Work Text:
It was a late spring afternoon, 2024; a warm day, but not stifling. Fat clouds drifted lazily across the sky, and the hills surrounding Foxglove Hall were dotted with lush, flowering trees. Outside, the pool glittered in the sun, throwing reflections onto the old, stately stonework. In the garden the flowers had budded and blossomed, the soft dirt covered in colorful petals. A mild breeze rippled through the light curtains in the upper hall. The house smelled like cut grass and a springy, citrusy cleaning spray.
Spring cleaning was shaping up to be one of Finn’s favorite tasks—something about the fresh feeling of the season just put him in a great mood. There was a Bluetooth speaker set up on a side table as he dusted and swept out the rooms, leaving the doors open to let air circulate. He sang along as he worked, Chappell Roan echoing down the hall, “You can take me hot to go!”
“You’ve been listening to those songs quite a lot. Very catchy.”
Finn glanced over his shoulder to see Florian leaning in the open doorway, dressed in a light, colorful blouse. He grinned, “Oh, absolutely! She’s one of my new favorites. Maybe I can take you guys to one of her concerts, I think you’d love her style.” Turning back to his work, Finn hummed, “Might be a bit, uh, much for Mr. Hoffman though.”
“Oh, perhaps, but who’s to say? The man still surprises me daily, after all these years.”
Finn snorted and ran his dustcloth along the lower level of the bookshelf. It was hard to imagine stuffy, serious Lukas Hoffman at a Chappell Roan concert—it was hard to imagine him listening to pop music at all, really. Maybe something like Bach or Beethoven in his fancy study while he worked. “What sort of music does he like, then?”
Florian smiled like he was sharing a secret. “Glenn Miller.”
A laugh bubbled out of Finn’s throat. “Like, ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’ Glenn Miller?” Maybe he shouldn’t be too surprised; Lukas did seem like the type to have older tastes.
“More along the lines of ‘Moonlight Serenade,’ but… yes.” Florian tilted his head slightly, “I must say, I didn’t expect you to be familiar.”
“My old photography professor was a fan—all the big band classics, he’d play ‘em in class for us.” Finn straightened up, dusting off his apron and tucking loose hair back into his kerchief. “What about you, Mr. Bennett? You got a favorite? Glenn Miller for you as well, or…?”
“Mm. Not quite,” Florian said, glancing out the window. “A bit more classical than that, actually.”
“Who is it? I can look it up on Spotify, we can listen—”
“Oh, no, I doubt they’d have it on your little device. It’s… a very old piece,” Florian said. His gaze slipped back to Finn, and he smiled, indulgent. “Don’t worry. I have it somewhere on CD, I’ll play it for you sometime. You can resume your songs—I quite like the one about red wine.”
It was a blustery autumn evening in 2006; the sea of trees surrounding Foxglove Hill had turned fiery red and burnished gold, brilliant against the overcast sky. The windows of the house glowed with warm light on the lower levels, even as the occasional gust made the roof creak. It smelled like dirt and rain; the night would bring fog creeping through the valleys below.
Florian wandered around the kitchen, humming to himself. Tonight was nothing special—just another weeknight. But Lukas would be coming home late from a meeting in the city, and Florian wanted to have a nice dinner with him. A heavy pan was set on the stove, and ingredients lined the countertops; filet mignon, cognac, peppercorns, shallots. Steak au Poivre , that should do nicely. They’d had it on vacation in France a few years back, and Lukas had reminisced about it recently.
Before he began cooking, Florian paused. He set down the utensils and made his way over to the CD shelf in the living room, flicking through their collection and picking out a few to listen to as he worked. Halfway through the M’s he slowed, running a finger down the row of CDs until he found a case with no label along the spine, no album cover insert. The CD itself was the only thing marked, a handwritten note: Morning, Sunlight.
He smiled softly, plucking it from the shelf.
The house now filled with music, Florian began to cook. The peppercorns were ground to a rough powder by hand, the shallots chopped finely—he seared the steaks and basted them in butter infused with the aromatics, then set them to rest as he made the sauce. If he let himself have a sip or two of the cognac as he stirred in the cream and butter, well—no one had to know.
It was some time later when Lukas returned, the sky outside gone dark and the moon peeking between ragged clouds. The house was warm, cozy and welcoming compared to the brisk autumn night. Lukas hung his coat and hat by the door, then wandered into the kitchen, following the sound of Florian humming along to a delicate, sweet violin song.
