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The sun had long since set, and the wind whistled through the streets. Inside, the candlelight flickered to reveal a hand hovering over an old tone, speaking in hushed whispers of languages long forgotten past. The hand stretched forth over a circle drawn in blood in the ground, to add one more symbol. The man leaned back, the candlelight sliding along his cheekbones to give them an even more striking juxtaposition to his hollow cheeks.
“Please. . . please,” he whispered before throwing in a handful of herbs. The circle of candles burst into flames, going 10 inches high, and he scrambled back, looking both excited and terrified at what was happening.
Just as quickly as it had happened, the room fell dark and he could feel the heat leave his skin. In fact, the room had turned deathly cold. His breath steamed up in the air. He stood up quickly and fumbled across the room to the matches. His hands shook as he tried to light one, looking every which way in the inky blackness. Had it worked? Was it actually real?
And then a hand closed over his. He instantly stilled. He became aware of a large figure hulking over him and his breath thickened. A silky smooth voice spoke in his ear. “I’ve been waiting for you to call me,”
There was a snap and the candles all lit again, and Paganini instantly saw a clawed hand in front of him. He stumbled away and turned to see the Devil in all his glory. He choked back a small noise.
The devil towered over him, easily 8, 9 feet tall, the color of ash burned one too many times. His horns were terrible, brilliant things, twisted and withered black, and looking sharp enough to kill a man. The devil's eyes gleamed red with smugness and the knowledge of all things evil in the world. Paganini’s eyes traveled downwards and then immediately snapped back up. He wasn’t wearing clothes. Why wasn’t he wearing clothes??
“What? Cat got your tongue??” He smirked and hunkered down to be on eye level. Paganini eyed the door, it was suddenly very tempting.
“Oh c’mon, I’ve spent all this time on you and now you’re not going to talk? Is it cause I’m not contained in your little circle? Not to boast boy, but nothing can contain me,”
He finally worked up the courage to talk. “I- I have summoned you because I need some luck in my life”
“Oh?” A claw tilted his head up, digging into the soft flesh of his throat and Paganini could feel sweat trickling down his back. “Haven’t I given you enough already?”
Paganini startled back. “What are you talking about? This is the first time I've ever used the dark arts,”
The devil chuckled softly, yet it was so deep that he could feel the windows rattle in their frames. “Did you really think you were this good from day one? With no help? Oh no no, I claimed you as one of my own since you were born,”
His brain stuttered to a stop. Was this true? Did this explain everything, every dark omen and rumor ever said about him?
“Oh yes. Down to playing 12 notes per second. Memorized. Really, the audacity of you mortals, thinking you were that talented naturally? Anyways, what do you want? I thought you would figure it out sooner, but I have no complaints over bursting your little bubble.”
Paganini cleared his threat, trying to get back on track. “I called you here because my life is less than ideal. I'm only locally famous, people are beginning to find out about my gambling. I'm so far gone I had to sell my violin to settle a debt. I have a concert tomorrow, what is even the point of you supposedly claiming me if you haven't helped me one bit,” he spat out, and the demon just sat and stared at him.
“. . . Fine. I'll help you. But,” he held up a finger threateningly, “what exactly will you trade me? Your soul has been mine since you were a tyke. What exactly do you have to offer?”
Paganini paused and his eyes drifted down before snapping back up, cheeks red. This did not go unnoticed. “Oh? Really?” He looked down at the floor, feeling shameful.
“Oh no no none of that. Are you joking? You actually think you can hide that part of you from me?”
“Is it not something to be hidden? Something to only think about in the dark, in shameful moments?” He gritted his teeth at his outburst and the Devil took on a thoughtful face.
“Is that what they've been teaching you? Jesus, they've done a number, no it's not shameful. It's life. The end. Are we doing this or what? You want help or no.” He waved his hand around impatiently, nearly decimating the hanging lantern.
“FINE, fine fine, let's do this,”
[no <3]
[imagine image fo trumpet here cause. . . horn. y]
Paganini lay tangled in the bedsheets, staring at the ceiling. He was absolutely zoinked out. The hulk next to him stirred and stood up.
