Battaglia Con Brio, Part 2

[ladderax]

Title: Battaglia Con Brio (2/4)
Author: metacheese
Word Count: ~8,000 this part; roughly 40,000 over all
Team: Angst(y romance)
Prompts: Balcony, Lies
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: brief mentions of violence, physical trauma, hurt/comfort
Summary: When brilliant, controversial and irreverent musical prodigy Eames arrives at the court of the Emperor of Marchia, he immediately gets on the bad side of the Emperor’s official composer, Arthur, who slowly begins to plot to destroy him. But why is Eames so difficult to destroy?
The premise is based on the Peter Shaffer play/Milos Forman film “Amadeus”, but the plot often diverges quite wildly, and the ending is happy. However, it does include jealousy; composers sniping at each other; giggling, dirty-minded creatures; and ghostly mysterious figures in black.
Beta: eternalsojourn
Notes: Title is an Italian musical term meaning “battle, with spirit”.



Part One

A long table stretched out almost to a vanishing point. Liveried servants brought platters piled high with breads and fruits, and no sooner were they cleared away than more arrived to take their places. Suckling pigs with glazed skin crouched in the centers of oblong plates; there was pheasant, of course, shot and killed on the palace grounds, and even venison. As all deer belonged to the Emperor, it was officially impossible to get the savory meat anywhere else. Arthur spread his napkin across his lap and sat up straight in his chair, begging his growling stomach not to work his arms like a marionette. He knew he had a reputation as an abstemious young man, and at the moment, it was about all he had in his favor with the Emperor and his officials.

The tittering on either side of him was directed at an empty seat towards the head of the table. He didn't need to hear the exact words to know the content. Everyone was asking: Where is Herr Eames? Not present at a dinner celebrating tomorrow's performance of his so-called Iron Concerto?

Arthur looked neatly ahead of him, trying to regulate the movements of his fork to evoke clockwork. More and more courses arrived: lamb with mint jelly, duck. He prayed that he would be spared the pityingly curious glances of those who had heard the announcement of his concerto's selection, then heard it rescinded. At least the duchess seated next to him was not a busybody; she engaged him for the decorous amount of time, asking if he had read the latest didactic poem by one Schoenwald, and he had nodded and made a few comments on the pleasing regularity of its meter. Then he returned to his solitary state of satisfaction regarding the absence of Herr Eames.

That was to be short-lived, though. At half-past eight, Arthur's ears perked up at the sound of a rapping against one of the closed doors. He watched as a footman opened the door a crack and spoke a few words to someone; then the door squealed open, and all eyes snapped in the direction of the triumphant Herr Eames, whose air suggested nothing by way of apology for his lateness. He was clad in a bright yellow wig and a knee-length jacket embroidered with bold swirls. His stockings were the same yellow as his wig. And, behind him--to the shock and morally offended delight of the revelers--was a slim young man none of them recognized, sleepy-eyed, red-lipped, clearly ill at ease in the gathering of respectable folk. Robert.

Arthur was determined not to react outwardly. He snuck a glance upward and saw that Eames was begging a servant to fetch a chair for his companion. A small chair, ludicrous among the high-backed heavy ones, was obtained from the kitchen; it was wedged between Eames and Browning, who kept his eyes well averted from the young man, intent instead on laughing at every comment made by the Empress.

Once Robert was seated, he had Eames' full attention. Eames angled towards Robert in his chair, leaning in with a perpetual smile well-visible in profile. Several of the guests tried to get Eames' attention, in ways subtle and unsubtle, coughing and staring. The young lady next to him knocked the contents of her crystal wine goblet over into his lap, but he seized a napkin, dabbed at his crotch and resumed giving his singular attention to Robert. It came to a point when the fog of displeasure spread even to the Emperor. He chose that moment to have Browning stand to make an announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the chancellor pronounced, "we are here to celebrate"--and this he said coldly, directing a disapproving glance at Eames--"the extraordinary achievement of Herr Edward Eames, who has composed a work in honor of the tenth anniversary of our resounding victory against Helvetian greed and aggression. With only sounds he captures the glory of troops marching into battle, the courage of young Marchian men leaving home and comfort to defend the motherland. What is truly astonishing," he continued, adding a bit of bilious sweetness to "astonishing", "is that Herr Eames is not only not a native of Marchia, but because of his busy performing schedule, he was exempted from having to fight in the Helvetian wars like most of his Albionorian compatriots. The Iron Concerto is, therefore," he paused, "a true testament to the power of the...imagination." He said "imagination" as though it were "syphilis".

The room was silent. Eames sat, open-mouthed, looking quite frankly a bit foolish, before he burst into a childlike grin.

"Your Eminence!" he said, standing up abruptly and letting his napkin fall from his lap, "Thank you for your kind words. It is an honor to have been selected over my very...tastefully dressed colleague, Herr Hahnemann, a true Marchian patriot who, during the war, was bravely committed to the struggle of getting to class on time and combating the scourge of ink blots on his trousers."

All eyes were on Arthur. It was impossible to avoid a glance when they were coming from every direction.

"And you, Herr Browning," Eames continued. "I am glad a man with your intimate understanding of music is in charge of selecting the performances at the Royal Academy. Your knowledge continues to humble and inspire me. Just the other day, at the rehearsal, you stood up at the coda and said--I'll never forget it--'I really do think the finale should sound happier. More energetic. Should make people want to dance and celebrate.' Yes, because the end of a war really is like an orgasm, isn't it?" A collective gasp went round the table. "But even after an orgasm, one has to rest."

"Herr Eames, sit down," the Emperor said solemnly. Eames lowered himself to his seat. Browning leaned over to whisper something across the table, to which Saito shook his head.

Arthur had to restrain himself from rising from the table. When dessert and sherry were served, the conversations and sights swam together in a multi-sense soup, and he was aware only of his shame. He remembered the previous night, the enjoyment Eames seemed to be getting out of imagining he was humiliating Arthur. Clearly it was one of the man’s favorite pastimes. It was silly of Arthur to wish he had never come to the Imperial City to study music; the past, was unchangeable, and as a second son his options were limited. He could have studied law or joined the clergy. He imagined himself as a priest, urging others to accept the glory of a God who could give the holy gift of musical genius to such a cruel, venial, silly man as Edward Eames.

A quartet in another room began the first notes of a vigorous waltz, and the guests were led into the ballroom. Arthur looked carefully to make sure no one was in need of his attention, and he tiptoed down the hallway and exited into an atrium surrounded by marble arcade arches. Dusk was well underway, and the light that pierced the arches was barely deserving of the name; it was a granite-colored light, veined with shadows, and the tapestries on the walls looked like the crawl of an angry red mold. Arthur stepped across the grass and sat down on a bench, anger roiling in his chest and throat.