“Lukas, darling. Just in time,” Florian smiled at him from across the room, which smelled wonderfully of savory, peppery steak. Lukas came up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and relaxing against him as they swayed gently in place.
“Oh, love,” Lukas murmured, ever-fond, “this song again?”
Florian took one of his hands in his own, laying a kiss over his knuckles. “Always.”
It was late July, 1953, and a summer storm battered the windows with rain. Foxglove Hill groaned as the wind rocked the old manor; but inside, new electric lighting lit up the house, bright and inviting.
Lukas paced in the upper hall, fine shoes making little sound on the plush red carpet. The grand window here overlooked the front drive and the long, winding road leading up through the woods—the gravel path was scattered with wet green leaves and small fallen branches. Lukas paused his pacing, staring out over the grounds with a small frown. Hopefully there would be no downed trees. God knows it was a hassle, getting road work done this far out into the hills. And Florian still wasn’t home yet.
A low rumble of thunder sounded from somewhere in the distance. Lukas sighed, adjusted his glasses, and resumed his pacing.
Sitting on a table adjacent to the window was a flat, square package, wrapped in patterned paper with a tidy red ribbon. Lukas had been fidgeting with it earlier, before he began to worry about creasing the paper—he’d set it down and kept his hands clasped mostly behind his back, his gaze landing on the package every so often.
There was a flash of movement from the window, and Lukas peered out over the property again. Was that—? There. Headlights in the trees, coming around the bend in the road. If his heart could beat still, it would be racing.
Snatching the package from the table, he rushed downstairs. Over the sound of the rain he could hear tires on the gravel, car doors opening and slamming shut; he went to the door, just in time to see Florian duck out from the car and take the offered umbrella from the chauffeur. The sleek black car turned and disappeared into the trees again, and Florian hurried up the drive to the front porch, shaking out his umbrella.
“Oh, Lukas, beloved. It’s been far too long. Three days!” Florian practically fell into his arms as soon as the headlights were out of sight, and captured his lips in a kiss before he could say a word. Lukas melted against him, leaning down into the kiss. Another rumble of thunder rolled over the hills; the porch sheltered them from the pouring rain, but Florian’s umbrella was dripping into a puddle at their feet. Lukas couldn’t care less.
They parted briefly, and Florian sighed against his cheek. His hat was askew, and his hair was falling out of the tidy bun he kept it in for work. Lukas absently tucked a strand behind his ear. “Was the drive alright?”
Florian smiled softly, “Oh, it was fine. Bumpy, but it always is on these roads. Let’s retreat inside, the weather is absolutely ruining my hair.”
He took Lukas’s offered arm to follow him through the door—then paused, noticing the package still clutched in his hand. A sleek blonde eyebrow raised, a small, coy smile dancing around the edges of his mouth. “Oh, come now. You know my birthday isn’t still for another week, right…?”
“I know, I know,” Lukas murmured, pressing the package into his hands, and another kiss to his cheek. “But I simply couldn’t wait. Come, inside.”
They stepped into the house to dry off and closed the door against the humid summer storm outside. Florian complained about the trip, the business deals, the long nights away from home, and Lukas took his coat and hat, putting on the kettle for tea. Before long they were settled in the living room, as Florian let his hair down and finally set to opening his gift.
Inside the box was a vinyl disc, nestled in velvet. He gasped, soft but sudden, as he read the title printed in neat hand script on the center: Morning, Sunlight.
“How in the world—”
“I contacted a production studio in the city for a private recording and print run—just for us.” Lukas’s smile was small, but glowing with pride. Grabbing him by the front of his sweater, Florian dragged him down into another kiss; this one lasted much longer than the one on the porch.
“Put it on for me?” he asked as they eventually parted, eyes still half-lidded from the kiss. He handed the vinyl to Lukas. “I want to dance.”
“Of course.”
With the electric lights aglow, and a warm fire crackling in the hearth, Lukas stood. The record slid into place and began to spin, and music filled the parlor; Lukas took Florian’s cool hands in his own, guiding him up off the couch and into his arms. The music swelled, and the sound of rain faded to background noise as they swayed together, Florian humming along with a smile.
It was winter of 1884; Foxglove Hill laid cold and still, like an open grave. What was left of the serving staff had been sent home for the holidays, and the windows of the house were dark, save for a single candle in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
Outside the window, barren and black-branched trees swayed and scraped against the glass. Inside, a draft made the candle-flame flicker. The light danced in Florian’s eyes—his gaze was distant, glassy, pupils blown wide in the dim room.