“Wait, Devil,” he brought up an unsteady hand to catch him and the figure paused. He became aware of how small his hand was on the leathery back.
“I told you you could call me Michael,” he didn't turn around.
“Err, yes,” Paganini drew his hand back. “Michael-” he stopped. What did he even want to say? What could he say after what had happened?
Michael sighed and stood up to his full frame. “You'll get some good things happening soon. I'll see you around. The debt’s not been collected yet,” and he was gone.
Paganini simply stared at the empty space and then in the next second it was like a universe had exploded in his mind. He sat bolt upright and scrambled to grab scratch paper. The composition seemed to write itself. He nearly scratched and tore the paper a few times with how tightly he was gripping the quill. Light started to stream in, along with sounds of life as he frantically scrambled to get everything done. After what seemed like 10 minutes but had to have been at least 4 hours he settled against the headboard and looked at the piece. It was a caprice. And it seemed there were plenty more where that had come from.
He looked up at the grand clock and cursed. He had a concert today, he would have to compose them later.
. . .
The concert was due to start in 15 minutes and Paganini was pacing behind the curtains. There was still no violin and he cursed himself. Why did he actually think that his plan would work? Of course he had been cheated, it was the Devil. Fooled by a bunch of pretty words and a random burst of creativity. Footsteps rushed up behind him and he turned, ready to snap, but stopped instantly when he saw the young man carrying a case.
“A merchant is coming to the concert and decided to lend you a violin,” he presented it and he took it, sneering.
“Oh what a merchant? How good of a violin is it even-” he snapped open the case and stopped, transfixed. The assistant was silent as well, catching on to the vibes as Paganini picked the instrument up gently. “It's a Guarneri violin,” he said reverently before grinning madly. This deal was working after all.
After the concert he slid down the wall, face flushed. He looked a sight he knew. Thin fame and sickly complexion, at least his nickname of “Devils Composer” was earned now. That was by far the best that he’d ever performed. He felt like there was gold elixir running through his veins. He was utterly invincible.
“Sire, the merchant has decided to gift the violin to you due to your talent,” he looked up to see the same assistant as before and smiled widely, pushing up from the floor and straightening his tie.
“Well send my gratitude to him. In fact, I think my luck is going to turn around after this,”
. . .
The next year was a definite turnaround. Every concert left more and more people talking about his strange talents, his fame spreading all throughout Italy. But even faster, in hushed whispers and glances, spread his reputation for being touched by the Devil. His countenance and godly playing didn’t exactly quell the rumors, and so for now Paganini was confined to Italy.
But his composing streak had continued, and he now had 8 caprices done. He was planning at least 16 more. He could already picture the last one, a caprice to end all others. He picked up his mail and newspaper and slipped back into his house. Nothing of interest, until he spotted that Napoleon Bonaparte's sister was in Italy. A smirk appeared as a plan began forming. It was time for another ritual.
At nightfall, he threw open the windows and let the sickly moonlight stream in. The candles flicked dimly as he once more did the ritual, squinting at the faded and old handwriting on the paper. He threw the herbs in and started saying a silent prayer that it had worked before pausing. It was probably counterproductive to pray to a God about this matter.
The moonlight disappeared, banished, and the room filled with inky blackness. It almost had a tangible thickness, and pressed upon Paganini’s eyelids feeling remarkably like being submerged in oil. He suppressed a gag and the darkness started converging into a single mass, revealing the Devil once again. He had changed a little bit. He now had a black cloak stretching all the way to the floor, and had a mane of salt and pepper curls.
“Most esteemed Dev-” a red glare was shot his way and he faltered, tongue thick. “Michael,” he corrected quickly.
“That’s better. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” he took a step forward and shrank suddenly, becoming only 6 feet tall. He lounged on the close couch and Paganini just stared at him.
“You can change how tall you are?”
“Obviously. I thought you were supposed to be smart. Maybe I should give you more brains next,”
“No no… why didn’t you-” he stuttered, feeling angry suddenly. “Why didn’t you shrink last time we were together?”
