#schubhoven

Blunt as he could be, restless and with poor impulse control, Beethes was still a dense and stubborn man. Not only it took him several weeks to even take notice of Schubert, but each step he took from mild interest to attraction, infatuation, and eventually love towards him was greatly slowed down by his own brooding tendencies; he would spend days analysing every detail of their interactions, trying as much as he could to suppress his feelings until they became obvious to him — which usually took longer than it did for others to become aware of how stupidly, helplessly in love he was with Franz.

Beethes observed him from afar, when the other thought he wasn’t paying attention. Franz’s nature intrigued him, as did the way his behaviour changed whenever he became aware of his presence — his posture became tense, his voice louder, small details that hinted at the need (a need that, until then, Beethes was unaware of) to be acknowledged, noticed, cherished.

An opportunity revealed itself when it was pointed out that Franz didn’t have a room. What would he do when confronted with that fact? Would he bow down to fate? Would he fight back? Beethes watched closely, almost eager to see how that situation developed — sometimes too closely, as he gave him some nudges (or rather, brutal pushes) to see if he could get a reaction out of him. He would often wonder if his words were too harsh, but he couldn’t help it; he was sure there was more to Schubert than what he let on, and if it meant he had to poke at his insecurities to reveal the fire inside him, so he would.

He found more than what he had expected; Schubert’s voice had emmerged, and brought Beethes a newfound respect for him — for his attitude, his passion, his fire. It also brought him disturbing thoughts — thoughts of the way Franz’s lips moved when he was taken by Musik, of how paralyzed he felt when he could finally see the fire in the other’s eyes. Beethes was impressed, but he was also… frightened. He had never felt that drawn to another man before, but it was getting harder to deny that his interest in Franz was more than curiosity. From then on, he would find himself noticing not only his behaviour, but his movement, his voice, his scent. He would spend more and more time isolated in his room, trying to clear his mind of these inconvenient thoughts that made him blush and stutter and lose all composure; he could barely talk to Schubert without becoming too focused on his lips, but he tried with all his might to bury the impulses he felt whenever they spent too long in the same room.

It wasn’t until the events involving Bach’s mind controlling Musik that he saw what, for others, would be in plain sight. At first he didn’t understand what he was feeling — he would need some time with his thoughts to grasp what all that meant — but there was no denying that he had crossed the point of no return, even if he couldn’t fully understand the consequences that would bring.

When he saw Franz — the new Franz, the Franz who had finally found his own voice — submit to someone else’s control, he couldn’t contain his rage. His insides were burning up, he was livid. How dare he put out his fire, bend to someone else’s will? Where was the Franz he had seen emerge from the flames, stronger and renewed? He wouldn’t admit it, but he was frightened. His whole body was shaking, his throat felt way too tight. He couldn’t watch Franz give up on himself. He wouldn’t.