kalpurna

Title: Bist Du Bei Mir
Pairing: Peter/Ulrich (Pete Wentz/Patrick Stump)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ulrich is studying to be a monk in a small town in 1700s Germany. Peter has just returned from university. AU, obviously.
Length: 7700 words, which makes this the longest thing I've written. I'm concise, what can I say?
Author's Notes: Patrick's name is Ulrich in this fic. It's... kind of a long story, and it involves boredom and library catalogs, but, um, yes. Ulrich Stumph. It's also got questionable historical accuracy, and dubious research. Peter's poetry belongs to Goethe. The meteor shower is the Lyrids, which were only definitively identified in the 1830s: Peter is ahead of his time.
Thanks: to giddygeek for an unparalleled beta, and to loveyouallwrong for both beta and audiencing above and beyond the call of duty. I love you so much, guys. All errors are entirely mine.


The first time Ulrich saw Peter Wentz after he came home from Tübingen, he had just finished punching him in the face.

He was walking down the main street of the village. Absorbed with thoughts of notes and chords and trying to remember the fingering for the sonata he learned that morning, he didn’t hear the voice behind him until it was right in his ear.

"Hey, hey!" someone shouted, grabbing Ulrich roughly by the arm, and before he realized what was going on, Ulrich wheeled around and slammed his fist into the surprised face of a young man. The man staggered back a few steps and clutched his nose, glaring at him. "HEY."

"Oh dear," Ulrich said, a little uselessly. "Um."

"Well, that's a nice way to greet an old friend," the stranger laughed. Ulrich blinked again. Suddenly, he realized why that face looked so familiar - it belonged to the eldest son of Albrecht Wentz, the rich local merchant.

"Peter?" he asked, and Peter smiled in acknowledgment.

"You're all grown up, Ulrich! The last time I saw you, you must have been ten years old."

"Twelve," Ulrich said. Peter shrugged.

"Sure, twelve. Which makes you how old now? Sixteen?" He smirked. "Not much taller, I see."

"You're one to talk!"

Peter shrugged cheerfully, not denying it. Somehow, Ulrich had imagined that he'd grow up tall, but Peter looked much the same - hair a little longer, skin perhaps more tan, but mostly the same boy he remembered, with the same grin.

"So how has it been growing up without me? Did you miss me terribly while I was away? Have you been running wild among the village girls without my sobering influence to keep you from sin?"

Ulrich blushed and tugged his tri-corner hat lower on his head.

"No, not really. I'm studying to be a monk."

Peter looked shocked - really shocked, not mocking-shocked, which was strange.

"Really?" he said.

"Of course really. What, are you so surprised?" Ulrich inquired, tilting towards indignation.

"I don't know, you just don't really, um." His expression shifted subtly to something Ulrich couldn't read. "Look like a monk."

"And what does a monk look like?" he asked. Peter smirked, apparently recovered from his surprise.

"Eh, they probably dress better, for one thing. You've got to be joking with that short hair, man, no one wears it like that."

"Monks do," said Ulrich flatly.

Peter just laughed again, that big stupid horsey laugh, and Ulrich found his mouth twitching despite himself.




The only nice harpsichord in the village belonged to the Wentzes, a beautiful thing inset with mother-of-pearl, although no one in their family played; they had talked vaguely about Peter getting lessons when he was small, but it had always been Ulrich who really loved to sit for hours at the keyboard, practicing the sheet music he'd saved up for over and over again.

"Happy to see it get some use, son," Albrecht had said gruffly, and Ulrich wasn't one to turn down an opportunity. He had so gotten into the habit of coming over to practice on mornings after he'd finished his chores, while Peter was away at school, that he didn't think twice about sitting down to play for a few hours a few days after their encounter in the street.

He spent twenty minutes hammering out that sticky spot in the fugue he'd bought recently, going over it until he was absolutely satisfied, and then slipped back to some more familiar melodies. It was the simpler folk tunes he loved best, though he could handle the most complicated music the peddlers brought from the city; something about their graceful melodies appealed to him. He didn't realize he was singing the vocal part until he stopped playing and noticed his mouth was dry.

He turned to go, tilting his ear toward one shoulder and wincing at the crack, and saw Peter standing in the doorway, looking a little lost. He was holding a cup of tea, but no steam was rising from the top.

"Peter?" Ulrich said, and hesitated. "How long have you been there?"

"What?" Peter blinked. "Oh, I don't - since when can you do that?”

"Um... do what?"

Peter made an expansive gesture with the hand holding the mug, and some tea splashed out onto the floor and his bare feet. He didn’t seem to notice. "That, the thing with the, your voice!" His eyes were almost comically wide.

"Sing?" asked Ulrich incredulously. Peter looked impatient.

"Sing like an angel, man. I don't remember you singing much before, but that, I'd remember."