Michael stared at him with an unreadable expression before throwing his head back and cackling. It echoed throughout the world, not really a sound as much as a feeling, and Paganini could hear all the stray dogs outside howling and setting up a ruckus.
“Whoo, I’m sorry. . . no I’m actually not that was so funny,” Michael had calmed down a little bit and was wiping tears from his eyes while still chuckling. He flung the tears to the side and they sizzled as they hit the floor, leaving craters pickpocketed everywhere.
“I thought it would be funny. Plus you’re paying for me to serve you, it has to cost something. Anyways, why did you call me this time? Have I not delivered?”
“I have bigger plans now. I want to get high up, and I know just how to do it,” he threw down the newspaper, pointing out Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi’s name.
“So. You want me to manipulate politics and what not,” Michael idly flipped through the pages, looking at the other news.
“Yes,” he said confidently before pausing. “Can you not do that?”
Michael looked up sharply, the obituaries forgotten. “Are you insane? Everyone in politics is basically a mini me. Especially her brother, whoo! What a character.”
“What’s wrong with Napoleon Bonaparte? Should I not go through with this plan?” he had taken to pacing worriedly around the love couch.
“Oh Napoleon? Don’t worry about him, it’s none of your business. No but the political scene is fine, I can definitely arrange something there,” Michael stretched languidly and settled back, watching Paganini pace. In fact he started rotating his head 360 degrees just to watch him constantly.
Paganini stopped the second he noticed. Which admittedly took a few minutes. “Please don’t do that,”
“Fair enough” Michaels head unwound quickly and he looked bored now.
“Well this is going to cost you though. I’ll see you after the ceremony.” he clicked his fingers and disappeared before Paganini could say anything. His couch now smelled of sulfur and he sighed. What ceremony was in his future now?
. . .
The ceremony to be a violinist on the Baciocchi court and the director of music at Piombino apparently. Bonaparte had been at one of his concerts and had been impressed, immediately instating him. He smiled painfully throughout the appointing of his new standing, and was now milling around the reception. He had grabbed a glass of wine and was making polite conversation. He was still jittery though.
A little *dink dink dink* sounded throughout the party and everyone paused, turning to face the gentleman that had decided to give a speech. It was a tall handsome man who fully filled out his dark suit. He raised his glass and the crowd parted so it was just him and Paganini.
“I’m sure we’re all happy to see one of the best violinists instated in such a prestigious position,” he started, in an unplaceable but distinctive accent.
“But I feel as if Niccolò Paganini should grace us with a few pieces. There’s a violin right there, and isn’t this whole night about his talent?” Murmurs of agreement came from every corner and everyone turned to see Paganini’s reaction. He was still staring at the man, trying to place him. He obigibly smirked back and his eyes flared red for a moment.
Paganini hid his surprise well and forced a smile. “But of course, who would I be to deny this request?” He raised his glass and Michael returned the gesture.
He strode over to the violin and picked it up. What should he play first?
“Here, show us that memorization first, orchestra! Chop chop!” Michael clapped and the orchestra burst into a piece. A rather simple arrangement really, yet Paganini still listened for a second before jumping in, echoing the same theme and adding embellishments, going higher and lower as he wove around the orchestra. They finished and the room was silent before applauding.
Someone called out a random piece and Paganini delivered. Another request came and it was like he’d written it. People were calling out pieces that he shouldn’t have known, pieces that didn’t exist, but none of that mattered. Michael had to be behind this, but Paganini wasn’t really angry. His mind was too busy swirling with what seemed like every single piece of music to ever have been written, past, present, and maybe even future. His fingers were flying faster and faster and he didn’t hear the people’s tone becoming terrified. He finished in a screeching crescendo and posed, breathing heavily.
He looked up to meet everyone’s faces, and faced a mural of horrified and confused expressions. Except for one. Michael stood in the middle of the crowd, smirking right at him and raising his glass. What had happened exactly to grant this reaction?
“A big round of applause for Paganini, who came prepared not only to play, but to dazzle us with special effects!” Michael joyfully called out and people started hesitantly clapping. Paganini took an obligatory bow and put the violin down. The orchestra burst into music rather hurriedly and awkwardly as he left the stage and rejoined the throng. Whispers wound around him. Red eyes, and smoke coming off the strings. Had that been what he’d looked like? Some beastly abomination?