Who is Eames? he thought. Is his talent his power, or is it something else? Would I care if he embarrassed me if he could not conjure up the worlds of the divine, the heavenly and the infernal and those inaccessible even to the spirits of the dead, all with the same materials I use to make the most plodding of waltzes?

We cannot both be happy. It is one or the other.

Distant footsteps echoed on stone, and a shadow moved across the wall like the flowing black figure of a bishop. He turned to face the fountain, hoping that the passerby would not notice him.

Instead, the footsteps drew closer, and he became aware that someone was standing behind him.

“Herr Hahnemann, I wished only to apologize. I meant no disrespect.”

Arthur turned around. “Herr Eames, your apology is of no consequence to me,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could muster.

“I spoke the truth. Why is the truth so often cause for offense?” Eames asked loudly, just as a young man chased a giggling young lady across the stone.

“Keep your bloody voice down,” Arthur hissed. “And so the truth is that I am vain and frivolous and without talent?

“I said none of those things,” Eames whispered, leaning closer to him. “You need no one to tell you how brilliant your Purgatorio was. But you’ve perhaps gotten complacent. I would have thought you’d appreciate a little competition.”

Arthur bent so close to Eames that he could practically touch his lips to the other man’s ear. It reminded him of the banquet hall. Their first meeting. The heat that had flooded his center from the moment he saw Eames’ ruddy cheeks and bright gray eyes, before he knew that Eames could only ever be a reminder of everything he himself could never be. “I will not allow these continued insults to stand without consequence, Herr Eames.” He was unable to stem the flow of words now. “I demand formal satisfaction.”

Eames’ eyes widened, and he sprang from the bench. “You’re challenging me to a duel?”

Arthur grimly met his eyes, trying not to betray his horror at his irreversible mistake. “I am.”

Eames nodded repeatedly. He looked nervous. “So then--if I understand the rules correctly--we need seconds to arrange this. I will appoint Yusuf as my second. And you?”

Arthur cringed. During his university years he had been a member of a dueling fraternity. The swordfights he’d participated in had engraved the papery scar beneath his left eye and the rules of dueling in his mind; he ought to know them by now as well as he he knew his prayers and his time signatures. How could he have forgotten about seconds? The role of the second was to negotiate the terms of the duel, to ensure that both participants were behaving honorably and were not jumping into the fight without careful consideration. Any second Arthur chose would be certain to take Eames’s side in the conflict. They would try to reason him out of fighting. What if Eames were wounded? Even if he weren’t killed, what if Arthur shot him in the hand or marred the face that had to pose for portraits and stand before adoring crowds? Eames was a precious commodity.

“I will go fetch Yusuf from the ballroom,” Eames announced. “Who will you choose?”

Cobb would not do. Eames had practically given him a reason to live. Arthur hated to make a dishonorable choice, a choice who was not his social equal, but he could think of no other who would take his part against Eames.

“My manservant, Anton,” Arthur said, not daring to meet Eames’s eyes.

Minutes later they reconvened in the courtyard. Eames had a tipsy Yusuf in tow, and Arthur sat on the bench he’d sat on earlier, Anton standing behind him. Yusuf whispered, or attempted to whisper, something to Eames which sounded to Arthur like “What’s a second supposed to do again?”

Anton cleared his throat. “May I speak, Herr Hahnemann?” he asked in a soft monotone.

“Of course, Anton.”

“As I understand it, Herr Eames,” he said, turning to face Eames, “since you are the party who issued the first offense, it falls to you to offer Herr Hahnemann a formal apology.”

Eames snorted. “Did Herr Hahnemann tell you that I already tried that? Herr Hahnemann is determined to take umbrage at everything I say or do regardless, so I’m no longer inclined to keep groveling at his feet.”

Yusuf leaned in and loudly whispered to Eames again. “Imagine what a duel could do for your image!” He sounded almost excited about the prospect. “No one would ever see you as a coward again. They’d see you as dangerous and manly, a real loose cannon.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging us to reconcile, Yusuf?” Eames asked mildly.

“Reconciliation might also be a…good idea.” Yusuf sounded much more blasé about reconciliation.

“Are you also determined to duel, Herr Hahnemann?” asked Anton.

Arthur lifted his chin and folded his hands in his lap. “I am.”

“Will you name the stakes?”

Pistols, a foolish mind-voice cried.

Death.

“You can’t kill him, Herr Hahnemann!” Yusuf called. His voice rebounded off the darkening stones. “The entire continent would hate you.”

“I am not going to kill him,” Arthur said harshly. “The thought never even crossed my mind. Do you agree, Herr Eames, that we will fight with swords? To…” He paused.

“First blood would be most prudent in this case,” Anton offered.

“To first blood,” Arthur affirmed. “At eight tomorrow morning.”

The other three men looked flabbergasted. “Tomorrow?” Yusuf began haltingly. “But your performance-“

Eames waved his hand nonchalantly. “Don’t worry, Yusuf. Better to get this silly thing over with as soon as possible.”

Anton hesitated before speaking again. “Then we all agree? A duel with swords, at eight o’clock?” He pulled a roll of parchment from inside the breast of his jacket. “Then I will ask you gentlemen to sign your names to this parchment.” He handed Arthur the scroll, a pen and ink. Arthur unscrewed the lid of the inkpot, dipped the pen twice and signed his name in a jagged garland.

“Won’t it be a problem if someone finds it?” Yusuf asked anxiously.

“I’m not concerned,” Eames said. “The Emperor favors me. He loves my compositions, and he has made allowances for me before.” Arthur rolled his eyes, not caring who saw it this time.

They agreed that the duel would not be fought on the palace grounds. Yusuf knew of a grazing meadow a mile north of the city frequented by a dense overcoat of fog and surrounded by a horseshoe of forest into which it would be easy to disappear should complications arise. Eames objected to the location, but Yusuf’s arguments convinced him. After they had all signed their names and shaken hands, Eames returned to the ballroom to find Robert, while Arthur excused himself to the Emperor and Browning and retired to his quarters.

He pulled a black lacquer case from beneath his bed. His epee had rested for years, but he worked it slowly out of its groove of green satin, remembering how well his hand had molded to the handle. A bullet of white light traced the blade’s spine as he tipped it upwards. How I’ve missed this, he thought.

§

Arthur led his horse into the meadow and could hardly see his own hand through the mist. He stroked his sword case and tried to will away the effects of his lack of sleep.

What do I have to worry about? he thought, trying to console himself. I'm not out for blood, only to teach that insolent child a lesson. I will cut his shoulder; he will bleed; and he'll have learned never to insult me again.

Arthur was so lost in thought that it took him some time to realize that it must have been minutes since the distant church bells struck the hour.

"Any sign of them, Anton?" he asked. Anton scanned the gravel road leading up to the pasture.