Ulrich felt his ears heat. "I don't know, I don't think of myself as much of a singer. I mostly just play."

“Yeah, and since when are you this insane virtuoso on the harpsichord!" It didn't sound like a question. "You sing, you play harpsichord -"

"And harp," offered Ulrich, uncomfortably. "Um, and organ. And oboe, a little, and -" he stopped, worried about Peter's breathing. "Do you want to sit down?"

He glanced vaguely at a chair, but Peter bounded across the room to sit on the bench next to him, a warm little bundle of energy, tucking his chin on Ulrich's shoulder.

"I write music, too," Ulrich offered, unsure why he was encouraging this. Peter huffed out a laugh against Ulrich's neck.

"Of course you do," he murmured. "You're a tiny musical genius, and it's a very good thing I came home to tell you so, because it looks like you wouldn't have realized it on your own."




Anyone might have thought that Peter had gone to Tübingen to learn trapping and hunting, not reasoning and law, to judge by the way he stalked Ulrich over the next few weeks. Ulrich couldn't turn a corner or walk through a door without running into Peter's tiny body and huge smile. It was infuriating, he told himself. Creepy. Certainly not charming.

Peter even followed him on his chores. When he went into the forest to smoke out bees, Peter tagged along and nagged him so much that he waved the smoking lantern and threatened, “I should use this on you!” Peter batted his eyelashes, because he was a demon sent to punish Ulrich for his sins.

“Are you saying I’m sweet like honey? Awww, darling,” he cooed.

“I’m saying you’re irritating like a bee in my ear, you moron,” snapped Ulrich, and tramped further into the woods. Peter ran after him and slung an arm over his shoulder, shoving his annoying face into Ulrich's neck.

"You looove it," he stage-whispered. Ulrich glared at a tree.

He kind of did.




Habits formed quickly with Peter around, and these days Ulrich thought nothing of going upstairs in the Wentzes' home when he’d finished practicing on the harpsichord.

"Oh hey, I'll be right there!" Peter shouted from the dressing closet, and Ulrich determinedly did not think about his probable state of undress. Casting around the room for something to do, he picked up a sheaf of papers tossed carelessly on the desk.

Ah, at your breast
I lie, in longing,
And your flowers, your grass
Press upon my heart.

It seemed to be poetry, written in a cramped, hasty hand. More surprisingly, it actually seemed to be good poetry. Ulrich was no great judge of literature, but he could hear the rhythm buried just under the surface of the words, and the emotion pulsing along with it.

Willingly I'd leave to thee
A thousand such nights, were one given
By my beloved to me!

Yes, he could almost imagine them set to music - a cantata, perhaps, something simple - and he was already starting to hum the melodic line, flipping through the papers, when he paused on one scribbled in the margins of a printed advertisement.

Blessed is he, who free from hate
Shuts out the world,
To his bosom holds a man
And with him enjoys,

That which, by common folk unknown
Or even despised,
Through the labyrinth of the breast
Wanders in the night.

There was a sudden sound behind him, and Ulrich whirled around, almost dropping the papers.

"Are you going through my things?" Peter asked, a stormy expression settling around his eyebrows. He took a step forward, unsteady. "What makes you think you have the right to look at - those were private, you can't just -" Ulrich decided the best defense was an aggressive offense.

"Peter, these are wonderful," he interrupted. The storm clouds receded a little.

"They're - they are?"

"Yes, the rhythm is perfect, the meter - this, here," he fumbled with the papers to find the one he meant, "This would make a perfect cantata, if you took this line, and this -" The sun broke fully from behind the gloom, and Peter grinned like a fool.

"You'd set them to music?" he asked, incredulous. "Like, real music that you wrote yourself?"

"Well... yeah," Ulrich said, and smiled, surprised.




A clattering like rain on a piece of tin woke Ulrich. Blinking in the darkness, he figured it must be a few hours before dawn. The noise came again, from the window.

Going to look out, he saw a dim figure with one arm raised, lit only by the faintest light of the stars. If his eyes hadn't been accustomed to the dark, he wouldn't have seen him at all. The moon must have already set.

The clattering came again, startling him, pebbles tapping right in front of his face on the windowpane. He took a deep breath, thinking about turning back to his down comforter and clean sheets, and then opened the window to lean out and wave down to Peter - because it was Peter, of course.

"Come down!" he called.

"Shhh, wait," Ulrich whispered back. "I'll be right there."

Grabbing his coat against the April chill, and jamming his hat firmly on his head, Ulrich crept down the stairs and eased out the back door without waking his parents. He almost collided with Peter, lurking around the corner of the house.

"Come with me," Peter said. He took Ulrich's hand. Ulrich followed silently, along the familiar path past the orchard and up to the high meadows on the hill overlooking the town. A nightingale was singing in a high tree somewhere off to the right. Peter tugged him down on a blanket laid under the open sky. "Look," he whispered, nodding upwards.

