#(sadly)

Yet tonight, those embers ignited at the sight of a letter slipped under his door. Unsigned, but the handwriting was unmistakable: elegant, precise, like the arpeggios that had once rivaled his own. Sigismond Thalberg. Sixteen years since the duel in Paris, where Liszt's transcendental flair had eclipsed Thalberg's crystalline perfection in the eyes of the critics. Thalberg had vanished into obscurity—marriage to a baroness, a quiet life in Italy, rumors of teaching but no more stages. Liszt had heard whispers: Thalberg was broken, his hands arthritic from overpractice, his spirit shattered by that one defeat. But Liszt knew the truth. Defeat doesn't kill; it festers.

He crumpled the letter— a simple summons: "The old theater. Midnight." —and stormed into the night, his cloak whipping in the chill wind. The abandoned theater on the outskirts of Weimar was a relic of better days, its velvet seats moth-eaten, its stage warped from rain leaking through the roof. Dust motes danced in the faint lantern light as Liszt entered, his boots crunching on shattered glass. And there he was: Thalberg, leaning against a crumbling pillar, his frame gaunt under a threadbare coat. His eyes—those sharp, accusing eyes—gleamed with a feverish light, shadowed by hollow cheeks and unkempt hair streaked with premature gray. At thirty-nine, he looked like a man who'd aged a lifetime.

"You came," Thalberg said, his voice a hollow echo, laced with bitterness and something rawer, more primal. He pushed off the pillar, stepping closer, his movements deliberate, predatory. "The great Liszt, master of Weimar, deigns to slink into ruins for his old foe."

Liszt's heart pounded, a staccato rhythm that betrayed him. He had always been the pursuer—the one who conquered with charm and genius—but now, facing Thalberg, he felt exposed. "What do you want, Sigismond? To relive the past? To beg for scraps of my fame?" Lies. He knew why he was here. The duel had been more than music; it was a collision of souls, a forbidden spark that had ignited in stolen glances amid the applause.

Thalberg's laugh was mirthless, cracking like thunder. "Fame? Your fame is a curse, Franz. You've whored yourself across Europe—Marie d'Agoult, Lola Montez, every simpering admirer throwing themselves at your feet. And for what? To fill the void I left?" He closed the distance, his breath hot against Liszt's face, fingers curling into Liszt's lapels with desperate force. "You destroyed me that night. Took my light. Now I'll take yours."

The kiss was violence incarnate—Thalberg's mouth slamming into Liszt's, teeth drawing blood from his lip, hands shoving him back against the stage's edge. Liszt gasped, the metallic taste flooding his senses, but he didn't pull away. No, he surged forward, his own hands fisting in Thalberg's hair, yanking hard enough to elicit a pained groan. "You think I haven't suffered?" Liszt snarled between bruising kisses, his voice thick with anguish. "Every concert, every ovation—it's empty without you. You were the only one who understood the madness."

They tumbled onto the stage floor, a tangle of limbs amid splintered wood and faded curtains. Thalberg's fingers tore at Liszt's shirt, nails raking down his chest, leaving red welts that burned like fire. Liszt's body, still toned from years of rigorous practice, arched under the assault, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He had always been the sensualist—the man who composed rhapsodies inspired by ecstasy—but this was different. This was desperation, a clawing need born from years of repression.

Thalberg pinned him down, straddling his hips, his eyes wild with a mix of hatred and longing. "I married her to forget you," he confessed, voice breaking as he ground down against Liszt, the friction sending sparks through them both. "Children, a home—lies, all of it. Every night, I dream of your hands on the keys, on me. You ruined me, Franz. Ruined."

Liszt's hands roamed possessively, sliding under Thalberg's coat, pushing it off his shoulders to expose pale skin marred by self-inflicted scars—faint lines from where he'd pressed too hard in futile attempts to recapture his old technique. The sight twisted something deep in Liszt's chest, a anguish that fueled his arousal. "Then let me ruin you more," he whispered, flipping them with sudden strength, Thalberg now beneath him, vulnerable and exposed. Liszt's mouth descended, biting along Thalberg's collarbone, sucking bruises into existence as Thalberg writhed, his hips bucking up in frantic plea.

Clothes were discarded in a frenzy—trousers shoved down, shirts ripped open. The air was cold, but their skin burned, sweat slicking the way as Liszt's hand wrapped around Thalberg's throbbing length, stroking with deliberate cruelty—slow, then fast, teasing the edge without mercy. Thalberg's moans echoed through the empty theater, desperate and unashamed, his fingers digging into Liszt's back hard enough to draw blood. "Please," he begged, the word torn from him like a confession. "Franz, God, please—"

Liszt silenced him with another savage kiss, his own need aching, insistent. He positioned himself, pausing at the brink, their eyes locking in a moment of raw vulnerability. Thalberg's gaze was shattered—tears glistening, lips parted in silent supplication. "You're mine," Liszt growled, thrusting in with one brutal motion, the intrusion eliciting a cry from Thalberg that was equal parts agony and ecstasy.

The rhythm was punishing, unforgiving—Liszt driving deep, each stroke a reclamation, a punishment for the years apart. Thalberg's body clenched around him, nails scoring Liszt's shoulders as he met every thrust with desperate abandon. "I hate you," Thalberg sobbed, even as his legs wrapped around Liszt's waist, pulling him closer. "I need you—fuck, I need—"

Words dissolved into gasps, the theater filling with the symphony of their union: skin slapping, breaths mingling, moans building to a crescendo. Liszt's hand returned to Thalberg's cock, pumping in time with his hips, the dual assault pushing Thalberg to the brink. He came first, violently, his release spilling hot between them, body convulsing as he screamed Liszt's name into the void.

The sight undid Liszt—Thalberg's face twisted in bliss and torment, the way his body shuddered in surrender. With a final, shuddering thrust, Liszt followed, pouring himself into Thalberg, collapsing atop him in a heap of exhaustion and regret.

They lay there, entwined on the cold stage, breaths slowing as the weight of what they'd done settled like lead. Liszt traced the scars on Thalberg's arms, his touch now gentle, almost reverent. "I've composed for kings, for lovers," he murmured, voice hoarse. "But nothing matches the music we make together. Dark, broken—it's all I have left."

Thalberg turned his face away, tears tracking down his cheeks. "This can't last. I'll go back to my life, my lies. And you'll chase your next conquest, your next illusion of peace."

Liszt pulled him closer, their bodies still joined in afterglow. "Then come back. Again and again. We're damned either way."

Outside, the wind howled through the cracks, a dirge for their fractured souls. The duel had evolved into this endless torment—a cycle of hatred and hunger that neither could escape. Liszt, the eternal wanderer, had found his anchor in ruin; Thalberg, the fallen prince, his salvation in surrender. But dawn would come, and with it, the world—demanding, unforgiving. Until the next midnight summons, they would endure alone, aching for the darkness that bound them.