"No, sir." Arthur pulled his watch out of his pocket and let out a slow breath. "It's eight fifteen. This is exceedingly ill-mannered of them," said Anton.

The bloody cur has gone back on his word, Arthur thought. He shook the dew from the toe of his boot and paced back and forth over the spongy ground, trampling little-flowered weeds. When he stepped in a pile of manure he cursed; Anton rushed to wipe his heel with a handkerchief, but Arthur waved him away.

The clock chimed on the half hour. "Anton, let's go."

Arthur leapt atop his horse. "I intend to find Herr Eames, wherever he is, and embarrass him the way he has once again embarrassed me. Perhaps I will challenge him to fight again, and this time I swear I will do him the sort of harm that cannot be healed with a bandage."

Anton's horse caught up with his. "Is that wise, sir?" he asked. "Perhaps it would be more prudent to let Herr Eames go."

"You must understand, Anton," said Arthur over the crunch of hooves on gravel, "the kind of damage that Herr Eames does when he is allowed to say whatever he wishes unchecked. The other day he insulted an officer of the court. He offends the sensibilities of respectable people on a daily basis. And yet his behavior is accepted, even rewarded. Tell me, is that fair?"

"No, sir," Anton agreed.

Eames was nowhere to be found at the palace or on the palace grounds. Arthur bid goodbye to Anton there, urging him to take the day off; then he rode into town, where Eames also kept his own residence.

He visited a tavern he knew Eames frequented. When he walked through the door the innkeeper set down the beer stein he was drying and fixed him with a cold glare that informed him he was a stranger. The few other men and women dining on brown bread and pickled cabbage also turned to give full-body appraisals to the man in the clean white ruffled ascot and shining boots.

"Good morning, good sir." He tried to sound kindly. "Have you seen Herr Eames this morning?"

"That depends why you want to know," the man said stiffly in a rural accent not too different from the one native to the region where Arthur had grown up.

"Herr Eames owes me a debt," Arthur said.

The innkeeper snorted. "You'll have to get in line then. Herr Eames isn't well-known for paying off his debts, is he?" A few of his customers laughed.

"Oh, do lay off of Eames, Conrad," cried a woman in a plain brown dress to which length had been added using a different, coarser fabric. "He's a good man. He came and played the violin to cheer up my Sophie when she was ill, and he even bought the medicine for her."

"Yes, I'm sure buying medicine for sick children is what's gotten old Graybeard on his case, Teresa," Conrad scoffed.

The woman began to voice her objections again, and Arthur moved toward the door. "Thank you," he mouthed, waving awkwardly.

Arthur knew that Eames's permanent home was several streets away because out of mere curiosity he had sent Anton one night to follow him. The neighborhood was inhabited mostly by civil servants; the homes, with pale brick facades and iron verandas, were not luxurious, but they tended to be filled with foreign art and well-crafted furniture, and the streets were well lit at night.

No one answered the door, but he tried the handle and found it unlocked.

"Herr Eames." His voice echoed as he ascended the stairwell. The parlor was eerily bare; save for a spinnet and one yellow chair with a seat cushion that looked slashed-through, there was no furniture in it. Nor was there art on the walls. Shouldn't Eames's living quarters be full of art? He imagined that there would be enough portraits of Eames on the walls to make the roof beams sag. Perhaps he had not yet moved all of his belongings in. “Herr Eames. Are you here?”

Arthur thought he could hear a creak at the end of the hall. A door being blown open by the wind, no doubt. He peeked into an utterly empty room with the drapes drawn, then moved towards the bedchamber. The creak repeated, and Arthur realized to his shock that it was not a creak but a human voice groaning something incomprehensible.

Arthur hastened to the bedchamber. To his horror, there was someone in the bed. The person’s face was buried in the pillow, his or her body contorted in a shape that suggested pain rather than sleep.

“Eames?” he asked.

“Go away, I don’t have any more money,” he moaned.

“I’m not here for your money.” He ran to the bedside and leaned over Eames. Eames did not look like himself: his eyelids were purple slugs, and his grimy face was swollen to several times its normal size. Arthur drew the sheet back slowly and gasped at the damask of bruises on Eames’s skin, red and purple and black. Worst of all, the elephantine right arm that clung to Eames’ side like a shy child appeared to have an extra bend between the hand and the elbow. There were bandages on his skin, but he had clearly not received enough medical attention. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

“I got myself beaten up so I wouldn’t have to fight your duel,” Eames rasped. His mouth opened into a bloody smile full of black holes.

“Now is not the time to jest,” Arthur said, as gently as he could manage. “Tell me later. I’m going to fetch a doctor.”

“No. No doctors,” Eames insisted. He made a feeble attempt to turn to face Arthur, but the effort was excruciating. “Word of this-ow-word of this must not get out.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Arthur drew the blinds closed.

Arthur returned shortly afterward with the doctor and the bonesetter in tow. He waited outside the door while the doctor administered laudanum and the bonesetter wrenched and tugged. The effects of the sedative had not yet set in, and Arthur had to cover his ears when Eames screamed.

“Will he be all right?” Arthur asked the men anxiously after they had finished their ministrations.

“His arm will take a month at least to heal,” said the bonesetter.

Arthur paid them thirty florins each; they took their supplies and left.

There was no chair in the bedroom, so he leaned against the windowsill. Eames’s eyes were closed, but he continued to groan, and Arthur couldn’t tell if he were asleep or awake. From life at the palace Arthur had gotten used to standing perfectly still, like a cast-iron hat rack with eyes, but his sleepless night kept announcing itself to his brain and his muscles and he found himself longing for someplace more satisfying than the windowsill to perch.

“Arthur,” Eames at last squeezed out. “Will you tell me a story?”

“In need of something to put you to sleep?” Arthur said dryly.

“No. I don’t think sleep is an option,” Eames said. “I need something to take my mind off of the pain.”

Arthur’s legs were threatening to collapse. He slid down the wall into a crouching position.

”Come sit on the bed, you fool,” Eames laughed. Reluctantly Arthur moved around the bed and sat on the corner diagonally across from the pillow whereon rested Eames’s battered head.

Arthur smoothed out the front of his jacket and began to tell the story.

“About fifty years ago, in this very city, there lived a young student named Girolamo. He came from a good family, and he had a home, a horse, clothes without holes, and food in his larder. His school marks were not exceptional, but he worked hard, and he knew how to ingratiate himself with professors and fellow students, so he was practically guaranteed a job of some standing once he graduated. He had but one problem. He believed he lacked a soul.” He paused, listening for some signal from Eames. There was none but his labored breathing, the sound of air being pushed through bellows.

“Shall I continue?” Arthur asked.

“If you’re going to keep asking that every ten seconds, then no,” Eames retorted.