A bright line shot across the sky and disappeared.

Sleepy as he was, Ulrich still felt his heart leap in his chest. He turned his head to grin wildly at Peter and found him already watching him, lips curved in a tiny smile. "Keep watching," he murmured, and Ulrich turned his head back obediently.

Within five minutes, two shooting stars seemed to leap out from the same spot and speed off in opposite directions.

"They've been falling all night," whispered Peter. "Those stars there, where they begin, that's Lyra, the lyre."

Ulrich realized they were still holding hands. He stared up at the night sky, waiting for another falling star, as Peter nestled up closer to him and tucked his chin on his shoulder.




"Do you ever think we might not really exist?"

Ulrich turned his head to stare at Peter, but he was looking out over the pond, face unusually still. "No?" said Ulrich, his inflection turning it into a question. "Not really. What?"

Peter's feet were dangling off the dock, and he splashed them a little, still not making eye contact. "I don't know," he muttered. "Um, forget it."

"Is this why you've been as moody as a brooding hen all day?" Ulrich asked. Something felt wrong. Peter wouldn't look at him at all.

"It's nothing," he said. "Well, I mean. I just think sometimes about how you can't prove reality exists, you know?"

No, Ulrich did not know, because he was not a crazy person. Seriously, he had no idea how Peter came up with this stuff. He nodded in a way he hoped looked encouraging.

"I mean... reality seems real, but all we have to prove that is our senses, and senses could lie. I mean, senses do lie, sometimes. So maybe we're all just someone's dream. You know?" He hunched his shoulders. "Maybe none of this is real."

Before he could second-guess himself, Ulrich reached out and shoved Peter's shoulder. Peter overbalanced into the pond with a splash and a surprised yelp. It wasn't deep, about waist-high, and he stood up quickly enough after some flailing. He looked furious.

"What in hell are you doing!" he shouted, water streaming off his face. There was duckweed caught in his hair.

"Contributing to the conversation," Ulrich said flatly.

Peter blinked.

"Oh," he said, a smile starting to form around his eyes. He laughed, and that strange distantness was gone. "That's actually a pretty good point."

Ulrich shrugged and grinned back. "I could have been a philosopher, clearly." Peter moved towards him in the water, putting his damp hands on Ulrich's knees.

"Clearly," he said softly, looking up at Ulrich through his eyelashes. Water droplets were caught in them like beads. Ulrich forgot how to breathe for a moment.

And then he sucked in a startled breath as Peter grabbed his calves and pulled him into the pond.




"Hey, wake up." He nudged Peter gently. Peter snorted and flailed a little in his sheets, and the corners of his mouth turned sharply down. Not a morning person, apparently. Ulrich couldn't help smiling as he reached out to nudge him again, when Peter's hand suddenly shot out of the blankets and grabbed his wrist, tugging so hard that he stumbled and fell into the bed. Peter grunted happily and rolled over on top of him, pinning him down with a stray elbow and throwing one leg over his own. "Hey!"

Ulrich freed one hand to push up his glasses and contemplated the ceiling. Peter seemed to weigh as much as a small ox, and he was just starting to wonder if he should resign himself to his fate - it was surprisingly warm and comfortable, really - when Peter groaned a little and finally opened his eyes.

"Ulrich?" he mumbled. "Whassit time?”

"Almost eleven, lazybones," Ulrich said indulgently, pushing away from Peter, who tightened his arms for a moment before letting him out of bed.

Peter sat up as Ulrich tugged at his coat and picked up his hat from the floor. "S'horrible. Early." He rubbed his eyes like a child, and Ulrich was helpless to find it anything but adorable.

"Everyone else has been up since six, you ridiculous layabout. Come on, I have something to show you. Downstairs."

Peter found his dressing gown and padded downstairs behind Ulrich obediently, tying his hair with a black ribbon as they went. "Is it a present? Oh, is it food? Did your mother send a pie? Is it -"

"Shush, be patient!"

"I'm never patient, Ulrich!"

"Well, it's in here, so you don't have to be much longer," Ulrich laughed, leading the way into the music room. He sat down at the harpsichord. Peter curled up in the armchair next to it, tucking his feet into the cushions. He took a quick breath and began to play.

He played a few measures and then started to sing. "How, in the morning light, you glow around me..." The song was emotional, and he poured everything he had into it, using the harpsichord's harmony to emphasize the vocal line and Peter's words. It was a fairly simple setting, so that one person could perform it - not as complex as the symphonies he'd begun to sketch out with biblical texts, something more like what someone might play after dinner for family.

When he was finished, he turned nervously to check Peter's reaction.

Peter was sitting straight up in the armchair, feet on the floor, hands digging into the embroidered armrests.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

"Peter!" said Ulrich, actually shocked.

