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Blood Sports

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Things always started out with games between them. Friendly little rivalries to help their genius burn brighter. A sonata here, a symphony there, every note lower, darker, more challenging than the last. Salieri reveled in it. Reveled in the way Mozart lit up with an inner fire at their games. Loved the way the nobles shrank from Mozart’s glorious madness.
Mozart enjoyed Salieri’s friendship, and their rivalry. Finally, there was someone to match him, to spur him onto greater and greater heights. Together, they were expanding beyond the limited bounds of the court. In the privacy of their rooms, even Salieri let go of his emotions to create music that reached into Mozart’s soul and brought forth emotions the strength of which scared him on some dark nights.
Together, together they were immortal; together their music would bring Vienna to its knees.
Things began to escalate rather unexpectedly one night. They had locked themselves in Salieri’s house, frantically composing and Mozart was beginning to get restless, legs twitching and refusing to remain still. Fed up, Salieri reached over and forcibly grabbed Mozart’s knee, “My friend, do you need a break?”
The other composer sighed heavily, “I’m sorry my friend, but I think I do.”
“I can order some dinner, we can move to a new room.”
Mozart shook himself, “I need to move,” He stood, pacing quickly around the room, “I need to get my blood moving on pace with the music.”
“We can use my drawing room and move the furniture, whatever you need.”
Mozart clasped his shoulder, “Thank you my friend.”
Together, they moved from Salieri’s study to his drawing room, quickly moving the settee and armchairs against the wall to make room. Mozart stripped off his coat and untied his cravat with terse movements and shucked them over the arm of one of the armchairs. Salieri hovered by the door, unsure if he was welcome. Mozart seemed almost unaware of his existence as he untucked his shirt in the back and pulled out a dagger and assumed a starting position before sliding into a series of thrusts and parries, moving fluidly throughout the room.
Salieri’s breath caught in his throat. It was like seeing the darkest parts of Mozart’s music come to life to move with deadly intent in his drawing room. It tore through his soul and dragged a rush of feeling into his gut, surprising him with its vehemence. He drew in several ragged breaths, ignoring the carnal, physical reaction of his body, to focus solely on Mozart’s movements. Unbeknownst to him, Salieri’s body shifted and twitched, moving in aborted directions, trying to follow and weave with Mozart.
As his blood flowed more quickly through his veins and his muscles loosened, Mozart became aware of the eyes on him. He knew what desire felt like on his skin and oh, the desire radiating from his friend was scorching him through his clothes, like a physical touch coveting his movements. Without a conscious decision, Mozart’s movement become more sensual, knife caressing the air, taunting it and teasing it and then penetrating it with a sharp thrust.
Eventually the moment hung balanced on the air and Mozart drew to a stop, head tilted towards Salieri, pupils blown. Things between them altered as their eyes locked and each acknowledged the sudden—if not totally unexpected—desire, and the darkness inherent in it.