“Very well then. Girolamo believed he lacked a soul, and he became obsessed with the thought of acquiring one. One night, as he lay awake, tossing and turning, the desire became strong enough to push him out of bed and lead him blindly down an alley, where he found a small, locked door. He had always avoided this alley, for he had heard rumors that this door opened into the home of a sorcerer. But tonight he was desperate. He knocked thrice at the door, and on the third knock an old man answered. You should not be here, my boy, the sorcerer said. It is not with a glad heart that I inflict my gifts upon others. But Girolamo would not listen to reason. I was born without a soul, he told the old man. After the old man listened to Girolamo’s story, he said, I can give you what you ask. But I cannot create a soul for you out of ether. Only God can create souls. You must steal one from one already born. Is there one whose soul you wish to take? Girolamo barely had to think to answer. Yes, he said...”

When the story was concluded, Arthur held his breath. Was Eames asleep? Was his mind’s orchestra occupying him, spinning him a sultry passacaglia, a chipper minuet? For a moment Arthur even feared he might be dead.

“You shouldn’t tell stories like that,” Eames whispered at last, startling Arthur. “It’s not good for your reputation as an utter bore.”

“So you found it...entertaining?”

Eames paused. Arthur watched him anxiously; it was work for him to peel his parched lips apart. He needs water, Arthur thought. Is there a pitcher in this entire house?

“It was...frankly, Arthur, it was marvelous. Dark and strange and blasphemous.”

“Blasphemous?” Arthur asked. “I intended no blasphemy. You must understand, I think up stories mainly to entertain children, and I use whatever will keep their attention. They love stories of witches and magic, and such elements work well to caution them against pride and untoward curiosity.”

Eames laughed. “That? That was no children’s story.” His lilting speech was quickly fractured by a hacking cough. “You know, you really ought to admit that you’re every bit as debauched as I am. You’ll have much more fun that way.”

Then his head slumped to the side, and his mouth fell open, and he said no more.

§

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asked when Eames had finally groaned awake. He had found a cracked jug and filled it at the water pump; now he was dipping an rag into it, dabbing Eames’s forehead and neck. The bruises and cuts tightened Eames’s skin, made slight movements agonizing, and Arthur winced in sympathy whenever the gentle pressure of the cloth was not quite gentle enough.

“Like one of Meyerburg’s beds after he’s entertained a group of his lady students,” Eames slurred.

“Glad to see your taste for vulgarity hasn’t been dulled,” said Arthur.

Eames closed his bloodshot eyes. “You, Herr Hahnemann, are a fine one to talk about vulgarity. I know you were trying to trap me with that charming whore. He told me your plan, told me about your history together.”

Eames, groggy and purple, was far too pitiable a target for Arthur’s anger to stick to, and he changed the subject.

“What’s become of Yusuf, anyway?”

Eames’s brow furrowed. He tried to raise his hand to his face, then remembered that it was in a sling across his chest. “I don’t actually know. I was to meet him at the field at eight o’clock. I hope he wasn’t waylaid by unsavory types. The way I was.”

“Unsavory types like this Greybeard?”

Eames began to chuckle but found it too painful to finish. “How do you know about Greybeard?”

“I’ve also heard that you have a tendency to...misplace funds. My research is always quite thorough. So.” Arthur flexed his fingers. “Do you care to explain how you found yourself in this state, or shall I just assume you really did dread the slash of my epee so much that you had yourself beaten to a pulp rather than face it?”

“You may want to pull up a chair. It’s a rather long story.”

“Do you see any chairs here?” Arthur glanced around the room. “I suppose you’re lucky your creditors left you the bed.”

Eames’s mouth twisted wickedly. “I had it bolted to the floor for exactly that reason.”

“So your mind does contain a speck of prudence,” Arthur smiled.

“Only where matters of the bedroom are concerned.” Eames’s eye flinched.

Arthur chose not to respond to him. “Do you have a pitcher?”

“Most likely, no,” said Eames.

“You need clean linens and food,” proclaimed Arthur. He thought for a moment. “My home is only one neighborhood away. I’ll fetch some food and linens and a pitcher that isn’t broken, and I’ll visit the pump again. I won’t be an hour.” He laid his hand on Eames’s shoulder to press the words into his body, along with some unspoken ones. Whatever has passed between us, I will not abandon a man in need.

“I’ll be right here,” Eames said brightly.

§

When Arthur returned from his apartment, balancing fruit and bread and a full pitcher of water, and having sent a messenger to fetch Anton from the palace, Eames was not, in fact, lying in his bed.

Arthur searched every corner and crevice of Eames’s home. His heart hammered in his chest; images of Greybeard and his cronies, men with pistols and clubs and little regard for musical genius, had set up camp in his mind. He expected the worst.

Ruefully he remembered the moment he’d considered killing Eames. Pistols. To the death. Had he actually been serious? Perhaps. But he knew beyond a doubt that he could not aim a gun at that face. Could not, with a quick metallic puncture barely thicker than the dot on an I, convert that sublime mind into a mere thing. To be treated like a smelly grotesque inconveience, hefted and drained and sealed up in a filthy cave. At times it was torture just to know that Eames existed. But there was no joy in seeing him lying bloody and bruised in that bed. He wanted to touch Eames’s hot cheek with the back of his hand, smooth his hair back like Arthur’s mother had done when he’d had a fever and the priest hovered in the bedroom door.

He was vaulted out of his reverie by three sharp knocks to the door downstairs. A quarter note and two eighth notes; Anton’s signal.

Arthur rushed downstairs and flung open the door.

“What in God’s name-“Arthur cried, incredulous. Anton was supporting the slumped-over form of a man, dirty and bruised.

“I found him leaning against the wall of a house, sir,” Anton explained. “He’d tried to walk, but couldn’t get any further. People thought he was a beggar. They were throwing coins at his feet.”

“He wouldn’t let me pick any of the money up, either,” Eames hissed. “Can you believe that?”

Arthur was too furious to look Eames in the eye. “Anton, help me get him upstairs.”

Arthur grabbed Eames by the feet while Anton supported his back, careful not to disturb the arm in the sling.

“You can’t expect me to miss my own concert,” Eames whined, his head bobbing to one side as they hoisted him up the stairs.

“It’s tomorrow, you brainless idiot!” said Arthur.

They got Eames settled back in bed. Anton filled a pap boat with water and tilted it into Eames’s mouth, urging him to drink. He sat up, but still spluttered. Arthur, meanwhile, stomped back and forth, rubbing his hands together briskly.

“I swear, if you try anything like that again-“ In a burst of rage he seized the curtains, yanking them down in one attempt, and the room was bathed with blinding light. He held the fabric in front of Eames; making sure that Eames was watching, he tore a strip from the edge and pulled it tautly in both hands. “If you try anything like that again, I will tie you to this bloody bed. Goddamn it.”

When the curse left his lips, Anton glared at him in ill-disguised horror.