"No, but I mean, seriously!" His face was alive with joy. "I know, but seriously, that was. Ulrich!"

Ulrich blushed and fiddled with his coat. "You liked it?"

"Liked it?" His voice actually cracked, and he cleared his throat. "That was perfect, that was - you finished it. My poem, you made it complete. You're amazing."

The giant grin Ulrich could feel plastered across his face probably made him look a little slow, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"But, that part, with the bit - and where it starts to repeat, that part there -" Peter was standing up, leaning in to peer at the rough notations Ulrich had jotted down. "That's totally wrong, you need to -"

"What? That part is fine, what are you -"

"No, but the lyrics, it should be more like -" he gestured and actually started to sing, revealing a truly wretched voice.

Ulrich bristled and launched into an explanation of why Peter was wrong, wrong, so very wrong, to which Peter strongly objected. It was only when the clock struck two that Ulrich looked up from the pages of notes he had taken on the back of another score and realized they had the rough drafts of three new songs sketched out between them.

"Peter," he said, and Peter looked up from the stack of lyrics he was hunting through. He smiled and nodded at the clock. "Maybe we should try this again after lunch?"




The tickling sensation on his jaw was what finally woke him. The sun was still high overhead, and his cheek was resting on something warm and solid - Peter's thigh, he realized after a moment. He blinked and refocused his eyes on the wildflower Peter was using to trace lightly over his nose and cheeks. When it paused on his lips, Ulrich opened them slightly and felt Peter shift minutely under his head.

He turned awkwardly on his back and looked up. Bending over him, Peter was a little more nostrilly than was attractive, and Ulrich laughed, soundless puffs of air. Peter smiled back, and something seemed to hum in the air for a moment, trapped between the warm grass below and the boughs of the elm tree arching high over Peter's head.

"Hey," Ulrich said, quietly.

"Hey, yourself," Peter murmured.




The shadow slanting across the church tower was steeper than Ulrich would have liked, and he picked up his pace, hurrying towards the market. He'd overslept, and if he didn't manage to get fresh vegetables his mother would frown at him. Coming around the corner, he sighed in relief at the sight of the still-full carts of carrots, radishes, and potatoes. But his view was quickly blocked by a toothy grin, and he shoved impatiently at Peter's shoulder.

"Get out of the way, you clown! I have to get down there before the good stuff is gone." He hustled forward, Peter dropping back to trail him like a faithful puppy.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, enthusiasm undented by Ulrich's temper. Ulrich wheeled around, realization dawning on him.

"Oh, we can get through it faster if we split up! Here, you get -" he hesitated, trying to remember his mother's list. Sometimes he really wished she would concede to the expense of paper for times like this. "- a pound of potatoes, salt, asparagus, and four onions. I'll get the radishes and carrots and wool, you can meet me over by the apples." Pete was looking slightly less excited by now, even his hair seeming to droop. Ulrich smiled at him, helplessly, and reached out to touch the same shoulder he'd shoved. "Please?"

"Fine," Peter said, mock-irritated, and bounded off. Ulrich watched him go, and then turned around to start his purchases. He had made it through the first few stands when he ran into Father Friedrich, literally, almost knocking his basket of fruit to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he gasped, and bent to pick up an apple that had toppled. Father Friedrich beamed.

"Not at all, my dear boy," he said, cheerful as ever. "But remember that haste is never as helpful as one expects! The Lord shows himself to those who take the time to see."

"Yes, of course," said Ulrich, a little confused. While he would never speak ill of a man of God, the Father was definitely a little out of the ordinary. Half the time Ulrich had no idea what he was saying.

"I saw you with the Wentzes' boy earlier." The expression on the priest's face was difficult to read.

"Yes?" he replied, willing himself not to appear defensive.

"You seem close."

"We are."

Father Friedrich smiled. "That's good, my son. I like to see you happy."

"Oh," Ulrich said, surprised. "Thank you, Father." The Father waved a dismissive hand, and pointed towards the apples.

"Overpriced, wait for next week. That woman is trying to make me reenact Our Lord's actions with the moneylenders."

A heavy basket shoved into Ulrich's stomach robbed him of the breath to respond, and he looked up at Peter's grinning face in annoyance and a little bit of delight. Behind him, Father Friedrich melted away towards the potatoes, leaving Ulrich alone with Peter and two baskets full of shopping.

"Done!" Peter shouted, ignoring the plump wives who looked over at them disapprovingly.

Ulrich laughed. "I suppose we are." He pushed the basket back towards Peter. "If you help me carry these groceries home to my mother, we can take the rest of the day to do as you will."

There was something in Peter's eyes that Ulrich shied away from describing, even only to himself. "That sounds like heaven," Peter murmured.

"As if this village could ever be heaven."

"Sometimes I wonder," Peter said cryptically, and swung the basket so that the onions almost fell out and Ulrich had to scramble to steady them.




