was sitting right in front of him, reading a book with a bored, distasteful expression upon his countenance. Chopin could gather from the distaste, that the book obviously wasn’t very good.

Chopin cleared his throat, startling Liszt.

“Oh, Chopinetto. I didn’t notice you were up.”

Chopin sighed.

“Where’s Monsieur Paganini?” the Polish man asked after a tertiary survey of his surroundings.

“He went out with his son.”

“Oh.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Franz, have you met Monsieur Berlioz before?” Chopin asked, chasing some random curiosity within the confines of his mind.

“Only through letters,” Liszt replied, before having a small epiphany. “Oh, Frederyk, that reminds me.”

“Yes?”

“Monsieur Berlioz was here last night. He arrived with Madame Sand and Eugene.”

Horror appeared on Chopin’s face. “Dear heavens! I forgot that I was going to house him during his stay!”

Liszt chuckled. “Don’t worry, dear friend. He’s stayed at Eugene’s last night.”

The Polish man breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll apologize to him when I see him.”

“He said that he would take a coach to your new summer address around three o’ clock. So I should be able to have you home before then.”

“Oh.” Said Chopin softly, not really wanting to return to that big empty house. “What time is it now?”

“It’s around noon.”

Chopin made a small sound of acknowledgement before sinking slowly back into silence. Truth be told, he was rather uncomfortable around his friend since the night Liszt had stayed over at his house. Chopin couldn’t get that night- Franz holding him tenderly in his arms, kissing his lips softly. He wished, in a place deep inside his being, buried alive underneath layers upon layers of doubt, insecurity, and sadness, that Liszt ment that kiss as a symbol of love. Romantic love. Chopin knew, though he didn’t entirely believe, that he loved his Hungarian friend romantically.

He also knew that if he focused on this, it would tear him apart.

Liszt, however, sensed Chopin’s discomfort somewhat, and made a move to put his book down before joining the frail man on the other couch.

“What’s wrong, Chopinetto?” He asked softly, but with an undertone of severity.

Chopin looked away, his cheeks flushed at the proximity of the Hungarian.

“N-Nothing,” Chopin replied.

Liszt smiled gently, his face serene with understanding. “You’re probably still frightened from the events occurring last night.”

Yes, Chopin thought, That would be the sensible answer.

His only reply was a blank stare towards Liszt, whom scooted closer to the Polish man, before bringing him into an embrace, one Chopin didn’t refuse.

Liszt’s arms were lightly wrapped around the Polish man’s back, his fingers brushing along Chopin’s neck, playing with loose strands of his dark hair. The older man shivered, and Liszt held him tighter.

“Are you cold, Frederyk?” Liszt mumbled into Chopin’s shoulder.

Tears began to well up in the smaller man’s eyes.

Franz was merely calming a frightened, weak, pathetic child. There was no passion, no love, nothing but pity in his words. And why would there be?

Chopin, for the good of his senses, his morale, and his emotions pushed Liszt away. Liszt let a look of hurt drift over his features.

“Chopinetto?”

“I’m fine Franz,” Chopin said, wiping his tears away. He mustered a strong, unaffected look, but it was obviously fake. “We should go anyway. I don’t want to inconvienence Monsieur Berlioz anymore.”

“But Frederyk we still-“

“Let’s go!” Chopin shouted, silencing the confused Hungarian.

“Why do-“

“Franz!” Chopin yelled again, his voice choked from emotion.

Liszt knew he wasn’t going to win this battle, so he led Chopin out of his house, and called a carriage.
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Meanwhile…

“Papa, where are we going?” Asked Achille, his smile as bright as the Paris sun that hung high above the duo.

“We’re going to visit a friend of mine,” Paganini replied lightly. The market district was crowded, the to-ings and fro-ings of its patrons kicking dust into the air, causing the violinst to break out into a coughing fit.

“Why?” The boy asked in that inquistive way, native only to the race of children.

“Because I need to talk to him.” Replied Paganini vaguely. Achille frowned, but chose to remain silent.

“Besides,” said Paganini, “There’s a boy there who’s a little bit older than you. I’m sure you’ll get along with him.”

Achille brightened at the thought of making a friend. His mind was so preoccupied, that he didn’t even flinch when the duo walked past the place where he used to live just yesteday morning.

Paganini knocked on the now familiar door exactly five times before Giovanni opened it.

“Are you just going to demand something from me before rushing back to that idiot’s again?” The man asked sarcastically.