When Anton left again to retrieve chairs, bedding and braziers from Arthur’s house, both Arthur and Eames maintained a tense silence.

At last Eames broke the silence. “Please, you must understand,” he said softly. “You may think I take a flippant attitude towards everything. But this concerto is...I’ve put my entire being into this. I’ve done things no one has ever done before with music, and to have to miss seeing it finally come to life after all of these rehearsals would be terrible. And who will conduct it?” He raised himself on his elbow. “Nor can I miss the opportunity to see the expression on Browning’s face when he sees the surprise I have in store for him.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “A surprise.”

Eames’s lips snapped back from a broad smile; it was too painful for the bruised and stretched skin to sustain. “But the surprise can’t happen now. There were supplies I needed, and now I can’t get them.”

Arthur deliberated for a moment. What kind of damage was Eames planning to do to his reputation now? Then curiosity got the better of him. He sighed. “I will help you. I will help you execute your little surprise, and, if you can stand it, I will conduct your piece. I have attended all of the rehearsals. I have studied the score. I think I can manage a passable approximation of your plans for the concerto.”

Eames bolted upright in bed, then gasped in pain. Arthur rushed to his side and, hand on his shoulder, eased him back down. “You would do that for me?” he wheezed. Arthur nodded. “Arthur, you are the dearest friend I’ve ever had.”

Arthur looked down at his lap, shaking his head. “You have no idea how untrue that is.”

“No,” insisted Eames. “It’s true.”

”It really isn’t,” said Arthur.

§

There were all manner of ways one could sabotage a performance like this. One could give the wrong musical cues to the musicians: encourage volume from the wrong sections, conveniently forget to signal to the percussion when to come in. And Arthur knew these musicians well. Knew that in the face of a suspicious change of plans some of them would play the piece as they’d rehearsed it and others would follow the conductor blindly, trusting that it was part of Eames’s genius vision. The result would be a discombobulated canon, phrases sliding on top of each other wantonly. Dislocated, jarring, ugly.

Arthur wished his mind wouldn’t dwell on sabotage. But he was angry. Angry that Eames had terrified him by vanishing, angry that he even cared that Eames lived or died. Angry that Eames was storing the costumes-yes, costumes-for this performance at the home of Arthur’s own former lover, whose home Arthur paid for, whose loyalty Arthur had hoped to use to bring about Eames’s downfall. Everything Arthur had tried to do to show Eames his proper place had backfired, and yes, it made him a bit furious.

Once again Robert greeted Arthur as if he didn’t know him at all. Arthur expected no more.

“I’ve come to fetch whatever Herr Eames has been keeping here,” Arthur said stiffly.

Robert nodded and opened the door reluctantly, then led Arthur to a black trunk that was both deep and wide. It had wheels, but Arthur knew he wouldn’t be able to cart it down the stairs alone.

Although he balked at taking up any more of Robert’s time than he had to, he required his help to get the trunk outside. After he and Robert lowered it to the ground, Robert turned and began to walk briskly back to the door.

“I did try, you know,” Arthur called out to him.

Robert turned back around and took a few steps back towards Arthur. “I suppose it’s not your fault,” he said softly. “You couldn’t help who you fell in love with.”

Arthur felt all the breath evacuate his lungs. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Robert looked as if he were trying to calm himself before explaining something to a particularly dense child. “I know that you’re in love with Eames. I can’t imagine it’s much of a secret, either. The way you look at him? Everyone has to know.”

Something hot and livid choked off Arthur’s vision like a fast-growing bramble. “What does he think of me?”

Robert shrugged. “Don’t know. I don’t believe he returns your feelings, though. I did tell him I thought you might be watching us, so we decided we’d give you a bit of a show in case you were. You did see, didn’t you? The jacket? That was my idea.”

Arthur knew his mouth had dropped open. “You betrayed me.”

Cold anger flashed in Robert’s eyes. “And what did you think you did to me? I loved you. You knew that. And you always hated that I was a whore, claimed I was better than that, but you had no reservations about asking me to be a whore when it suited your twisted needs.” He took a step back. “I despise you, Arthur. You are selfish and hypocritical. And it is no wonder that your music is so soulless, since you have no human feelings in you.” With that he strode back toward the door.

Arthur stood in the street, thoroughly numb. A carriage driver had to swerve around him, cursing, and a horse dropped dung not a foot away from him. Serves me right, he thought. Any serious thoughts of sabotage flew away. The possibility of proving Robert right once again made his stomach churn.

For awhile he had tried to suppress a daft hope that Eames’s stunt with the jacket in the hunting shack was some sign that Eames harbored a secret regard for him. That, mingled with his desire to embarrass Arthur, was a desire to possess Arthur. But no. Of course not. It was a trick, like everything else Eames did.

He waited to hail a carriage. He knew he deserved to find one that was headed for Hell, although he wondered if he was not already there.

§

“The costumes are here!” cried one of the seamstresses, greeting Arthur at the backstage door on opening night. Musicians clogged the narrow passageway, anxiously awaiting the black trunk’s journey forth.

“Let me at it!” Mathilde, the head seamstress, called, pulling a key out of a pocket. “I do hope he knew what he was doing.”

“Have you seen them before?” Arthur asked Mathilde, who was jiggling the key in the rusted lock.

“No,” said Mathilde. “He insisted on keeping it secret. He only let a couple of friends help him with it.” Arthur had considered picking the lock to see the costumes, but curiosity, like most of his other appetites, had taken a hit after his encounter with Robert. When he returned to Eames’s house, he’d asked Anton to see to Eames’s care. Arthur himself had skulked in the empty parlor all night. Several times he drifted partway off to sleep standing up and, in the truth-warping space between dream and waking, he though he heard impossible voices that reminded him of acts so dark he could not even form the words to describe them. Once in the grainy darkness he even thought he saw a human shape moving towards him, composed of twisting fluid lines he remembered well. It isn’t her, he whispered.

Mathilde gasped as she turned around, holding in one hand a stream of coppery fabric with a large stiff cup-shaped part dangling at the end, and in the other an object made of thick paper that resembled a wheel.

“That’s all very well, but what are the costumes supposed to be?” one of the cellists asked impatiently.

“Wait, wait, there’s a note in here.” Mathilde fished it out and stared at it for a moment.

“What does it say, though?”

Mathilde looked back and forth. “I never learned to read. Someone else will have to do it.” Arthur reached for the piece of paper.

It contained only one word:

BOOM.

§

“I don’t care what kind of genius Eames is,” Cobb fumed, lifting the costume over his head and shaking out his hair. “I don’t see why it was necessary to have us dress as cannons. I’m going to have a word with him next time I see him. I really believe that wearing that thing on my head threw off my balance and affected my playing. The tiniest things can have a very strong effect on a musician’s performance.”