Ulrich should have known not to trust Peter when he said he knew the woods so well it wouldn't matter if they went off the path.

"I know there used to be an oak tree around here," Peter muttered, frowning. "With this odd branch..."

"Really? Perhaps it fell down sometime in the four years since you were last here, you idiot." Peter's frown turned into more of a pout, and Ulrich rolled his eyes.

"I know exactly where we are," he insisted. "Basically."

Ulrich kicked a rock viciously and then had to hop a little when it failed to move.

"Here, let's just walk uphill. When we get to the top of the hill I'll be able to figure out where we are better."

Not bothering to dignify this with a response, Ulrich followed behind Peter - less because he trusted him, he told himself, than because that way he didn't have to fight through the underbrush.

Occupied with struggling up the hill and avoiding thorns, Ulrich didn't notice Peter had stopped until he ran full-on into his back. Peter gave a surprised yelp and staggered forward into a natural clearing. The trees gave way to bare rock at the top of the hill, and the two of them could look out across the valley. Peter gave a relieved sigh.

"See, Ulrich! I told you I knew where we were! That's the -" he broke off, suddenly, hand still outstretched to point at some obscure feature of the land. Ulrich blinked at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Wait. I think I should get something in return for rescuing you from the forest."

"What are you talking about?" This sounded ominous. Not to mention unfair, considering who had gotten them lost in the first place.

"There are wolves in these woods, Ulrich," Peter said earnestly. "And probably bears."

Ulrich shivered despite himself. He wasn't frightened, of course. Just - cautious. He stepped a little closer to Peter, whose eyes crinkled in appreciation.

"What I'm saying is that we should really get out of this forest before dark, but I might need some motivation to help me navigate."

"Like what?"

"Like... a song." Peter grinned. "Sing to me, Ulrich."

"You're a lunatic!" Ulrich gestured frantically to indicate the stupidity of this idea, but Peter kept smiling obliviously. "I don't even - there's no - what would you want me to sing?"

Shrugging, Peter took his hand in his own warm grip and started walking decisively towards the edge of the clearing. "I don't care! But if you don't sing, I can't be held responsible for how lost you get. You know how you ground me, Ulrich."

He rolled his eyes, and tugged at his tricorner hat, and out of options, began to sing.




Ulrich had spent the whole morning reading Spinoza, and by the time he met Peter under the cherry tree where they usually ate, he was ready to explode. Peter started unpacking the lunch his cook had made them while Ulrich stomped around kicking rocks.

"He's so irritating, Peter, how did you ever get through a lecture without breaking things? Aargh!" He shoved both hands into his hair, knocking off his hat, and had to go grab it before it tumbled down the hill on the breeze.

Peter's mouth twitched with amusement and he patted the petal-strewn ground next to him invitingly. Ulrich sat down heavily and grabbed for the bread, taking a huge, frustrated bite.

"Well, I'm not quite as bothered by atheism as you are, for one thing."

"It's not even that!" Ulrich mumbled, and quickly swallowed. "It's his style, he's horrible, all that cold logic - he's got no, no -"

"Passion?" Peter supplied, softly.

"Yes!" he shouted, getting worked up all over again. "It's no use talking about God like, like a math problem, you can't just -" he gestured viciously with the cheese he was holding and Peter had to jump back a little. "There's more to it than that, you can't, you have to take -" and he turned towards Peter and met Peter's hands rising up to cup his face while he kissed him gently on the mouth.

Ulrich gasped, dropping the bread, and flailed wildly for somewhere to put his hands. They settled tentatively on Peter's thighs as Peter pressed closer, deepening the kiss, licking lightly at the seam of Ulrich's lips.

He opened his mouth. There was a roaring sound in his ears. The whole world seemed to have collapsed around the edges, leaving room only for the realities of Peter's thighs, tense under his palms, Peter's breath on his cheek, Peter's warm, wet mouth. His eyes closed without his conscious volition.

All of Peter's earlier tentativeness had disappeared; he was practically in Ulrich's lap, licking into Ulrich's mouth with a confidence that suggested he'd done this before. Ulrich shuddered at the feeling of Peter's clever tongue on the roof of his mouth and bit down lightly on Peter's lower lip.

This last seemed to unleash something wild in Peter, who moaned and broke the kiss, bending to press his mouth against the curve of Ulrich's neck, loosening his tie, and, "wait," Ulrich gasped, then louder, "Wait!"

Peter blinked at him with glazed eyes, licking his lips, and the bits of Ulrich's higher thought processes that had begun to regroup fled once again. He tilted forward as if he was attached to a string and pressed their mouths together again. Peter made a gratified noise and wrapped his arms around Ulrich's neck, diving eagerly back into the kiss.