The bedroom door creaked open, and the candle’s flame sputtered, nearly going out. Lukas stepped over the threshold, carrying a fresh jug of water and clean towels for the room.
“Florian?” His voice was barely a whisper. He sounded almost scared—but when Florian turned to face him, his shoulders sagged with relief. Setting the jug and towels on the nightstand, he took his place in the chair at his bedside. Florian’s hand, thin and pale, reached out to him, and Lukas took it in both of his own. He raised it to his lips, kissing his knuckles with his eyes squeezed shut.
“How are you feeling?” he murmured. He set Florian’s hand back against the bedsheets, but did not let go.
Florian made a soft noise, pulling a face. His other hand came to rest on top of Lukas’s. “The medicine does do away with the pain somewhat, at least. But it makes it hard to sleep. And I still feel every breath is a labor.”
Lukas swallowed, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “I’m sorry.”
They said nothing for a long moment. Through the hazy window, beyond the black-branched trees, a heavy grey sky threatened snow over the stark, frost-hard grounds of the estate.
“Is there…” Lukas cleared his throat, turning his gaze back to his lover, “is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
“Mm.” Florian thought about it, running his thumb slowly over the back of Lukas’s hand. “Do you remember that song? The one you were working on, before…”
“Of course I do.”
Florian tilted his head slightly. Limp blond hair fell over his pale face—Lukas slipped a hand from his grasp to brush it back into place, and Florian leaned into his touch.
“Play it for me?”
Lukas exhaled slowly, cupping Florian’s thin, gaunt cheek in his hand. Those tired blue eyes slid shut, like it was too much effort to keep them open still.
“I miss hearing you play, my love,” Florian murmured against his touch, sighing a rattling, ragged breath. “You never do anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Lukas said again, softer this time. Florian kissed his palm, silent forgiveness.
They parted after a moment, and Lukas stood, murmuring reassurances that he’d only be gone a moment; he left to fetch his violin from the study downstairs, and returned not long after to sit and tune it by Florian’s bedside. The fire in the hearth was burning low—the sky outside grew darker, the sun setting early this deep into winter.
Finally, the instrument tuned, Lukas stood with the bow in hand. Blinking back tears, he closed his eyes and began to play.
It was a late spring evening in 1867—they still lived in the city, then, in a spacious flat they’d shared for years now. When the windows were open on balmy nights like this, they could hear the commotion of the streets below, shouts of men and carriages passing by, a city thrumming with life.
And on top of it all came a violin; sweet and clear, a touch tremulous. The song started and stopped repeatedly, with slight adjustments each time, a piece still in the works.
Florian followed the sound from his studio, finding the door to Lukas’s study ajar. He stood at the center of the room, tall and handsome, in perfect form with the violin under his chin and a stand set up in the middle of the room. There was a hand-written music sheet set before him, a pencil tucked behind his ear.
As Florian watched, he took a deep breath, and dragged the bow deftly across the strings. The song began again, and something light and fond settled pleasantly in Florian’s chest.
For the first time since he’d started that evening, Lukas played the piece the entire way through. He held the pose for a moment upon finishing, exhaling; then set the violin down and began studying the sheets before him with a small, thoughtful frown.
“Don’t say you’re thinking of changing it again,” Florian called, grinning at the way Lukas jumped. “It’s beautiful already, you know. I quite like it.”
“How long have you been there?” Lukas asked, cheeks going slightly pink.
“Oh, for the better part of that song, at least,” Florian said, pushing off the doorframe and wandering over to him. He wrapped his arms around his waist, standing on his toes to rest his chin on Lukas’s shoulder. “What have you called this one, then?”
Lukas cleared his throat, flustered—but despite himself, he leaned back against Florian, solid and reassuring. “I don’t quite know yet. I’ve been considering the title, but—I don’t know.”
Peeking over his shoulder, Florian read off the paper, a quick title jotted down in Lukas’s fastidiously-neat script: “Morning, Sunlight… oh.”
He felt his own cheeks flush, suddenly, as the glow of the setting sun turned the room gold and orange, warm and sweet. He thought of waking in the bed they now shared, and of Lukas’s adoring gaze in the dim light of their room, and his voice, still thick with sleep, whispered against his throat. Good morning, Sonnenlicht.
“It’s perfect,” Florian whispered, closing his eyes and pressing a kiss to Lukas’s warm, broad shoulder. “It’s absolutely perfect.”