He excused himself and stepped into a hallway, going through the maze of the house before finding a balcony to rest on. He stepped out into the cool night air and breathed deeply. It burned his lungs in a good way.
“I thought you played very well in there,” a voice purred behind him and Paganini tensed up, yet didn’t turn to face the man silhouetted in the door.
“You could have warned me you were coming,” he forcefully kept his tone casual, and continued staring out at the city from his vantage point.
“And spoil the surprise? I don’t think so,” hands settled on his hips, rubbing small circles and he clenched his jaw as Michael whispered in his ear.
“Hmm. Y’know. I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to call you Nick? Or Nickie? I mean you call me Michael,”
Paganini sighed. It’s not like he could say no to the devil. “I suppose if you must,” he grudgingly said and he could feel the smirk stretching across Michaels face.
“C’mon Nickie boy, face me. Wasn’t tonight’s stunt amazing? You looked so pretty, with your eyes red like mine,”
Paganini turned around to face Michael with an annoyed huff. “You can’t do stunts like that, it’s dangerous,”
“Oh please, I’m everywhere, even if you can’t see me. Plus, you got to see me masquerading as a human. Isn’t that fun Nick?” He spread his arms wide, gesturing.
Paganini shot a cursory look over him. He did look good, he had to admit. A little bit of stubble, dark brown eyes, luscious curls. And the suit was impeccably tailored. He forced his eyes back up.
“I don’t care. Why are you here now?”
“Oh goodness, you actually are stupid! I told you what was going to happen! I’m collecting my end of the bargain,” Michael’s hand came up and cupped Nick’s cheek, thumb brushing his bottom lip. A blush tinged Pagnini’s cheeks before he was pulled into a surprisingly gentle kiss.
[no<3 insert image of saxaphone here]
“I should make this a more common thing. Might as well get what I can from you while you’re alive y’know?” Micheals hand traced nonsensical patterns over his back and Paganini groaned internally. But he could probably get more deals out of this then.
“You’re the Devil, I can’t really argue,” he finally said, rolling back around to face the ceiling.
“I think it would be funny if you tried. But I should get going, I’ll see you around,” and the warmth disappeared from the other side of the bed.
. . .
Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t met her. It was years later, he had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. Perform, compose (he had finished his caprices ages ago), spend time with Michael, repeat. And then in 1813, he went to Milan for a concert, and played alongside a singer, Antonio Bianchi. He was hooked the second he saw her.
They spent time together, and toured around Italy. She was a musical marvel, and he would play for her late into the night until they were giggling and flushed from wine and laughter. He didn’t think it would be serious, and told Michael as such. Michael’s eyes had tightened before he shrugged. And so the weird double life continued, until Paganini looked up 9 years later and realized he wanted to marry Bianchi.
The second the thought crossed his mind a draft rushed through the room and Michael burst through the closet. “I fucking knew it!!”
Paganini turned around, face guilty. Michael was in his form that he’d had when they first met, with the added addition of a cape. He looked angry, betrayed, maybe even sad??
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried to cover and then immediately shut up with a glare.
“You can’t hide that from me, I knew you would want to marry that little bitch, I should’ve stopped you from seeing her years ago but nOoooo, I trusted you when you said it wouldn’t be a big deal, you’re such a liar!”
“What, you’re fine with me sleeping with two people, but not with marriage fidelity? What kind of double standard?!” Paganini was going to see red.
“A marriage is ordained by God, you’d be double crossing. It’s wrong, yes!” Michael huffed and crossed his arms.
“Okay, well,” Paganini stumbled for a second before forging ahead “I think I love her, you can't hold me from that!”
The Devil’s shadow seemed to grow, consuming the entire room. “I can and I will! We have an agreement! I don't care who you fuck but you're not getting married to anyone, and if you do I will make their life hell until they die!”
“Michael-” he snapped and then paused, remembering who he was arguing with. Michael reared up, skin burning red, as did every candle in the room, before settling down again.