But when Peter went for his coat again, Ulrich managed to pull back and put some distance between them. "No, wait," he gasped. He stood up quickly, before Peter could do anything irresistible, like blink or smile or speak. Peter scrambled to his feet, too. There were pink petals caught in his hair, Ulrich noticed, with the part of his mind that wasn't engaged in full-blown panic.

"I have to go," he blurted out, stumbling back a few steps.

“Wait!”

“I have to – I have to go,” and he was running down the path, stubbing his toe on a rock, running through the pain and headlong down the hill towards the village.




The next morning everything seemed very clear for the first time in a long time. He found Peter sitting with his feet in the stream, playing with a blade of grass.

“Ulrich!” he shouted without turning around. “I have to show you this strange tree I found, it’s the weirdest thing, you’re going to love it.”

“Peter, we have to end this.” The words sounded like they were coming from very far off, and Peter seemed barely to hear them.

“End what?”

“You know what,” Ulrich said, and Peter’s gaze snapped towards him.

“Ulrich, you can’t –“

“Peter,” he said, softly, and Peter drew himself up. “We have to stop.”

“No,” said Peter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t. You can’t.”

“Peter,” he said again, like a clockwork bird.

“Ulrich, you haven’t read all the ancient Greek texts, but I have. I’ve read Herodotus and Xenophon and Athenaus and Plato, and I promise you that what we feel for each other,” Peter faltered a little, “what I feel for you, it isn’t wrong. It’s so far from wrong, you have no idea.” His eyes were hot. “I’ve never known anything as right.”

“All of those men are dead,” Ulrich said, flatly. “They’re dead, and where do you think their souls are?” Peter tried to interrupt and Ulrich cut him off. “No, it’s not – you can’t argue your way out of this. It’s wrong. It doesn’t matter what excuses you give, the Lord doesn’t listen to excuses.”

“But if you could just listen – “

Ulrich just shook his head again, although his vision was blurring. He knew this was wrong, he knew it, and even if he could give up his own immortal soul, he couldn’t allow it to happen to Peter, beautiful Peter. Peter, who looked at him like he was the sun and said, “But I need you.”

He turned and walked away.




Peter showed up the next day, and stood on Ulrich's doorstep. He could see him from the peephole, could see he had rings around his eyes, and bloody, bitten lips. He didn’t let him in.

When Ulrich went out later, there was a sign nailed to his door: “95 Theses on Why We're Meant To Be.”

Ulrich took them down, making sure Peter saw him throw them towards the fire before he closed the door and scrambled to catch the papers back off the hearth, gathering them up with shaking hands. He took them upstairs and locked them in a wooden box, but only after reading them four times. If it was sentimental to carry the key on a chain next to his skin, well. No one would ever know.




It was only when he was gone that Ulrich noticed how much Peter had crept into every aspect of his life. Going to get water from the well was a tougher chore without two people to carry the buckets, lunch was lonelier without someone trying to steal his fruit; he felt Peter's absence every time he walked through the town and was free to notice the changing flowers and vegetables in farmer's carts, no one there to tug his attention elsewhere and obstruct his view and get in his way.

Even music ceased to be any refuge, because the melodies that sprang into his head were all studded with Peter's words. He gave up harpsichord entirely, unwilling to suffer through the horrible silence while Peter made himself scarce in his own house.

He wrote one song about the way he felt, then tore it up into tiny pieces and threw it in the compost because it was so terrible that he didn't even want to reuse the paper.

Instead, he threw himself into his religious studies, plowing through all the Augustine that Father Friedrich possessed in record time. He found Augustine much easier going than some of the early saints; even though the Latin was dense, the material was sweetly logical and sensible. Late at night, he came across a passage that gave him pause.

"In matters that are obscure and far beyond our vision, even in such as we may find treated in the Holy Scripture, different interpretations are sometimes possible without prejudice to the faith we have received. In such a case, we should not rush in headlong and so firmly take our stand on one side that, if further progress in the search of truth justly undermines this position, we too fall with it. That would be to battle not for the teaching of Holy Scripture, but for our own, wishing its teaching to conform to ours, whereas we ought to wish ours to conform to that of Sacred Scripture. "

He stopped and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. For a moment, the urge to rush to Peter and read him the passage, to argue about science and scripture for hours with the only person who'd truly understand his own thoughts, was like a violent gust of wind in his chest.




For months they avoided each other - at least, Ulrich avoided Peter, and after the first few attempts were rebuffed, Peter never made an effort to speak to Ulrich, only watching him from a distance with eyes full of broken glass. Sometimes Ulrich found marks of footprints in the mud outside his house, or caught sight of someone ducking around a building when he left the church, or heard a branch break while he was lying under a tree in the sun, singing to himself under his breath. It should have been scary or strange, but it was just Peter, and he tried not to think about it. He buried himself in his studies.

