Medianoche Ch. 5

Medianoche Ch. 5

WARNING: THIS IS FICTION. It contains, much later, a relationship between two people of the same gender. Do not like, go bother someone about sparkly vampires.

Chapter Five

Paganini saw in front of him a drunk, flushed, and sprawled-out-on-the-couch Franz Liszt. Something stirred within him, a sort of anticipation. The violinist shook these lewd thoughts away. But seeing Liszt in such a position toyed with his mind constantly- much like a child knowing there were cookies in the cookie jar, but still debating on whether or not to take some. A chill passed through the room, a draft beneath the door blowing right into Liszt’s face, causing him to gasp a bit in his alcohol-induced state. He wasn’t sleeping, but he wasn’t really awake either.

The feverish look on Liszt’s face almost sent Paganini over the edge. But at the same time, he didn’t want to do anything that would cause him to lose his stay at Liszt’s house…it would ruin his plans. But weren’t drunks easily swayed into the throes of passion? Paganini furrowed his brow. He didn’t really have a taste for men, but Liszt by his standards was a pretty one, and innocent (if not brazen).

Subconsciously, Paganini began to gravitate towards Liszt, kneeling down beside him. The violinist kissed the Hungarian’s lips softly, carefully undoing his shirt and sliding his hand across Liszt’s bare skin trying to find…

“Niccolo, is that you?” Liszt asked groggily, causing Paganini to jump and jerk his hand back before the pianist could even notice it was there.

“Yes…” he said cautiously.

And all of a sudden, Franz Liszt burst into drunken tears. He threw his hands around the older man, and buried his face in the Italian’s bony shoulder.

“Oh Niccolo, life seems to loathe me!” he shouted, his speech slurred.

“What?” Paganini replied in confusion.

“Chopinetto, he won’t talk to me!” Liszt cried, sloppily pouring himself another drink, spilling brandy everywhere, the waste of alcohol making Paganini slightly angry.

“He won’t talk to me either.” Paganini grumbled trying to diffuse the situation.

“And when I first came here, my father died! He loved me so much as a child and sent me to Paris in order to make a living as a musician. He was such a good man!”

“My father beat me.” Scoffed the violinist dryly.

“So that explains why your nose is so funny…” Liszt let out a drunken giggle, finding this immensely funny.

Paganini found only an urge to beat Liszt across his stupid face with that bottle of brandy. How dare he make fun of the great Paganini’s nose!

“Anything else you want to cry about?” The Italian asked, sarcasm eminent on his honed features.

“Marie won’t talk to me either!” Liszt cried, more tears spilling down his red cheeks.

“I’m sorry I even asked.” Paganini grumbled before mechanically patting Liszt on the shoulder.

“And when I was seven, my kitty died!” The pianist sobbed, his face a mess, and his limbs loose like a marionettes from his total intoxication.

“Yes. Yes. How terrible.” Paganini deadpanned, still dissappointed at the fact that he wasn’t going to be tangled in the throes of passion..at least for tonight.

“And then-“

This sobbing about every “Boo-boo” Liszt got when he was a child was grating on Paganini’s very last nerve. He needed peace and quiet. He needed lustful nights tangled in Sicilian bedsheets…he wanted- all of a sudden- to go home.

Or at least anywhere away from this bumbling idiot.

Finally, the bubble that was consuming poor Paganini burst.

“Dear God will you shut up!” He snarled, grabbing Liszt by his stupid jacket and crushing his lips roughly to the Hungarian’s. Liszt just stared at him in shock before Paganini, realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere with this, pulled back.

“Y-you just kissed me!”

“Oh, so you’re not sober enough to stop whining about your dead cat, but you’re sober enough to realize that?” the violinist replied sarcastically.

“Does that mean you love me?” Liszt asked, confused.

Paganini let out an exhausted groan before looking at Liszt like he was the biggest, most juvenile idiot the violinist had ever seen in his life.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Franz. I’m going to bed.”

