Chapter Text
In a set-up that sounds much like the beginning to a bad joke, a disgruntled Italian composer sat alone in a dark opera box and fantasized about his mortal enemy.
Nothing particularly nefarious, mind you. But, with how dramatically the younger composer, clad in a garish marigold coat, flapped and flailed his arms while he conducted, Antonio Salieri couldn’t help but picture Wolfgang Mozart turning into a bird and flying away.
It was a ridiculous thought, but the more he pondered it, he realized the smaller man was quite birdish in general. He constantly darted around crowded rooms, expertly jumping from person to person, chirping quick hellos and goodbyes. Despite his annoying personality, he was a popular man. He even skipped around, of all things, at times when he was feeling particularly excited. Much like a male bird displaying his colors to attract a mate, Mozart would always use what little money he had to buy newer, brighter, uglier clothes to catch the attention of his peers. His wits were quick and his train of thought was even quicker– whenever Mozart was speaking out of passion or spark of inspiration hit him, he would look off in every direction as if there were voices speaking to him on all sides. And, his laugh– good Lord, his laugh– carried through the air like a shrill mating call. Mozart’s laugh was not easily forgotten, and Salieri swore he could sometimes hear it mocking him in the back of his mind while working on a piece. How Constanze put up with it enough to be made his wife, Saleri could only guess.
The Court Composer stared down at the vibrant younger musician from his comfortable box seat above the theater and let his mind wander. This was a new occurrence for the Italian, as normally the man would be fully attentive at one of Mozart’s operas. They were, after all– in every way– perfect. But it was no use trying to focus. As the German man below him conducted his music with vibrant passion, he couldn’t stop his imagination from conjuring up images of a little yellow bird with a pale belly– a canary– hopping up and down and flapping its tiny wings. He imagined the bird building a tiny tower out of small, broken pieces of weathered glass that reflected the light in prisms; and he imagined the jagged and uneven path it would take through the air when the tower is quickly knocked over by a deceivingly strong breeze, startling it. Every beautiful thing the bird worked to collect, destroyed in an instant.
Salieri’s thoughts started to get away from him, and strayed further into his imagined world. All of his little vignettes had suddenly gained a new character– it was Salieri himself, quietly working on a composition next to the open window in his home, listening to the birdsong outside and taking in the fleeting evening sunlight. The small golden bird flew, unbeknownst to the composer, through the window and perched itself on his work desk. When Salieri, still absorbed in his work– even in his dreams!– eventually went to close the window, he failed to notice the little thing, trapped and fluttering around the room. In the real world outside of his daydream, his heart quickened its pulse, mirroring it. He pictured the canary quietly hopping over to the work on his desk, curiously pecking at the corner of the manuscript with its tiny, blunt beak. Salieri gently waved it away with his hand; strangely, his dream-self didn’t seem to care that an animal had gotten into his workspace. The canary startled and flapped its wings, jumping away. It cocked its head to the side, pointing one bead-like eye up at him. It stared at him for just a moment before hopping over and going right back to attempting to pick up the manuscript with its beak. The papers continuously slipped out of its tiny mouth but despite the futility of the task, in an annoying persistence the bird kept at it. Salieri outwardly grimaced. Even in his dreams he was distracted. He attempted once more to get the creature away from his things, fearing the bottle of dark ink would spill over and ruin his progress. He repeated what he had done before but with just his index finger. This time, however, the bothersome creature nudged the Italian’s calloused finger with the crown of its soft head. Despite how gentle it was, the contact sent a jolt of electricity through his entire body starting at his knuckle.
What felt like a quick heart palpitation violently roused the Italian from his trance and he became immediately aware of the thunderous applause filling the room below him. The opera was over. He shook off the strange feeling and scanned the crowd below him. Though he hadn’t been paying complete attention during the whole performance, he clapped along with everyone in the hall out of courtesy. And he wasn’t being disingenuous in doing so; he knew the opera was good. That had been his fifth time seeing it.
Salieri curtly rose from his seat and made his way towards the exit. When he stepped into the brisk afternoon air, he couldn’t help but notice a faint birdsong coming from the distance. The Italian's face scrunched up.
The tune was beautiful, but it had too many notes.