At the end of the summer, his mother mentiond that Peter was engaged to Greta, the baker's daughter.

Ulrich was happy for Peter. He was glad that Peter was starting a family, he knew this was the right thing for everyone involved. Greta was very nice, and this was exactly how things should have worked out.

Which is why it was just as surprising to him as everyone else when he pitched a gigantic fit right in the middle of Saturday morning lessons about something minor, cracked his slate in half, and put his fist straight through an expensive glass window.

He was sheepishly submitting to being bandaged by the local doctor when Peter burst in, informed as always by his mysterious sources in the town. He was pale to his collar and when he saw the blood on Ulrich's shirt, he sat down abruptly in the doorway and put his head in his hands.

"What in the name of - what were you thinking?" he asked, shakily.

Doctor Claus raised an eyebrow and tactfully excused himself, while Peter kept talking. "You could have seriously hurt yourself, you could have bled out and died -" Ulrich rolled his eyes at that last and Peter lifted up his head to glare at him. "You could have ruined your playing hand for harp and organ and harpsichord."

"Doctor Claus says it'll be fine," said Ulrich, and he didn’t understand why Peter shuddered and looked away.

"You know, that's the first thing you've said to me since May." He laughed a little, but he didn’t sound amused. Ulrich couldn’t think of a word to say in response. Standing up, Peter moved towards him and reached out to touch his face. Suddenly, everything became clear.

"Oh," said Ulrich, softly. "You're still in love with me."

A dozen emotions chased each other across Peter's strong face - shock, confusion, anger, resignation. He shook his head as if to clear it.

"Eternally."

"I thought - Greta?" Ulrich asked. Peter's mouth twisted, but his eyes never faltered.

"Greta? Have you ever spoken to Greta, Ulrich? And if you have, did she fail to bring up Katharina within five minutes of the conversation's start? I have to marry, you know that. I chose Greta because I knew she would ask nothing of me that I could not give." Ulrich was aware of the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

"Oh," he repeated stupidly.

"Of course, it's not like it matters," Peter said. A candle in him seemed to extinguish, and he stepped back, putting a cold distance between himself and Ulrich. "You’ve made it perfectly clear how you feel about m- about this."

And before Ulrich could say another word, Peter was gone.

He didn’t sleep a wink that night.




As soon as the sky began to grow light, Ulrich took out the key from around his neck and opened the box containing Peter's sacreligious 95 Theses. He started with

1. Every time I walk away from you I want to turn around and come back

and read all the way through to

78. Your eyes
79. Your eyes
80. You know what I'm thinking before I say it
81. The way it feels sleeping in your lap
82. Your hands

and

95. Living without you would be dying slowly.

When he was finished he carefully relocked the box, put on his hat, and went to find Father Friedrich.

Father Friedrich was writing when Ulrich came into his office, but he quickly put down the pen when he saw Ulrich's expression.

"Sit down, my son. Is something the matter?"

"Father, I have - I don't -" Ulrich could barely speak. He twisted his hands together in his lap like he was wringing out a sheet. "I don't know what to do. I'm not sure what's right. I'm not sure what I want to do with my life, and I'm afraid."

"Hmmm," said Father Friedrich, thoughtfully, and paused. "Ulrich, you know I've greatly enjoyed the time we've spent studying together, but I must admit I'm not surprised that you're conflicted."

"Um. You're not?"

Father Friedrich smiled, not unkindly. "It has been clear to me for some time that your calling may not be to the church. I have heard your organ practice, Ulrich, I am not a fool."

"My organ practice?"

"Ulrich, our Lord is great beyond our imagining, and he does not call to everyone with the same voice," he said, in his old familiar lecturing voice. "Do not do Him the insult of ascribing to Him a capacity for understanding that is merely human.

"Only you can know where your heart truly lies, and if you wish to continue in this path I will help you in any way I can. But if your heart lies elsewhere - if the Lord has seen fit to call you in a different way - do not make the mistake of ignoring his call. It is a grave sin to silence the talents that God has seen fit to give you."

Ulrich looked down at his lap. He had thought about composing music, that much was true, but he was more worried about Peter this morning than about symphonies, and he didn't know how to say so.

"And then, of course, there is the matter of young Peter," the priest continued. Ulrich jerked upright in his chair. Any trace of a smile had been wiped from Father Friedrich's face. "Ulrich, if any part of what I am about to say to you were to leave this room, I could be driven from the village or killed. Do you understand?" He waited for Ulrich's dumbstruck nod before continuing.

"You know how it feels to cheat, to lie, to hurt another. Tell me, my child. How does it feel when you are with Peter?"

"It feels... it feels like walking in the fields before the sun rises," Ulrich said, hesitating. "Or finding the right chord." The Father nodded, satisfied.