“You owe your success to me. You can see her, but make your union official and it is done between us,” he swirled his coat dramatically around him and he was gone. The room felt empty and aching red.
He slumped down onto his chair and rubbed his eyes. He couldn't get rid of Michael, he needed him. He wanted him. It was just a constant in his life now, why couldn’t he have both?
The next day he woke up sick, with sores on his body. And he didn’t get better. He couldn’t seem to get the energy to get out of bed, and finally after a week he conceded and called for a doctor.
The thin man looked at him gravely. “You have Syphilis,” he pronounced, and crossed himself. Pagnini clenched his fist. Oh, what a coincidence, to get syphilis after fighting with Michael.
“Any medications?” he finally asked and two bottles were put on his dresser.
“Just mercury and opium,” the Doctor left quickly, and Paganini threw a glance at the bottles. It seemed that Michael had won this round. He wouldn’t marry Bianchi, but that wouldn’t stop him from having a union with her.
. . .
The next three years were a little rocky. Michael didn’t comment on their fight, and just seemed to pretend that nothing happened. Even when staring right at Paganini, who still had sores. They never went away. The medicine didn’t seem to help. He would find himself caught in extreme delusions and paranoias, throwing up blood. He just continued.
The kid was just an excuse. A fight was coming either way. Bianchi had given birth to Achille Ciro Alessandro, and Paganini had been ecstatic. But when he got home Michael had been there.
“Oh so you have a kid now?” his tone had an undercurrent of red hot anger in it but Paganini was tired of tiptoeing around.
“Oh, so you make a habit of sneaking in my house now?” He loosened his tie and started undressing to get ready for bed.
“This is usual! This is what we do, me showing up randomly and you dealing with it! By bringing a kid into it, you’re changing our dynamic, our known parameters,” Michael’s skin glowed and the arm of the chair dissolved into ash under him.
“You never said that I couldn’t have a kid when I summoned you, twenty one years ago.” Paganini snapped.
“I didn’t think I needed to! Don’t you care about what I want, or is this just a deal to you Nick?” Paganini paused and turned around, wondering if he was having another delusion. Michael looked down, a little ashamed.
“It is just a deal to me. Because I know how to keep things professional,” he hissed and Michael stood up.
“Oh that’s bullshit, you have a kid with your touring partner,” he roared, summoning up a picture of her, at home with Achille. “You wouldn’t even be in this position if it weren’t for me pulling strings around for you. You’d just be a penniless washed up violinist, and no one would know your name,” he spat out in Paganini’s face.
“I would have gotten up again eventually, I just used you to get ahead quicker. I don’t need you or your help,” Nick said as calmly as he could and the Devil flinched back.
“Fine,” he finally said bitterly. “I won’t help you any longer. We’ll see how long you last before crawling back to me,” he turned to go, opening the door.
Nick couldn’t resist himself. “It's not gonna happen, hell will freeze over before it happens,”
The Devil glanced over his shoulder, red eye glinting in the candlelight. “Eternity is a long time, and I control hell for a reason,”
. . .
The next week there were rumors of people seeing Paganini with horns and hooves. Just walking around, causing panic on the streets at night. He paid no mind to them. But they only grew in number, and then three months later someone claimed that he’d killed a woman, and imprisoned her soul in his instrument.
He shut himself into his house and tried not to care. Whenever he left his house, people harassed and mobbed him. A brick was thrown at him once. He was sick again, and his delusions only got worse. He barely got to see Achille. He knew exactly who was behind this. Michael trying to force him to come back by ruining his reputation.
He held steadfast, still performing. Weird and strange things would happen, only aiding the rumors of the “Devil’s composer”. His shadow would sprout horns, or something would set on fire, or the stench of sulfur would fill the room. His career suffered, on and off for three years.
Bianchi had been acting skittish lately and Nick knew the rumors were getting to her. Finally one sunny day in April she sat down. “We need to talk,” and Nick looked up, already doomed.
