Hehehe...I apologize for this being so short and horrible, but the idea just popped into my head, and this only took me twenty minutes to write (at most). I have absolutely no idea how I thought of it, but here you go. The title sucks too. Oh well. It's no good, and I repeat, IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. If anything, it's something to be laughed at. Enjoy ... (or not) :P

Twisted Caprice

The famous Hungarian, Franz Liszt, beaming with confidence and sheer delight, blew yet another gracious kiss to the enthused Parisian audience before him as they applauded his fantastic performance one last time for the evening. Liszt took his final bow and, with arms extended towards them, as if embracing their shouts of praise and eccentric clapping, left the stage in large strides. He was entirely pleased with the success of it all, and became even more so when he saw his beloved friend, Frédéric Chopin, waiting anxiously for him in the wings. His smile widened and he clasped Chopin affectionately in his arms.

“I am glad you are here, Frédéric,” he greeted warmly. Chopin forced a smile but stood tense and fidgety, as if he were preoccupied. He was certainly dressed like it, wearing a suit considerably more elegant than the present occasion would require and having a kept, exquisitely-styled head of hair to accompany. Liszt noticed this and playfully teased his dear friend.

“Well, I must say, monsieur...you look quite dashing, indeed! To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you so perfectly stunning and untouchable?”

He laughed heartily, but Chopin's eyes remained full of anxiety and uneasiness. He switched his glance from the floor to the Hungarian.

“F-Franz...” he murmured wretchedly, voice breaking and eyes shining with tears about to spilll. Liszt's expression became grave and his tone, concerned.

“Frédéric, what is the matter?” he questioned with urgency.

Chopin opened his mouth to speak, but could not utter a word. Liszt put his hand upon Chopin's back.

“Come along,” he said, walking his friend forward to a lounge room far behind the stage, which happened to be vacant for them. He gently pushed his friend inside and closed the door so they would not be disturbed.

“ Frédéric, tell me, what's wrong?” Liszt asked once again, putting his hands on Chopin's shoulders.

Suddenly, Chopin's expression changed entirely, and fire flashed in his eyes. A strange, twisted grin formed on his mouth, and he stared at Liszt in an almost lustful way. He aggressively clutched the Hungarian's jacket and pulled him closer. Liszt showed obvious confusion.

“What are you –”

“Franz, I want you...now!” Chopin cried impatiently, with an animalistic longing that seemed to have taken over him completely.

Liszt was dumbfounded, and could not for the life of him understand what was happening to his Polish companion. It was entirely unlike Chopin to say or even think anything of the sort, and if anyone, Franz would have been the guilty one in that particular situation – most certainly not the innocent, timid, saintly Frédéric Chopin, no! He blushed whenever Liszt would even lightly joke about the subject of intimacy with women. The fact that he had, in a matter of seconds, gone into a heated frenzy over sudden unknown desires quite astounded and frightened Liszt. He was lost for words, and gaped at Chopin incredulously. True, neither of them could deny the sincere love they felt for one another, but Liszt could not help but think that Chopin may have taken it too far...too soon. Not to mention that when the time came, Liszt knew Chopin would not be the one to initiate it, oh no. He could never, as his goodness, despite his desires, would restrain him. It all seemed nothing short of impossible.

“ Frédéric,” Liszt began cautiously, “do you hear yourself?”

Chopin groaned in frustrated hunger, and his eyes burned with an intense, almost ridiculous passion. He tugged at Liszt's jacket.

“Aren't you listening to me? Please, Franz,” he begged, “you cannot hide it forever, you know.”

Liszt did not know who the person was before him, but is most certainly was not his Chopin. Interestingly enough, it wasn't like Liszt himself to turn down any such opportunity when presented to him. He may have refused at first, but Franz Liszt would always be Franz Liszt. He sighed.

“A-all right...”

“Yes?” Chopin pressed eagerly. Liszt paused a moment, then kissed Chopin's forehead in reassurance.

“Yes, but not here,” he submitted at last. Chopin released him and nodded in reluctant agreement. All at once, he burst into tears and began sobbing hysterically, burying his head into Liszt's chest.

“I'm sorry, Franz,” he wailed, “I've absolutely no idea what came over me...c-can't believe I said such things,”

Liszt held him in his arms in a vain attempt to comfort him, confounded and bewitched by all that passed.

Thus ended the night of Frédéric Chopin's bizarre, twisted caprice, and the abrupt realization to Liszt of what lay beyond the angelic exterior of his dear friend. He feared that he had, perhaps, been the one who had corrupted Chopin, and for days to come, was lost in remorse.