Liszt found this immensely funny, and giggled until he managed to find the sofa (by stumbling onto it). After shifting chronically, trying to find a comfortable position, he snuggled into the pillow, and dozed off into a deep, drunken slumber.
---
Four Hours earlier…

“Giovanni, I don’t care where you hide it, as long as you hide it somewhere that snooping idiot can’t find it!”

“It’s been ten years since you left my care at twenty, Niccolo, but I still demand respect from between those snarky lips of yours!”

“Oh bullshit, Giovanni! All you ever did was bring girls home and play poker.”

“The only difference between us is that you play violin!”

On the dingey docks of the Parisian Marina, fog lingered in the new backdrop of night, giving the place a haunted look. A network of interconnected docks, each large enough for one ship. Markets and stalls were now abandoned and closed up, making the usually bustling area dark and still.

There were three men hiding behind three large crates of capers, tomatoes, and cucumbers. One of them, was Niccolo Paganini, the great violinist. Another was Giovanni Servetto, an Italian businessman and amateur musician. The other was his assistant, a pale Sicilian boy of fifteen, named Rosso. Giovanni was a tall, forboding, yet handsome man. One could not see his thin, yet robust figure now, becaused it was draped in a long, loose trenchcoat. His dusty brown hair was covered in a very odd looking hat. However, his eyes- a bright hazel/green color- shined lividly in the light of the moon through the fog.  

“Singore Servetto, Signore Paganini! Please stop! It’s not worth it to fight. We’re all friends after all?”

“Tch, that little bastard’s no friend of mine. He was shipped off to me because no one else would care for him.” Giovanni scoffed, but there were hints of compassion in his eyes.

Paganini looked at Giovanni challengingly. “Oh? If I recall, I was the one holding your head over the toilet!”

“Look at you, almost thirty with a ten-year-old son!”

Paganini snarled. “Don’t you dare bring him into this!”

“What about his whore of a mother?!”

“STOP!” Rosso yelled at the top of his small lungs.

The two bantering men looked at the boy who so brazenly interrupted their argument. Rosso himself wasn’t much to look at. He was a puny boy with round spectacles, curly red hair (hence his name) that cascaded down his shoulders from lack of proper care, and light brown eyes, wrought so evidently with the passions of youth.

“The kid’s right. Besides, I already promised you, Giovanni, that I would let you half of the idiot’s money once I find out where he keeps it.” Paganini whispered, now suddenly conscious of how loud he got.  

“So you want me to hide the stupid woodblock until then?” Giovanni grinned, knowing he once again annoyed Paganini.

“That so-called woodblock is worth more than your weight in gold.”

Giovanni scoffed. “What’s so special? It’s a freakin’ violin!”

“It’s a Stradivari violin!”

Young Rosso rolled his eyes as the two older men began to duke it out once more.

“Wait, Paganini. I’ve got an idea. A friend of mine could probably hide the stupid woodblock in his wine cellar. You see, during the days of the Revolution, it was part of a secret cove of underground tunnels the Conservatives used to try and escape the Liberals. Those tunnels have secret switches and stuff, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“What’s the price,” Paganini quipped just after Giovanni uttered the word ‘fine’.

“The man needs a mistress, you see he’s sort of ugly. So ugly that even the street-walkers wouldn’t look at him. So if you can find a maiden…”

Paganini smiled cruelly, looking at Giovanni with mischief in his eyes.

“Give  me his address; I shall stop by there tonight. Knowing the people you pal around with, it’s not like he’ll be asleep…I have payment. Do not worry.”

Even Giovanni was disconcerted at the evil in Paganini’s eyes. But none-the-less he nodded, scribbling down a barely legible name before telling Rosso to call a coach. Paganini bid him adieu by the flick of his wrist before fading eerily into the foggy darkness.

It was just Giovanni and the moon. And somehow, the businessman felt discontent by this.