#i... have never used any of these tags before fkdjdjdjd

[winterwyrd]

When you move, I move

A gift for @ultravioletness and @mozalieri who are the most wonderful pals in the world  and deserve every happiness, and also entirely to blame for this mess.

Inspired by this wonderful art by @nuizlaziart

I.

"Do you dance, Monsieur Salieri?"

Antonio stiffened, abruptly stilling his foot which had, quite of its own accord, been shifting from side to side to the rhythm of the aria Mozart was demonstrating with all the capricious charm of a six year old showing off his first finger painting.

He turned an icy gaze on the man in question, who didn't have the mocking smirk he had assumed would be accompanying that question, undoubtedly meant as a snide jab at his inelegance and obvious lack of the confidence or ability needed to partake in the sport in question. Not that this intent could be read in the face of the young composer, who was smiling with seemingly genuine interest and eagerness. Salieri felt the, by now normal, confusion which seemed to stir in his chest whenever he interacted with the frustrating boy. How could someone who seemingly plastered his emotions across his countenance for the world to see be so impossible to understand?

"I do not, as is perfectly obvious."

It must be a trick of the ballroom lighting that the light shining from Mozart's face seemed to dim, and his eyes shutter slightly, at Salieri's curt response.

"I find that sort of frivolity best suited to those with more... extreme temperaments, shall we say."

He avoided Mozart's eyes as he said this, his treacherous brain remarking that the erratic genius standing in front of him was undoubtedly an excellent dancer, even going as far as to supply images of Mozart's body spinning around a dance floor, in perfect harmony with the music flowing around him, as always.

The man in question smiled hesitantly at the blush creeping up Salieri"s cheek, and laid a fleeting hand on his arm.

"Well, Monsieur, I don't believe you in the slightest. I know you'd be an excellent dancer."

II.

Salieri was, predictably, having an utterly terrible time. He had warned de Ponte as much, with increasing volume and increasingly colourful language when it became obvious the man was not listening to his protestations and would not allow him weasel out of the annual ball so easily.

And so, here he was, lurking in the corner of the ballroom dressed all in black, with an even blacker scowl on his face as he watched the colourful multitudes whirl past and let the babble of vapid and inane wittering wash over him. As his eyes searched out the nearest waiter who could be prevailed upon for another glass of whatever terrible alcohol it was that he had spent the evening singlemindedly devouring, he heard a  familiar voice rise above the din. Ah, speaking of vapid and inane.

"SALIERI!"

He could barely suppress a wince as the lanky, dishevelled whirlwind - somehow, the most talented composer Antonio had come across - knocked into him, skidding to an abrupt halt. The man was practically vibrating out of his skin, so obviously at ease here amongst the tumultuous colours and cacophony of sounds and the steady thrum of music which permeated everything. Salieri couldn't take his eyes of the young man's vibrant pink jacket with black lace spilling out from the cuffs and neckline, and beautiful silver snowflakes embroidered down it. It billowed around him as he moved and should have looked utterly absurd, but all Salieri could think was how alive Mozart looked, how his dark eyes were extenuated by the gaudy colour, drawing attention to the constant light and laughter which shone out of them.

Abruptly, Salieri felt a flush of embarrassment run through him as he remembered his own drab outfit and he shrunk backwards, willing himself to merge once again with the shadows and allow Mozart to continue on, unimpeded, to carry his breathless brightness to those more deserving of it.

But the composer had been surprising him since the day their eyes first met across that concert hall, and now Mozart moved towards him, with a deliberation unusual for the young man. He glanced up, with what Salrieri would call hesitancy on anyone else - but this was Mozart, so such an idea was absurd. And indeed, a second later his irrepressible nature was back and he flung his arms out in frankly the most over-dramatic bow Salieri had ever witnessed. Several individuals on the outskirts of floor made their consternation known as they narrowly avoided a smack from his flailing hands.

"May I have this dance, sir?"

Salieri could only gape at the unexpected turn his evening had taken, attempting to ignore the curl of anger and something else, harder to identify, which sparked inside him.

"I thought I had made it clear that I don't find jokes at the expense of my dancing ability to be at all amusing."

Those frustratingly expressive eyes blinked at him in surprise.

"I'm not joking, Antonio."

The jolt that went through him when Mozart used his given name just wasn't fair, and he struggled to keep his face expressionless as he tried to fathom the intentions of the boy still bent at the waist in front of him.

"I... cannot dance, it is not something I have ever been interested in learning."

"Ah. So, you don't want to dance with me?"

And god, of all the times for Mozart's face to be veiled, his eyes averted and something in his tone sounding an off note that was impossibly hard to read.

"I..."

If Mozart hadn't added the second half of the question, Salieri would have answered instantly. He had no desire at all to dance with faceless strangers in a mass of overheated bodies, to take part in the sideways looks and giggles and gossip that came part and parcel with that. But, to dance with Mozart? To feel the young man's elegant fingers curled into his sleeve, feel the pressure at his back as he was swept around, as he was made part of the constant, glorious rhythm which this otherworldly boy seemed to live his life by. To look down into his eyes, mere inches from his own.

Salieri was jerked back to reality by a feather light touch in his wrist, Mozart pressing his fingers there as delicately as if he was a newborn kitten who might startle at any minute.

"May I?"

Mozart smiled softly as he asked again, with what Salieri distantly recognised as hope flashing in his eyes. He cleared his throat.

"You may."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Salieri found himself on the dance floor, Mozart's arm steady around his waist, fingertips resting on his hips. At first all he felt was growing panic as his feet stumbled over the steps, but then Mozart leaned in, holding him more firmly and leading with more pressure.

"Don't look at your feet, Antonio, look at me."

Unwillingly, Salrieri dragged his eyes up, losing his breath for a second at how close the man in front of him was.

"There you go." Mozart's smile was open and delighted and seemed to send frissons of heat through the places their bodies touched as he slowly, reverently, spun Salieri out around, catching him and drawing him closer again.

"See Antonio." Wolfgang's voice was a mere whisper over his cheek as he expertly changed their direction again.

"I knew you'd be an incredible dancer."

((This is the first writing I have ever finished and shared and it was written on the nightbus so I’m sorry for any errors)