The change in Cobb since he’d begun performing again was remarkable. He still drank too much, and more often than not he still had that dull, distant look in his eyes. But now he also had periods of lucidity and confidence. Only two months ago he wouldn’t have had nearly so much to say about a cannon costume.

“You were brilliant,” Arthur murmured. “I think it may have been your best performance yet.”

“Maestro, may I have a word?” There was a wave of bowing as Chancellor Browning stepped backstage.

Arthur and Cobb both bowed deeply as well. “You honor us with your presence, as always, Sir,” said Arthur. “Of course.”

Arthur followed Browning into the corridor behind the ready room. In the near-total dark only the very highest and very deepest parts of a face were visible, so Browning’s face was just a constellation of wisps.

“First, I must admit that your conducting of that bizarre piece was commendable,” Browning began, though even that sounded like a warning. Arthur had to agree with him. He had sworn to conduct the concerto as if it were his own piece. Anything less would only reflect poorly on him. And the truth was that he wanted to hear the Iron Concerto again, as Eames had intended it, its moments of plodding doubt and ricocheting mania. It was a jagged and uncertain terrain whose only guide was that golden horsefly of a motif, soaring and zooming and hiding behind burning bushes only to emerge again in a clearing charged with a new purpose: now a patient fleck of redemption. It was a thing of torment turned miraculously into a precious beacon on the sea.

“Thank you,” said Arthur.

“However, the Emperor and I both had some concerns. Though we are to understand that those costumes were Herr Eames’s idea, your complicity in ensuring their use was-- troubling, to say the least. And we had no reason before to consider you a troublemaker.”

Arthur bowed his head in contrition. “I am deeply sorry, Your Excellency.”

“Your apology is accepted.” Browning meted out the words slowly. “We had hoped, of course, that you would be a positive influence on Herr Eames, and that his more maladaptive behaviors would not rub off on a man of your moral fiber. Please, in the future, do not give us any reason to believe that the latter is the case.”

Arthur dug his nails into his palm. So Browning was blaming not Eames, but Arthur for not keeping Eames in line?

“In the future, I will ensure that he is kept in check. If I can help it,” Arthur forced out.

“Good,” said Browning. “By the way, the Emperor wishes you to know that he is planning a revival of your Purgatorio in September. It is an appropriate piece to herald in the fall, don’t you agree?”

Arthur’s throat tightened. “Surely there is something else that could be performed? Something by Molinari or Leininger? I’ve long felt that Susskind was due for a revival.”

“As always, Maestro, you are far too modest,” Browning countered.

Arthur became vaguely aware of a disturbance in the direction of the stage. There were high-pitched shrieks and the stomping of feet, and both he and Browning rushed to investigate. They followed the throng of people moving towards the dress circle. Arthur could just make out someone screaming “Call a doctor! Call a doctor!”

“What’s happened?” Arthur ran down the steps at the side of the stage and pushed his way towards the cluster of people that blocked his view.

“Herr Meyerburg! He fell down, and now it seems he’s dead!” cried one of the servants on the edge of the circle. And indeed the old choirmaster was lying on the ground, wig half off his head, with several young ladies clutching onto various parts of him-his head, a wrist, an ankle-with a fervor with which a single mourner usually cradles the entire body of the dear departed.

§

On returning to Eames’s home, Arthur chucked his cane across the room. The clattering summoned a thin stream of light, followed by Anton, from the upstairs.

“Herr Eames awaits you. He wishes eagerly to speak with you.”

Arthur scowled at Anton. “Tell him he can eagerly wait for as long as he likes. I’m not coming. As soon as I hire someone to care for him for the next two weeks, you and I are leaving here.”

Anton came close enough so that Arthur could see his dark blue eyes framed by their stubby whitish lashes. He looked puzzled. “But sir. With all due respect, Herr Eames seems genuinely fond of you. He told me that, in spite of all the misunderstandings between the two of you, that he considers you a friend.”

“Does he.” Arthur said bitterly.

Anton blinked slowly. “He asked me to tell him things about you.”

Arthur laughed without humor. “Oh. I’m sure he did. What did he ask?”

“He wanted to know...rather boring things, to be honest. He asked me your mother’s name, and your birthday, and whether you slept on the left or the right side of the bed, and how you take your tea.”

“And you told him?” Arthur asked, exasperated.

“I did not think that information was classified, sir.” Anton said repentantly.

“Well, I can only hope that he doesn’t use employ his dazzling creativity in using any of that information against me,” Arthur said. The acridity had left his voice; he was unable to stay too angry with Anton, whom he trusted well.

“Sir.” Anton rushed to catch up with him as he stalked away. “I mean no disrespect, but...have you ever considered that Herr Eames’s intentions towards you, while mischievous, may not be entirely malicious?”

“He’s won you over, Anton,” Arthur closed his eyes and smiled. “I can’t believe it. Anton, you may go home. I will take care of Eames myself.”

Arthur trod into Eames’s room, finding that the lamp was snuffed out.

“Anton, is that you?” Eames called out. His voice crackled.

“No, it’s me. I have dismissed Anton.” Arthur struck a match and relit the lamp. “There are things we need to talk about, Eames.”

“I’m sure there are. Let me guess. You interpreted the cannon costumes as an attempt to humiliate you personally, and now you’re itching to smother me with a pillow. Haven’t you learned, Arthur, that not everything I do is aimed at humiliating you?” Eames asked.

“Browning blamed me for failing to keep you in line,” Arthur said dully.

“Really.” Eames chewed it over for a moment. “But you’re Browning’s darling. I thought you could do no wrong in his eyes.”

“He thinks your mischief has rubbed off on me.”

Eames clicked his tongue. “If only he knew how resistant you really are to letting me rub off on you. I meant what I said earlier, though. I do consider you a friend.”

Arthur was exhausted again. He balanced at the very edge of the bed, trying to make the least possible amount of contact between his body and the mattress. Nevertheless he teetered and nearly fell to the floor.

“You’re falling asleep standing up. Would you just get in the fucking bed?” Eames demanded. “I’m not going to do anything to you. Don’t worry.”

The thought of being horizontal, of actually sleeping, far outweighed any coherent doubts about Eames’s intentions. Arthur slipped his shoes off, peeled the covers back, and lowered himself onto the mattress.

Eames smelled of dried blood and liniment, and he needed a bath. But it was still bearable to lie next to him, and it didn’t distract Arthur from his steady descent into sleep. In that liminal state, he felt soft fingers at the back of his neck, just resting at first, then beginning to stroke the fine hairs there. He wasn’t sure if they were real or imagined, but they felt so good that he didn't care one bit.

§

The first thing Arthur thought the next morning, after disentangling the hand that had wandered into his hair, was that it wouldn’t do to let Eames stay in this barren house.

