Chapter Text
"Oh, what use is it?"
Franz watched him steadily from the doorway, face inscrutable in the half-light. After a moment: "Things did not go well with Madame Sand tonight?"
"I don't want to talk about it." Frederic bowed his head over the windowsill, hand braced against the wall. "Franz, I don't… I think there is something very wrong with me.
""I believe," said Franz drily, "it's called tuberculosis."
"No, no, it's more than that. I don't feel what I ought to feel. Every time I am… with a woman… all I want to do is flee." Frederic laughed, self-deprecating, and turned to Franz. "It's a justified fear, of course. I pushed through it tonight, and do you know what I felt?"
"Nothing," said Franz.
"Nothing. Nothing. I will never love. Franz, I don't think I can ever love. I am not capable of it. I shall live my whole life alone."
Franz looked long at his neighbor, rival, and friend. That man had a beauty to him, an astounding, unfair beauty, innocent and sincere, like something unearthly. At last he sighed, closed the door behind him, and walked to the couch. "Sit down."
Frederic exhaled dismissively, glanced around the room as though looking for a reason to say no, then joined his friend on the couch. "I know I have it in me. It all goes so well in my head. In my head, I want it. But in the moment…"
"You're a very abstract person," said Franz, carefully.
"Too abstract. I have no… no desire. My body does not exist. My love is all made of dreams…"
Franz looked up at the ceiling like he might find a word of warning written there: Bad idea! Don't do it, Franz! Go to bed, Franz! But God, he'd been wanting to mess around with Chopin for ages. He couldn't pass up an opportunity like this.
Taking a deep breath, he turned frankly to Frederic. "It's a skill, you know."
"...Desire?"
"Being… present. In the moment. It can be learned. Have you ever tried meditation?"
"I know it is done. Of course a secret monastic like you would know of it."
Liszt smiled at that. "It's not just a religious thing. It works the other way as well. Sometimes it's useful to put all thoughts from your mind and simply feel. I think that's something you ought to practice. You can't enjoy intimacy if you're trying to forget you have a body. But I have faith in you, Frederic, I think you can work through it."
The pianist looked at his fingers. "I'm not sure I share your faith. How would one even begin?"
"Well," said Franz, playing his first card, "it goes well in your head, right? What do you imagine?" What gets you off, Chopin?
Frederic smiled tautly. "No, no. You'll think me mad."
Oh? "And now you simply must tell me. Go on, I'm hardly one to judge. I have the wildest dreams."
Frederic gave a choked laugh and let himself sink backwards into the couch. He spoke to the ceiling: "I swear, I'm not a… I'm not a transexual. Or a homosexual. But sometimes it is easier to imagine myself as a woman, made love to by a man."
Franz closed his eyes in private triumph.
"It is somehow safer," Frederic continued through his embarrassment. "There is... less to worry about."
"Naturally," said Franz. "Naturally."
"I understand men. I never know how to behave around women. I have this feeling they expect the world of me."
"Completely understandable."
"But I'm not saying I would want that. In reality."
"I thought you didn't want anything in reality," said Franz.
Frederic buried his face in his hands. "Oh, I don't know! Perhaps I don't. But I want to want. I want to love. Doesn't everyone?"
If Franz was more enlightened in these things, he might have said, It's alright, not to want it. Not everybody does. But instead, he said, "I've got a theory, shall I tell it to you? I've been thinking about it for some time now, and I think I've figured it out, love."
"Oh, have you?"
"I think love's like a fish on a fishing line. A man catches a woman, or the other way round. Now, society pays an enormous amount of attention to the fishing line. But there's another thing as well."
"And what's that?"
"Well, that would be the fishing net."
"Ah, of course," said Chopin, amused, "the net."
"The net," explained Liszt, with professorial airs, "I define, hereby, as the range of people one might possibly be attracted to. The set of bodies one might at some point derive pleasure from. And I imagine - liberal that I am - that for most people this range can include women and men, even if there's a preference one way or another. Hard to tell, since the full possibilities of the net have been so sorely neglected in these last few centuries. But things were different in ancient times, and it's time we relearned it - the lost art of pleasure."
"That's very grandiose, Liszt."
"A charge I've never succeeded in defeating. Now to my point. You would like to learn how to be a physical being, a desiring being. No need to jump right in with women. If it's easier for you, start with men. And I think, if I'm not terribly mistaken, you have men in your net, is that right, Chopin?"