“Your reputation is hurting me and Achille. I thought you wanted this, at one time I even thought we would get married but I was clearly wrong. I’m going back home to Como. Our union is over,”
“Amante, please think this through-” he started protesting and she stopped him with a hand.
“No. Enough is enough. The rumors of you killing women and stealing their souls, wandering the brown in a daze with blood running down your hands, the horns and omens, everyone tells me it’s a matter of time before I’m next. I’m hurting you before you can hurt me. I’ve been packed for weeks and I’m leaving today.” She stood and left the room.
Paganini put his head in his hands and sighed. It had taken three years for him to lose everything. He looked at the fireplace and listened to the sounds of her gathering everything and Achille. It took only two hours for the house to be emptied and the door shut with a resounding click. He sat back 15 minutes after that happened and numbly said out loud, “Alright Michael, you win,”
A heavy hand immediately appeared on his shoulder. “I knew you would cave soon, that took no time whatsoever,” his gleeful tone resonated throughout the room and Michael swung to sit on Paganini’s lap, smiling wickedly.
“Now we can actually have fun now that you’re not tied down, all the rumors will go away and your fame will spread, it’ll be fun, you’ll see. I have big plans for you Nickie,” he said excitedly and cupped Nick’s face, not seeming to care that he was so unresponsive.
He finally dragged his eyes over to meet Michael’s. “I want to be able to keep seeing Achille. And have you not hurt him,”
Michael’s face twisted like he’d just eaten a lemon but he grinned again after a second. “Oh alright, I can’t stay mad at you,” he grabbed and squeezed Nick’s cheek. “Any other requests?”
“I want to be famous beyond Italy’s borders. I want the entire world to know my name,” he shifted a little bit, resolve coming into his eyes.
“My my, such big aspirations. It’s going to cost you, but I can do that. Do you want people to praise or curse your name?” Michael was fiddling with his buttons, gradually undoing them and Nick rolled his eyes.
“Don’t twist my words. I want them to be playing my works and writing stories about what I did years after my death,”
“Mmm I can definitely do that, won’t go back on that. Again, it’s gonna cost you,” Michael looked at him with glee.
Paganini tipped his head and thought. Did he really want this that badly? Yes. He looked back and settled his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “Do your worst,”
[last no <3 insert picture of french horn]
The rumor mill worked hard but the Devil worked harder. In 8 months, Paganini had recovered his fame, and as promised, talk of him had traveled beyond Italy. He was going to go on a tour across Europe, hitting every town he could.
Michael was there at every gig. He would change skins and shapes, but Paganini was always able to figure it out, scanning the crowds as he played brilliantly. It was the eyes that gave it away. They were always manipulative and cunning, and if you looked at them for a second they would flash red.
On the very last night of the tour, a knock sounded at his door. That was unusual enough, and Paganini was even more surprised when he opened it to find Michael. “Don’t you usually just appear?” he stood in the doorway, blocking the messy room a little.
“Well yes, but I figured I’d do it properly since I’m asking you if you’d like to get dinner and spend a night together. Seeing as we’re back in Italy and tomorrow you go home for real,”
Paganini paused. He really didn't want to pack his clothes. . . and then again, it’s not like he could say no to Michael. ”Okay,” he readily agreed and turned to grab his coat again from where it lay.
Michael guided him down the street, in the drizzling rain to one small restaurant that still had it’s lights on.
“How is this open?” Paganini looked around as they entered and shook the water off. It had a cosy atmosphere, with a roaring fire and cramped tables. Some of the electrical lights hug overhead.
“Oh, I put my guys in charge here for this night,” Michael waved a flippant hand before pulling a chair out. He looked at Paganini expectantly and he paused before realizing the chair was for him. He slid in and Mizhael smoothly left to the other side of the table.
“Your guys?? What does that even mean-” he looked up as the waiter materialized by the table, with two bottles of wine. He looked human enough, but Paganini had been around Michael enough to sense there was something off. So that’s what had been meant.
“Only the finest wine for you gentleman tonight, aged in the vineyards of France” the waiter bowed and left. Clangs and crashes were coming from the kitchen and Paganini turned to look back. There was a red glow emanating from under the doors and he faced Michael again.,
“They’re still getting their human legs under them but I promise the food will be good,” he whispered and winked and Paganini nodded hesitantly.
