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“I don’t want a contract,” Fiore forced out. The truth felt far too heavy as it left his tongue. His speech seemed to catch in his chest. It would tear through his heart if he let it escape. Yet to not say it would kill him just as well. And so he swallowed hard and admitted, “I wantyou.”
He hated the way his voice broke on the final word. The silence that ensued sounded even worse to his ears.
Then, ever so gently, a hand closed over his own fisted in the bedclothes.
Fiore scraped together what little courage he had left and dared to glance up to meet Enzo’s gaze.
There he found the same handsome face he knew so well, save now the striking features had twisted—the brow knit, the mouth thinned—in a sorrow almost as deep as what Fiore felt. And yet, as Fiore’s gaze met those self-same soft, dark eyes, no longer shadowed by the bauta mask, he beheld the sorrow lightened by what he dared not hope for but which seemed very like a strong and abiding affection. This, despite all that’d happened, despite his own inconstancy and what marks it’d left upon him.
Enzo raised his other hand, palm upturned, seeking permission.
Fiore granted it with a nod.
Enzo reached for his face. His warm palm came to rest against Fiore’s unwounded cheek. His elegant fingers delicately cradled his jaw. His thumb caressed his cheekbone, brushing away something wet.
“You have me,” Enzo murmured. A wan smile graced his handsome lips. “For as long as you can stand me, you’ll have all of me.”
For a moment, Fiore simply stared.
Then he summoned all his strength to fling his arm up around Enzo’s shoulders and drag him down beside him.
~
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fiore lived.
Two mere words could hardly contain all the elation and relief Enzo felt to see Fiore’s beautiful eyes open again. To hold his hand, their fingers interwoven, and have Fiore awake and aware to clasp his in turn. To hear his voice, though weak and strained, when he thought he might never hear it again. Even when Fiore spoke of heartbreak and despair, just to be able to converse with him at all felt worth all possible pains. Enzo only wished he could take on Fiore’s wounds for himself and spare him his agonies. The morphine helped with that—though Fiore went rigid whenever Dr Venier approached with a needle.
The remainder of the day passed quietly. Fiore drifted in and out of fitful sleep. Whenever he awoke, Enzo endeavored to coax him into taking at least a glass of water. Fiore proved more pliable than Enzo expected. Though his every glance bespoke exhaustion beyond words, he nevertheless dutifully drank from whatever rim Enzo tilted against his lips. He even managed a few spoonfuls of horse broth. His sole complaint came when Dr Venier listened to his stomach after he ate. Even this wasn’t voiced, but rather a pitiful glance at Enzo, asking without words, “Must I?”
Enzo tried to give him an encouraging smile.
Fiore sighed and lolled his head across the pillow towards Enzo—and, more pointedly, away from Dr Venier. His hand clenched tight in Enzo’s whilst Dr Venier listened. It didn’t take long. Better still, it produced promising conclusions. Fiore’s digestion had resumed in good order. He could take more broth if he liked. Fiore didn’t appear particularly cheered by this proclamation, but he did brighten a little as the chirurgeon withdrew from the bedchamber—leaving both stetoscopio and termometro in Enzo’s hands, returning only to dose Fiore with morphine—and when Enzo again offered up spoonfuls in supplication, he accepted a few more.
As afternoon drew on toward evening and the setting sun cast the clouds into soft gold and purple, however, something shifted in Fiore’s aspect. His exhaustion became restlessness. His gaze flitted again and again towards the arched windows and the scarlet horizon spreading out across the once-green sea. His hand in Enzo’s clenched and unclenched.
“Is it the pain?” Enzo asked him. Not quite an hour had passed since his last morphine dose, and he oughtn’t have needed another for some time yet. If, however, something had gone wrong within him to increase his agonies…
But Fiore shook his head, sparing Enzo a mere glance before returning to the windows.
Enzo followed his gaze. Whatever so disturbed Fiore on the horizon, Enzo couldn’t perceive it. He tried again. “Shall I close the curtains?”
“No!” Fiore blurted. The strength of the single syllable rivaled that of any speech Enzo had heard from him since his chirurgy. He added in a gasp, as if the force of the word had sapped him, “Don’t—please—”
“Easy,” Enzo urged him once he’d recovered from the initial shock. “I won’t close them. You may look as long as you like.”
Though, truth told, it seemed as though Fiore looked out the windows from revolting obligation rather than desire.
Fiore worked his jaw. His lips parted. He hesitated, then, without looking at Enzo, he said, “Where will you sleep tonight?”
Enzo could tell Fiore had endeavored to imbue the question with a casual air. It didn’t work. He tried to figure out what answer Fiore wished to hear. He settled on the truth. “Beside you, if you wish it.”
For he could hardly bear to be parted from Fiore now.
And, judging by the vise-grip Fiore kept on his hand, he felt much the same.
“Yes,” Fiore said, the word clipped, his eyes never leaving the windows. His voice broke as he added, “Please.”