"As kind as you are to advise me," said Frederic, still smiling in a joking way, "I'm not sure homosexuality is the solution to my problem."
"Not at all! Not at all! I'm suggesting you practice. And to practice, you need someone you can trust. Someone with whom you don't feel pressured to perform, or conform to expectations."
"I see," said Frederic, a bit uncertain. "It's not an awful idea. I'll give you that much… But unfortunately I can't for the life of me imagine a suitable partner. I'll always feel pressured, even if the only expectations are my own."
"Well, if I happen to fall within your net, I'd be happy to volunteer for the role."
He said it casually, as though his heart was not about to jump up through his throat.
Frederic turned to him with naked surprise. "My God, you're serious, aren't you?"
"Quite. I've been told I'm not half bad at these things, you know, so it'd be a shame not to use me. What do you say, old friend? Will you give it a shot? I am in your net, am I not? Don't think I haven't seen you looking."
Frederic turned red. "Oh, no… I didn't mean -"
"Not to worry, my friend, you're entitled to your fantasies. I'm sure you've noticed my own gaze wander. Come on, Fryc, let's try it, what's the worst that could happen? You decide you're incapable of love?"
Fantasies, thought Frederic, would be putting it a bit strongly. Everyone is impressed by you, Franz; it's an objective thing, your magnetism. And if you go around... having sex with every man and woman who catches your eye, of course you'll give people ideas. But it was a little startling, all the same, to actually be the object of that licentiousness; to be seen as a desirable body. It was disorienting. It made him skeptical. What, this? This pale sack of organs that's never been healthy a day in its life? God, Franz, your standards are low.
He tapped his fingers together rapidly, very tense. "What would you do?"
"Well, I'd start by suggesting we both take a few deep breaths. You look like you're about to have a panic attack."
"I am about to have a panic attack," Frederic confirmed.
"Okay. Breathe in for four, breathe out for four."
They breathed together in the lantern-light.
"Eight bar phrase," Liszt whispered. So they did it eight times.
"Better?"
"Yes."
"Okay, step two. Are you ready?"
"Depends," said Frederic ironically, "what it is."
"You're going to have to pay attention to your physicality now, I'm afraid. Are you up for it?"
"I'm not happy about it," Frederic admitted.
"Try to put all thoughts from your mind. Just concentrate on what you're feeling. Feel the ground under your feet, et cetera. Alright?"
"Where did you learn all this?"
"God. You'd know it too, if you were halfway pious. Another eight bars, ready?"
So Chopin felt the ground under his feet. He felt the sofa underneath his ass. He felt the air chafe his throat as he breathed; he felt the painful clamp of his lungs as they sucked in breath. He coughed.
"Okay?"
"Fine," said Frederic with determination.
He felt the nervousness of his pulse, the soreness of his muscles, the way they twitched around bone. He felt the dryness of his mouth, the limpness of his cock. He breathed through his disgust with it all. He breathed and breathed until he realized his mind was wandering and yanked his attention back towards his body. By the end of the eight bars, he was feeling somewhat grounded.
"Step three?"
"Where are these steps leading, Liszt, do I want to know?"
"I doubt it," said Franz. He offered his hand to Frederic. "Here, take it."
Frederic hesitated, then closed his fingers around Franz's.
"This time, focus on the point of contact. My touch. Notice how it feels."
Frederic smiled, blushing. "Oh, dear, Liszt, you do want to embarrass me."
"Not at all. Don't do it if you don't want to."
"No, no. I'm ready."
On bar three, Franz started to add a bit of pressure. On bar five, he started using his thumb to massage Frederic's palm.
Frederic put all thoughts from his head and just received the sensation; the pressure of Liszt's strong fingers against his sore muscles, digging in between the tendons, pressing his hand tightly, warm and secure.
"That… was actually very nice, Franz, thank you," he said after the eight bars were up.
"You're welcome. Here, do me a bit." So Frederic massaged Franz's hand too, still trying to keep his head empty. But this time it was harder. He found himself observing the situation from above, thinking, Is that good? Am I doing it right? Is that too much, too little?
"No thoughts, Chopin," Franz warned him, like he'd read his mind.
So Frederic went slower. Imagined he was kneading clay, enjoying the resistance of the material against his hands. Or a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers, feeling its ridges, its smoothness.