With Anton’s help, he bundled Eames into a carriage and they rode to his home. Christina, the maid, had already prepared a guest room for him, and they settled him into bed while Eames asked a hundred questions about all of the paintings on the walls and the furnishings in the room. Before noon, he had named and given a personality to each of the flowers on the brocade bedcover, tried to convince Christina that he could read fortunes in tea leaves-“I see a bear, yes, a very big bear, I think it means you are going to marry a hairy man”-and played several one-handed games of whist with Anton, Arthur hovering nearby to ensure that no money changed hands. He trusted Anton, but Eames had strange effects on people.

After they had all eaten lunch in the guest room, with Eames holding court as usual, and Anton and Christina had cleared away all the trays, Eames asked Arthur for a piano.

“A very small piano that can sit on the bed, you mean?” Arthur asked. “Because that’s the only way you’re getting to a piano. You need to rest.”

“I need to write music,” Eames said crossly. “Unless you’ll be my hands for me.”

Arthur looked at him. Eames’s fingertips were twitching inside the sling, as if he were playing an invisible piano.

“I will be your hands,” Arthur agreed.

It became a routine. Eames lay on the couch wrapped in blankets, furiously scribbling music with his weak left hand and waving it at Arthur to come fetch it so that Arthur could play it for him on the piano and Eames could shout corrections.

I am allowing him to treat me like a secretary, nagged the voice in Arthur’s mind.

Submitting his hands and his mind to Eames’s music completely felt like a renunciation of his own being as a composer. It was as if Eames’s spirit were moving through him, thick and strong, knocking aside all of his desires.

I ought to accept that I am nothing compared to him, Arthur thought. Destroying him will not change that. What he has written already is immortal. The world could only hate me for hindering him. I may as well try to be liked, or at least tolerated, for helping. The sentiment was a bitter spoonful to swallow. At least Arthur got to be useful. He remembered when he was a tiny boy and the milkmaid would let him crank the handle of the butter churn. Even at that young age, straining on tiptoe to channel all of his strength to his skinny arms, there was a joy in subordinating his body to a higher purpose, becoming flexible, mindless, hollow as a house.

The feeling of Eames’s hands squeezing his shoulder now and again brought him back to himself. Oddly, he found he didn’t mind being there.

§

Yusuf came by one day to visit Eames while he and Arthur were in the parlor. “What in God’s name happened to you that day?” Eames cried when Yusuf walked in. “I thought bandits had gotten you.”

Yusuf looked down sheepishly. “I was taking the long way around town, and I saw a fascinating insect, of a species that was, as far as I knew, as yet unknown to man. I had to collect a sample, so I went back to the apothecary to fetch a glass jar and some chloroform. And I caught it! It was, indeed, a new species. And I think they’re going to name it after me.”

Eames snorted. “That’s a lie. You were with Ariadne, weren’t you?”

Yusuf’s eyes darted away, and he was silent.

“Ha! I knew it. Well, I’m glad at least one of us has had some luck at romance.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Yusuf. “Are you courting someone?”

Eames sighed dramatically. “Arthur doesn’t believe that I love him.”

Arthur glared at him. “You’re only using me because my hands work.”

Yusuf shrugged. “Well, isn’t that mostly what love is anyway?” He took a delicately painted china cup from Christina, who continued to look shyly at him.

“I like your cane, sir,” she said softly and hurriedly. “It looks to be excellent craftsmanship. Do you have a lot of canes, sir? Do you like wood or metal better? Myself, I like metal. It’s...smoother.”

“Don’t even think about it, Christina,” Eames said good-naturedly. “He’s engaged.” Christina frowned and ducked away into the kitchen.

“Such a charming girl, though,” Yusuf sighed. Arthur shot him a disapproving glance. “Yes. Speaking of my engagement, to my fiancee, whom I very much love,” he said pointedly in Arthur’s direction, “we have set a date. We are marrying on August the ninth.”

“Only eight days before Arthur’s birthday!” Eames beamed.

“Nine.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “I’m not a mathematician, you know.”

“How do you manage to count the beats in a bar again?” Arthur teased.

Yusuf leaned back in his chair and slurped slightly at his tea. “You two like each other? I’m shocked! Oh, and before I forget, I have news from the Royal Academy. They’ve found a replacement for Herr Meyerburg, may Heaven rest his oversexed soul.”

“Who?” Arthur asked. He had once had a faint hope of being appointed to the position himself, but it evaporated, and he was less than sad to see it go.

“You’ll never believe it,” Yusuf said. “Professor Miles is coming out of retirement.”

“Miles,” said Eames. “The name sounds familiar. Where have I heard it?”

“He’s an occasional composer, but he’s primarily a teacher of music and composition at the Royal Academy of Marchia,” said Yusuf. “Brilliant man. He used to be the Emperor’s Choirmaster, but he retired from all work when his daughter died under mysterious circumstances. His daughter was married to Cobb, the violinist. You know him.”

“Yes. Of course. Arthur, what’s wrong?” Eames asked gently. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

§

Arthur’s fingers were beginning to cramp, and Eames’s attention was beginning to wander; he was crumpling up pieces of ledger paper and throwing them at Arthur’s head like a schoolboy.

“If you break anything in here, I will flay you,” Arthur warned, scribbling a correction on one of Eames’s sheets.

“I’m tired of music. Can’t we do something else?”

Arthur turned around on the piano bench. Eames was plucking at the tassels on his blanket.

“This was your idea, you do remember,” said Arthur.

Suddenly Eames swung his feet onto the silken carpet, and Arthur was seeing his body vertical for the first time since the afternoon a week ago when Anton had caught him escaping. It struck Arthur how much thinner he looked, although Arthur and his servants had done their best to ensure that Eames was eating enough. Some of his bruises had faded to purple; some were still black; and a stitched-up gash still wended its way across his forehead like a toothy crooked mouth.

“I’m much better now, Arthur,” Eames said. “I can walk now.”

“Are you so sure?” Arthur asked.

Eames sprung to his feet. “Sometimes I walk around the house while you’re all asleep,” he said slyly. “I’m very quiet.”

“Excellent,” Arthur said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“But,” Eames said, limping over to Arthur, “if I can walk, it means I can also kneel.” He fell to his knees before Arthur, and Arthur saw him wince-he’d clearly been kicked in the legs and the shins numerous times.

“Get up, will you?” Arthur begged. “What are you doing?”

”You’ve been so good to me,” Eames whispered. “I just wanted to return the favor. Make you feel good. Please? Can I?”

Arthur let his eyes twitch closed. Eames slid his hands onto Arthur’s knees.

“I’m going to take your pants down now.” Eames hooked his fingers around the buttons of Arthur’s trousers and undid them. “Remember how we were going to do this? What happened?”