The food was, unfortunately, top tier. He didn’t want to know how demons had learned how to cook. He was tense for most of the dinner, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Michael to reveal what was going on, what he wanted, but it seemed he only wanted to spend time together.
They walked back together. “What time is it exactly?” He looked around. There was no one on the streets and the atmosphere itself seemed dead.
“Oh it’s like 3 in the morning or something,” Michael waved his hand flippantly around before grabbing Paganini’s. He stopped in his tracks.
“Are you okay, Nick?” Michael’s eyes were soft and earnest. Paganini shot another look around before nodding yes. They walked the rest of the way in silence until they were outside his room door and he stopped again.
“I kind of don’t want to. Do that tonight,” Pagnanini couldn’t meet Michael’s eyes.
“That’s fine. I didn't expect you to,”
“Oh,” he could feel himself blushing. “That’s nice,”
“Yeah. I’ll see you around,” Michael kissed his hand before disappearing. Paganini let himself back into his room to find all his bags packed.
. . .
The next six years were nice. It was like a fresh start. Michael would come every so often, they would have dinner, or just take a midnight walk and it would be peaceful. Every so often Michael would press a kiss to Pagnini’s cheek and then dart away, skin burning red hot.
Of course, Paganini was thriving in the artist world. All of Europe knew his name, his compositions were going well, he had written a play. Life was going smoothly.
Until 1834. Paganini was inside, composing. Achille was here on visit, and was playing outside. On a whim Paganini looked out the window to make sure he was alive and saw him talking to a man. He stared at him for a second, eyes narrowing before the shapes clicked together. It was Michael. He burst out of his chair and clattered down the stairs outside, but he was already gone. Achille turned to look at him and he grabbed him, maybe a bit rougher than he intended.
“Achille, never speak to that man again, or any man that calls himself Michael. Do you understand me?” his hands were shaking as he gripped Achille's shoulders and the young lad peered up at him, confused.
“Okay, I won’t do that again Father,” he said in his tooth-gapped lisp and Paganini shot another look around before turning his son around, guiding him inside. “Let’s go inside, I need to write your mother. And don’t leave my sight,”
The next night, after Achille had left to go back to Bianchi, a knock sounded on Paganini’s door. He looked at it unamused as Michael phased through. He looked happy over something.
“Ayyy it’s my favorite human! I’m here again!” he spread his arms wide and Paganini just went back down to his work.
“Aww what’s wrong, Cat got your tongue?” he smirked and came closer. Paganini stood up abruptly, chair scraping the floor and turned around. “I saw you talking to Achille,” his voice was low, and trembled with anger.
“Why would I talk to your son, really you’re just being ridiculous dear,”
“No! I’m not, it was you, and I don’t know what you said but you agreed to leave my son out of this! To leave him alone, no danger, nothing,”
“It’s not a big deal, alright so maybe I had a little chat with him, nothing serious,”
“See, that’s what’s wrong with you, that’s what’s wrong with our relationship, you go back on your word and do these things without telling me, why do you think we always wind up here?”
“Oh no no don’t drag me into this, you’re the one that called me all those years ago, you’re the one that’s cheating everyone else in order to get some fame. You have no high moral ground to stand on,”
“No, I do, I really do. Like years ago you wouldn’t let me get married, you said nothing in the original contract about that, and what, now you’re jealous of a kid? You’re just changing the rules to fit your narrative,”
“I’m the devil, I don’t get jealous. I have everything I could work for, why would a pathetic kid hold anything that I want,” Michael spat out. His face was melting, white putrid bones peaking out.
“Then why do you bother him! Our arrangement works, and it would have been fine if you hadn’t gotten greedy, you can’t have my entire life,”
“Why not, I don’t get why were fighting, I own your soul I might as well own your life-”
“I can’t love you,” the room got deathly quiet before they both started up again.