He stopped counting and closed his eyes.
No thoughts, Chopin. Just the pressure, the warmth.
There was a pleasure in it.
He found he was swaying gently as his fingers worked against Liszt's hand and Liszt's fingers worked against his.
"We're pianists," said Franz, digging his fingers in, "so we're good at this."
Opening his eyes, Frederic was astonished to find he felt genuinely relaxed. Happy, even. "This was good. I think this helped a lot. I appreciate you, Franz, for taking the time."
"No need to thank me. I enjoy doing this sort of thing. You're in my net, too."
Meaning he was one of the many people Liszt found attractive. "I have a hard time believing that."
"Are you joking?" Franz had to stop himself, feeling some trepidation. He was more turned-on then he'd like to admit. Since when had holding hands been enough to give him a hard-on? He made himself shrug casually. "You're an attractive man. I've always thought so."
"How?"
That modesty, that innocent incredulousness, that was part of it. Holy shit, that modesty made Franz want to shove him against a wall and see just how immodest he could be. "Aw, you're sweet," he teased him.
Frederic was feeling a little flustered. His face was hot; he was probably blushing. He wondered what Liszt really wanted to do with him; if he was just being a friend, helping Frederic get used to the idea of physical touch, or if he would want to - well, kiss him, or more. If he would want Frederic as one of his many momentary lovers. The thought made him nervous, clearly; why else would his heart be racing? "Is there a step four?" he asked, curious, but feeling a strange kind of rush.
"Sure. Here." Liszt scootched over until they were touching, a constant point of contact from calves to shoulder. He leaned against Chopin until their heads were touching, too. "How's this?"
"Um - " God, he could feel his heart in his chest. Frederic took a minute, breathing through his rising panic. No thoughts, no thoughts.
"Take your time. I'll put my hand here, is that okay?"
Frederic managed not to flinch at Franz's fingers on his thigh. "Yes, fine."
They breathed together, deeply, in and out. Frederic made his mind a still pool, quiet but for the movement of Franz's hand over his trousers, firm, rhythmic, insistent.
He reached out, trying not to second-guess himself, and ran his own palm along Franz's leg. Not because he thought he should, but because he wanted to feel it, wanted the warmth through the fabric, the smooth give of the muscle.
Which tensed and shuddered at his touch. Frederic pulled back like he'd been shocked.
"You're fine, Frederic," said Liszt.
"Are you sure?"
"Very." So Frederic reached out again and got to feel that muscle under his hand, and heard Franz exhale softly a few inches from his ear before dragging his fingers firmly along Frederic's inner thigh.
It was beginning to make him feel a bit strange - a bit warm. Aroused, surely, or close to it. Which was a triumph, when you thought about it.
But then Franz's hand found the bit of flab at the top of his thigh, that soft bit of himself he'd always hated, and the warm feeling twisted into doubt. Franz was kneading him like dough, and there was suddenly something horrifying in it, and Frederic mentally pulled back until he was looking down on the room and seeing two friends massaging each other's thighs like a couple of homos, and he pulled his hand away and pushed Liszt off him. "No, I can't. This isn't working."
"I was too rough," said Liszt.
"You were fine. I just can't."
"Not a problem," said Liszt, crossing his legs a little awkwardly.
"It was a good idea. It's just - it's all wrong, you're my friend, you're a man, for God's sake, and I shouldn't be trying to - take pleasure from you."
"Did I not make myself clear about the net?"
"I know hypothetically it's - the practical thing, but - well, like I said, I'm grateful to you, and it was a good idea. I'm sorry it didn't work."
"On the contrary," said Liszt, adopting the professorial voice again, "I think it went smashingly. For a man afraid of intimacy, you did very well indeed."
Chopin hesitated. "Do you think so?"
"Absolutely." Franz clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. "A few more sessions like that, and you'll be ready for the ladies in no time."
"Dear me," said Frederic, and put his face in his hands tiredly. He was still feeling very relaxed. Another minute and he might have fallen asleep on Franz's shoulder. "I'll have to consider it, Franz."
"Ball's in your court. You look half-asleep, get some rest. You'll play through the four-hands with me tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, yes, of course…"
"Right then." He gave an exaggerated bow. "I bid you good night, Monsieur Chopin."
Closing the door behind him, Liszt breathed a sigh of relief. There had been a point at which Chopin's hand was centimeters from discovering his massive erection.