"I cannot pretend that the church would approve of such feelings, but it seems to me - it has always seemed to me - that denying such a gift of love is as great a sin as denying a gift of talent." He smiled. "You have been twice blessed, Ulrich. It is up to you how you receive those blessings."




It took Ulrich under an hour to find Peter sitting under a tree in his father's garden but it felt like months. When he saw him, Peter stood up, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm going to ask Katharina to marry me," he said. Peter's whole body twitched like he'd been struck, but he didn't raise his eyes off the ground.

"Okay," he whispered.

"No, you're not listening to me," said Ulrich impatiently. "I'm going to ask Katharina to marry me."

At last understanding seemed to strike, and Peter drew in his breath. When he looked up, Ulrich felt heat skate across his whole body, because the look in Peter's eyes wasn't something that should be seen in the open air.

"Oh," one of them said, and someone moved forward. The sound of birds in the garden was like an organ. Peter's hands were on Ulrich's hips and his eyelashes were black smears, fluttering closed.

Suddenly Peter laughed and grabbed both Ulrich's hands, pulling him backward towards Peter's house. They took the stairs two at a time, tripping over the carpet, stumbling into Peter's room like one many-limbed creature. Ulrich reached out and shoved the door closed, already fumbling with Peter's stupid neckcloth.

"Wait, wait," he gasped, and Ulrich actually growled.

"No more God-damned waiting."

"God, yes," and their coats were on the floor, the bed rising to meet them, warm hands on necks and wrists and waists. Ulrich was harder than he'd ever been in his life. His stomach hurt with desire.

When they were both naked, light spilling onto them unevenly through the thick-glassed window, some of the urgency seemed to dissipate - or if not dissipate, metamorphose, changing in form like a bird falling and becoming a river. Peter slid his hands over Ulrich's bare skin and bit his ear, rolling over him in the bed. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

"I love you," he said, because it was true.

"I want you," said Peter, and bent down to lick the head of Ulrich's cock.

Ulrich stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from screaming. Apparently Peter had learned more than philosophy at Tübingen, because he took Ulrich's cock into his mouth like the most practiced French whore the old men ever joked about in taverns, sucking so hard his cheeks hollowed out and Ulrich's hips lifted involuntarily off the bed.

"Peter, if, oh! If you want this to last more than f, five minutes, you better -" he said breathlessly. Peter immediately let Ulrich's cock slide out of his mouth, making him cry out again in overstimulation, and crawled up the bed to kiss him, winding his fingers in Ulrich's short hair.

He hitched his hips up against Peter's so that their cocks pressed together and kissed him back, fiercely, putting into it every month of waiting and every night of doubt.

"Nrraghh," said Peter, intelligently. Ulrich grinned into his mouth.

He wanted to laugh out loud, or shout in Peter's ear, wild with happiness and lust. Instead he clutched Peter's smooth back and rubbed up against him, slick with sweat and breathing hard in the sunshine. He could feel his orgasm rushing up at him like a river in flood.

"Oh, oh," gasped Peter, and came on his stomach, shaking all over. Ulrich pushed up hard into the warm slickness between them, once, twice, and joined him, biting Peter's neck hard enough that he was surprised not to see blood when he opened his eyes.

Ulrich poked insistently at Peter's side until he slid off and curled up next to him in the bed, leg tucked between his feet, arm across his chest, head pushed insistently into the curve of his neck.

"Like a bat clinging to a picture-frame," he murmured, and felt, rather than heard, Peter's answering laughter.




It was a few weeks before their weddings, and Peter and Ulrich were walking in the fields, talking about nothing and everything, when Peter suddenly changed the topic.

"Vienna is a good place to be a merchant," he said, avoiding eye contact. "Much better than here. My family is interested in expanding our interests in the area."

Ulrich stopped walking, and Peter turned to him.

"Also a good place to compose," he continued, deliberately. "A great city for music, really. Beautiful concert venues. Wonderful instrument-makers. Appreciative audiences. A city where a successful merchant might also be a musician's patron, to the betterment of his social status and business relations."

He might have gone on, but his mouth was otherwise occupied.




In Vienna, there is a pretty courtyard, paved in stone, with cherry trees in the middle; and on the western side, where the sun comes through the tall windows in the morning, there are two adjoining townhouses. In the afternoons, passersby can hear music coming from a harpsichord in one of the houses, and sometimes the sounds of raised voices in argument.

There is a little blonde girl and a serious dark-haired boy who play together in the yard on a knitted blanket, and a baby occasionally cries from a third floor window. It's difficult to hear which house the voices come from, and it's anyone's guess which child belongs to which house, or which of the clean linens hanging on the clothesline in back will be brought in by which white-aproned maid.

And every once in a while, on evenings when music premieres in the great opera houses and concert halls in Vienna, a man may emerge from each front door with his beautiful wife on his arm. They smile at each other, and their wives wave a greeting before climbing into their separate carriages.

They are very happy.