“No, not this time. I have all day, as a matter of fact. I brought my son as well. He’s living with me now. Antonia ran off to Italy to try and get famous again.” Paganini and Giovanni simultaneously rolled their eyes before Paganini continued. “I figured him and your boy could idle about while we chat.”

“Chat about what?”

Paganini smiled deviously. “Can’t friends just talk?”

“I suppose, but-“

“Then let’s talk!” The violinist pushed the other man into his house, closing the door behind him, Achille following at his tail with a bright smile.

Giovanni’s house was quaint. There were only two rooms, a kitchen, and a small bathroom. The walls were solid, and painted a beige color, and the décor was minimal- a couple of wooden chairs here and there, but nothing spectacular or expensive.

It took him awhile, but Rosso finally dared to come out of his room.

Achille was waiting at his door, given the instructions “Wait until he gets the guts to come out” from Giovanni. Upon doing so, Rosso jumped back at least three feet before noticing that the figure outside his door was a ten-year-old boy.

“Hello,” said Achille, a smile breaking onto his youthful face.

“Hello?” replied Rosso, in a tone that was more of a question than a statement.

“Can I come in?” asked Achille, gesturing to Rosso’s small room. The redhead nodded, pushing open his door further, letting the boy enter.

Rosso’s room was very small, only about ten by ten feet, with a small bed in the corner dressed in a dark green sheet. There was a dresser on the other end, and a nightstand adjacent to the bed. Achille flopped down on said piece of furniture, looking at Rosso with expectant eyes.

“Um, no offense, but who exactly are you?” asked the older boy.

“I’m Achille Cytus Alexander Paganini. Who’re you?”

“What a long name…I’m Rosso. Rosso Velasco. Though you’ll have to excuse me. French isn’t my first language.”

Achille laughed. “Mine either.”

“Really? What is?”

“Italian. But I learned French soon after when I was five.”

Rosso began to smile, accompanied by a blush. “Italian is my native tongue too.”

“Then let’s speak in Italian!” Giggled the younger boy. Rosso wondered how this smiling child could possibly be related to the rather arrogant man that visited his guardian on a regular basis.

“I have a feeling I’ve seen you before, Achille.”

“I’ve never seen you before. I’d remember hair as red as yours. I guess that explains why you’re called ‘Rosso’.”

Rosso pushed up his glasses, before letting out a small laugh.

The two talked heatedly for a long time, before yelling interluded their conversation.

“I’M SO SICK AND TIRED OF THIS, PAGANINI!”

“I’M SICK AND TIRED OF YOU, SERVETTO!”

Rosso rolled his eyes. Achille was dumbfounded. He had never heard his father yell before.

“Do- do they always do this?” Asked Achille softly.

“Pretty much.” Said Rosso, but added after he saw Achille wince, “But really, they’re both really big, fluffy bunnies. They’d never hate each other. They argue just for sport. Like a married couple.” Rosso laughed, Achille joining in his laughter.

“I just though of my father with rabbit ears,” the younger boy said, after a particularly long giggle fit.

“I just thought of Signore Servetto with rabbit ears AND a tail!”

The two boys fell over laughing hysterically at these mental images for a good long while. The jokes had worn off, but the laughter stayed. Neither boy had been around people their age in a very long time, and it was refreshing.

After the boys calmed down, Achille asked another question, Rosso happy for another inquiry.

“Does Signore Servetto play violin like my father?”

“He used to. Now he’s tone deaf,” scoffed the redhead.

“I want to play the violin. But my father won’t teach me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”

“I’ve sort of taught myself,” said Rosso offhandedly.

“Really? You can play?” Achille asked in amazement.

“I don’t know if I can anymore. I don’t have a violin to practice on.”

“If I find you a violin, will you teach me?”

“I don’t know if I’ll even see you again! Besides. A violin isn’t an easy thing to sneak around, especially under the watch of someone like your father.”

Achille tried to protest, but he knew Rosso was right.

It was, at this time, when Paganini decided to walk into the room.

“Achille, we’re going. My work here is done.” The violinst said.

Achille looked at Rosso longingly, before hugging him quickly.

“I’ll see you, Rosso!” the younger boy shouted behind him as his father dragged him by the arm.

“Good-bye!” came the frantic reply.
---
Paganini looked at Achille questioningly. “You two became such good friends that quickly?”

Achille nodded. “He’s nice.”

The violinist looked at his son warily. “Alright,” he said blandly.

The two set off again. Paganini called a carriage frantically.

After all, he still needed to see a certain woman who slipped him her address when a certain Franz Liszt wasn’t looking.
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