“Is this the time to talk about that?” Arthur sighed. His elbow accidentally smashed the piano keys, resulting in a tuneless clang.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” Eames pulled Arthur’s pants down in slow, even intervals, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. His eyes were still rimmed with bruises that made the gray of his irises even more striking by contrast. “I didn’t know why you decided you hated me when you found out who I was, what changed your mind.”

I think I hated you more because you found out who I was, Arthur thought but could not say aloud.

“I’m sorry, Eames.” Arthur rested his hand in Eames’s disheveled hair like a blessing. He hoped the apology would cover all of it.

Eames pushed the pants aside and lifted Arthur’s ankle. He raked his fingertips up and down the shin covered by a light gray stocking, then moved them to the back to stroke his calf. Eames bent down to press a kiss to the top of Arthur’s foot, which made Arthur draw back involuntarily. He regained his composure, which was fortunate, because it became clear that Eames was also planning to kiss the knob of his ankle and the arch of his foot and all the way up to the place where the stocking ended and the bare skin of his knee began. Eames wriggled his tongue beneath the edge of the stocking and licked his way across the slope of Arthur’s knee.

When Arthur’s knee had been sufficiently licked, Eames journeyed upwards, via the pale, sensitive inseam of his thigh, pushing Arthur’s underpants up toward his hips as he went. He flattened his tongue against Arthur’s thigh and licked, long, slow, wet strokes. And though Arthur’s breath was getting shaky, it was Eames who was beginning to whimper. Arthur could feel the buzzing from Eames’s lips shoot through his own body. The wiry hairs on Arthur’s legs were soaked from sweat and from the rasp of Eames’s devoted tongue, still wetly caressing the tender place where his legs met. Or where they would normally meet when they were not spread out wantonly over a piano bench for a handsome man’s hot, plush mouth to lick and suck at them at his leisure.

“God, Eames,” Arthur begged hoarsely. “What are you doing?”

Eames pulled away with a soft slurping noise. “The intent,” he said, “is to bathe you with kisses until you moisten your pants like a girl.”

Arthur felt an uncharted place inside his chest quiver. But he hated the thought of being so exposed before Eames. Of giving Eames the permission to dispense pleasure, which also meant that Eames could take it away at will.

“I-I’d rather not,” he stammered.

”You don’t like this?” Eames looked wounded.

“It’s not that,” said Arthur. “It’s just that-I’d rather-take you.”

Eames rose slowly to his feet, and Arthur felt the absence of his heat right away. Arthur feared Eames was offended, but he looked back at Arthur with a wry smile.

“You want my arse, is that it?” Eames spread his body across the couch and braced his good forearm against the scrolling arm. “You can take it, then.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. With lust.

"One moment." Arthur steadied himself and walked into his bedchamber. He wiggled open the drawer in the table next to his bed and fished around for a small bottle of oil.

This is a terrible idea, he thought as his fingers closed around the bottle. It's not too late to tell him to put his clothes back on and pretend none of this ever happened.

But when Arthur emerged from the chamber to find Eames still on the couch, knees bent, body a series of lush, muscular right angles, the words died away on his lips.

Arthur knelt on the couch behind Eames and untied the sash of Eames’s gray silk robe-a robe Arthur had bought for him, secretly because of how well it complemented his body and his eyes. Eames shook it off and it trailed down his shoulders like a flow of mercury. Arthur kissed the furrows and dimples of the well-sculpted shoulder (where did a composer get shoulders like that anyway?) and fed two fingers into Eames’s mouth for Eames to lick and suck.

When Arthur’s fingers were wet enough, Arthur spread Eames’s arse and slowly worked a finger into his hole. At that alone Eames arched his back and gasped. Arthur petted his back, still a mosaic of bruising, to calm him down as he stretched Eames open. He added another finger and scissored him open until he felt Eames’s body relax beneath him.

“Yes?” Arthur asked, mouth dampening Eames’s ear. Eames nodded.

Arthur uncapped the bottle and coated his cock with oil, and for good measure he pumped an oil-covered finger inside Eames, once, twice, three times, four times.

He lined up and brushed his cock a few times over the hole, the way that always made Arthur himself melt open even more for a lover’s cock. Eames sighed, and Arthur pushed in, thrilling at the tight resistance.

Eames began to buck backwards to meet his thrusts. The compound of Arthur’s own movements, and the slide of the tight hole over his cock, was dizzying, and its effects spread to Arthur’s belly, and his eyes, and the tinny drum roll of his heart. He was confused. This man, solid and sighing beneath him, straining feverishly backwards to crush his lips against Arthur’s, was Eames. Who Arthur had never expected would open up his body to anyone. Who would not smile like a pretty child when Arthur complimented his eyes. He still did not know how to reconcile the image of the sharp-tongued fop flitting from admirer to admirer with the truth of the man in his arms, the man who was coming hotly between Arthur’s fingers and groaning out his name.

Eames, Arthur had to say when he came inside him, just to remind himself who was beneath him.

§

The next morning, Arthur woke in his bed with his nose smashed into Eames’s shoulder. The velvet blankets were wadded beneath their sticky bodies, and someone-hopefully Arthur-had locked the door.

“Eames,” he said again. Again, to remind himself.

Eames turned over. “It’s you,” he said, breaking into one of those wide, jagged grins. “Come here.” He threw his arm across Arthur’s back and pulled him close, tucking Arthur’s head under his chin.

“Just a moment.” Despite Eames’s protestations, Arthur wiggled free of Eames’s grasp, pulled a robe off the finial and tied it on. “I need to consult my calendar...I have a vague feeling there is somewhere I needed to be this morning, but I can’t quite figure out where.” He darted into his dim study. The tall mahogany-wood clock struck the half hour.

He pulled out the sliding drawer on his desk and examined the calendar. “Ah, my meeting with Herr Miles is tomorrow, not today,” he called out to the other room, and slid the drawer back in. He swept his fingertip across the glossy reddish-brown wood of the desk, a gift from the Emperor’s wife some years back. Altogether too grand, he thought. It doesn’t suit me. Then something caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to look at the cabinet next to the door. He kept the cabinet locked religiously, but now one of the doors did not line up flush with the other.

He had told Anton and Christina that that cabinet was never to be opened. Neither of them was foolish enough to risk unemployment, nor the poor recommendation of a former employer, and especially not the possibility of a conviction for burglary. He thought of the other people who had been in the house recently. He had had a few visitors, but the cabinet had not been open after they left. Aside from Anton and Christina and Arthur himself, the only person who had been in the house between this day and previous one was Eames.

Maybe his explorations were innocent, Arthur argued with himself. Many people are intrigued by a locked cabinet.

But not everyone has as much to lose from the opening of a locked cabinet.

“Are you coming back to-“ Eames began to ask, but was cut short by the fury on Arthur’s face.

“You have to leave,” Arthur said, trying to bite back his rage and remain calm enough that Eames would not have that as leverage over him. “You have to leave right now.”

Part 3