AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He expected to find Fiore’s knowing smirk turned upon him once again. But instead, he found Fiore still staring at the capriccio.
Fiore had modelled for the fauns—Enzo felt sure of it—and perhaps that was why he had such an attachment to his particular piece. But if so, Enzo knew not why the marble fisherman hadn’t likewise held him in its thrall.
Indeed, Enzo observed as he indulged in the liberty of gazing upon Fiore’s beautiful face whilst he remained distracted, Fiore’s eyes were not fixed on the fauns, but rather trailed upward to the mists overhanging the thickly wooded valley in the far distance of the scene.
Enzo dared not speak, for Fiore seemed captivated by the pieces as much or moreso as the marble Fiore had captivated Enzo himself.
And as the sight of the flesh-and-blood Fiore, enraptured by a pastoral daydream with a soft smile playing about his perfect lips and a queer sort of longing sorrow in his dark eyes, captivated Enzo now.
That is, until those dark eyes glanced sideways towards Enzo—and glanced again when they caught him staring.
Enzo quickly turned his attention to the capriccio. “It’s beautiful.”
The sweet little half-smile tugged at the corner of Fiore’s lips once again. “I suppose so. Shall we get on?”
Enzo wondered at Fiore’s eagerness to leave. Perhaps he feared he’d revealed too much of himself in his open admiration of the art. Regardless, Enzo followed him out of the studio—tipping his hat to the artist as Fiore passed along his own careless wave—and rejoined him in the street, where Fiore twined their arms together once again.
“Forgive me,” Enzo said. “What was the painter’s name?”
“Tiziano,” Fiore replied without looking at him. The name dropt from his tongue with a casual air that bordered on disinterest. Enzo suspected it was feigned. This suspicion seemed to prove true when Fiore cast a sidelong glance at him and added, “Why d’you ask? Something catch your eye?”
You, Enzo didn’t say. Aloud, he answered, “It seems to have caught yours.”
Fiore’s steps slowed but did not cease. He glanced away from Enzo again, off down the street ahead. A silence grew between them.
Enzo gathered all his considerable courage. “Would you accept it as a gift?”
Fiore worked his jaw. For a moment, Enzo feared he’d overstepped and offended. But the cast of Fiore’s brows bespoke deeper thought than anger.
“I don’t want to own it now,” Fiore explained. “I want to live the sort of life where owning such things might prove less absurd.”
Enzo furrowed his brow.
Fiore gave him a wistful smile. “You must admit it would look rather silly hanging in my quarters as they are.”
“It would pale in comparison to your own works,” Enzo conceded. “But if you admire it, then it gains my approval as well.”
Fiore laughed—a breathless little sound, like orange blossoms tumbling from their branches. “I will own it someday. But that day is a long way off.”
“It might be tomorrow.”
Fiore shot him a startled glance.
The words had come from Enzo’s heart rather than his head. Yet he did not regret them. “You might live somewhere full of beautiful things. You need only speak the word.”
Fiore stared at him in disbelief for a moment longer before bashful smile graced his perfect lips. “You’re very kind.”
A refusal as plain as a flat “no,” all the more painful for the tenderness of its delivery. Enzo felt very glad for his mask. He knew not what contortions his face went through.
“But,” Fiore continued, “there are practical considerations which prevent my accepting your offer.”
A gentleman with more self-respect or poise would have accepted this with, at most, a nod. Enzo instead heard himself ask, “What sort of considerations?”
“You are a young man.”
Enzo, confused, replied, “So are you.”
“For now,” Fiore admitted. “But what would you do with me when I’m old and flabby and wrinkled?”