“That’s not what’s going on here-”
“Is it? Are you sure cause it seems like it, what with the dates and all that, I’m not stupid-”
“I never said you were-”
“Yes you have! Multiple times, over and over again, all you do is punch me down and I thought I could ignore it because I’m the one that put me into this situation, and I wanted your gifts, I liked your little blessings but they’re not worth it! You’re toxic!”
“Of course I’m toxic, I’m the DEVIL, what do you want from me? Gods, if you even knew how much I’ve held back, how much I’ve changed for you-”
“Well it’s not enough! You’re not enough,”
“I have never been enough, what, you think this, your little emotional tirade is hurting me?”
“Yes! It very clearly is,” he lifted his feet up from the red flesh sludge they were in and hopped onto his desk to be eye level.
Michael glared at him. “I don’t need you, I have an entire realm at my feet,”
“Yeah you don’t need me but you want me,”
The skeleton pulled back, staring at him and at the mess of the room. Michael reached down and grabbed a handful of his melted skin before slapping it onto his face. “I’m going to make your life miserable, and this time I won’t accept your apology when you crawl back,” he turned and smashed through the wall, walking down the street
The next day Paganini retired from performing permanently. He wasn’t going to take chances. Michael’s power was untold, and he had no idea how their fight would affect him or what kind of stunts he would try to pull that Paganini would be left to explain. From here on out he would only teach.
. . .
He stared at the Guarneri violin morosely. He didn’t know why he thought setting up a casino would go well, especially when he was on bad terms with Michael. It had immediately collapsed in financial ruin and he was broke. More than broke really. It had only been two years since the final fight, and he had been destroyed. Even without performing. And now here he was, pawning the instrument that had basically started it all. The last remnant of a time when Michael liked him, and despite everything, he’d kept it till now.
The pawner stared at the strange man who’d been staring at his violin for 10 minutes before coughing awkwardly. “Sir, do you want to pawn this instrument or not? If not then I’m going to have to ask you to leave,”
Paganini looked up, eyes defeated. “Yes I want to pawn this instrument. And I have the rest of my instruments to pawn as well,”
He left the shop empty handed, pushing into the cold air. He passed by a couple and could hear them recognise them. “It’s the Rubber Man,” one whispered and he strolled on, shoes clacking on the cobblestone.
. . .
He’d just gotten more and more sick in the next two years, wasting away in front of everyone’s eyes. He’d already looked sickly, but now his skin was waxen and his eyes sunk into his face, dark purple bags lining them. No one could figure out what was wrong and no one dared to state the inevitable. Paganini was dying.
He was confined to his bed. The staff had left a while ago, rushing to get a priest for him. Breathing was getting hard. He closed his eyes, struggling. The bed dipped as someone sat on it and he forced them open. Was it the priest already? His blurry vision took a second to focus, but he still let out a defeated sigh he couldn’t afford as Michael came into view. He was in the first human form that Paganini had seen, all those years ago.
“What do you want?” he rasped out, trying to feebly move away from him. Michael watched with cold and amused eyes.
“I wanted to see you in your last moments. The priest isn’t going to get here in time, you know. Didn’t even have to interfere to do that,”
Paganini let out another sigh before the first part registered. “What do you mean? My soul was claimed by you from the beginning, I’m going to your domain when I die,”
Michael shook his head, disinterested. “No. Claiming your soul just means you won’t go to heaven. What I do with you is completely up to me. And I’m not letting you in,”
Paganini’s addled brain took a moment to connect the dots. “I can’t get into heaven or hell? That’s impossible, where will I go then?”
“Nowhere. That’s the point. You’re going to stay here, wandering aimlessly, forever. No rest,” Michael looked over at the flowers someone had brought as a gift and they withered in two seconds. He looked back down at Paganini slipping from life. He could see his soul drifting away in tiny wisps as it got weaker.
“And just as my final gift, I leave to you that your body won’t be buried until 36 years after you die Nicky boy,” Paganini’s eyes widened and he moved to say something, but instead started coughing and hacking.
Michael pounded his back and stood up. “You could have had everything Paganini. We could have ruled hell forever. Remember that,” and snapped away. Niccolò Paganini fell back onto the bed and took in one last rattling breath before he stilled forever.