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Still, Fiore hesitated. “After my wounds are healed, perhaps.”
The tailor would, after all, have to see him in some dishabille. Fiore didn’t like the notion of being measured around his bandages. Better to wait until he was at least whole—or as whole as he might ever be—if not hale.
Enzo looked a little confused at this. Fiore could hardly blame him. But nonetheless Enzo nodded.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Fiore couldn’t find the words to express all the grateful relief in his heart. Instead he reached for Enzo’s hand.
Enzo clasped his at once.
Fiore almost felt he could smile as he drew Enzo down to kiss him.
~
Three fortnights passed before all Fiore’s wounds closed.
The slice on his cheek healed first. While it would never fully vanish, Fiore took some comfort in how Enzo’s own cheek scar appeared more faded than the slash through his whole face. He found greater comfort in how handsome and dashing Enzo’s scars looked. While Fiore would never enjoy Enzo’s dueling infamy, there remained some hope that those who gazed upon him might assume he’d earned his slash under more courageous circumstances. At any rate he finally had unfettered access to the hand- mirror and furthermore convinced Enzo to remove the tapestry covering the full-length looking-glass. With concerted effort Fiore could glance into both without flinching.
His hand healed second. While Enzo had tried not to show it, Fiore could nonetheless tell this wound in particular had worried him. Something about the way the brigands had cut the finger off—they hadn’t left enough flesh behind to close the wound as Enzo would’ve preferred. Fiore didn’t know the difference. When the bandages came off for good at last, what he beheld looked no better or worse than he’d expected. His eyes flicked away from it of their own accord. But as they came to rest on Enzo’s face, he saw Enzo looked more relieved than otherwise at the result, and this eased some of the tightness in his chest.
The wounds around his navel took the longest to heal. Long after Fiore had wearied of chirurgical visits and dressing changes and the stinging silver nitrate. (He still didn’t know what exactly a nitrate was, but he’d heard the word murmured over him oft enough to know that was the spray that burned his flesh to cleanse it, and he was familiar enough with silver to suppose that whatever property prevented tarnish on fish-forks would likewise prevent infection in his wounds.) Eventually the holes in his entrails healed. Then the muscle over them. And, at long last, Dr Venier withdrew the bandages to reveal the skin had healed over all.
Fiore stared down at himself while she spoke to Enzo over his head. Two scarlet punctures sunk in on either side of his navel, with a red ribbon curving around it to tie them together; the original stab wounds tangled with the chirurgical incision to repair them. He tried very hard not to let his mind fly back to the smooth, unblemished skin that had once held taut across his stomach. The hair between his legs hid the scars over his missing stone. Perhaps the trail up over his navel would disguise these.
And, Fortuna willing, Enzo would still find him desirable.
“Well done, Signor Fiore.”
Dr Venier’s voice startled Fiore out of maelstrom thoughts. He glanced up to find her smiling gently. Enzo beside her fairly beamed with joy.
Fiore tried to make his face reflect at least a fraction of it. He thanked her for her troubles. She took her leave.
Enzo’s smile became a grin the moment the door shut behind her. It faded somewhat as it became apparent that Fiore couldn’t match it. “Zecchino for your thoughts?”
Fiore tried to think of something to say other than the truth. But before he could, what fell out of his mouth was, “I used to go to the bathhouse thrice a week.”
The non-sequitur provoked a confused furrow in Enzo’s brow.
“To entice gentlemen,” Fiore explained. Enzo had both witnessed and assisted in his daily stand-up wash back at theKingfisher; the bathhouse probably seemed superfluous to him. Fiore dropped his gaze to his fresh scars. He traced the scarlet ribbon with a hesitant fingertip. “Don’t know who’d be enticed now.”
Quiet fell. Fiore didn’t dare look up to see how Enzo took it.
Enzo’s soft voice shattered the silence. “Do you mind my scars?”
Fiore snapped his head up. “Hardly!”
Enzo held his gaze. “Then why should anyone mind yours?”
Because Fiore’s delicate frame couldn’t carry off distinguished marks half so well, in his own estimation. And besides— “Yours were acquired under far more noble circumstances.”
“Hardly,” Enzo echoed. In more insistent tones, he added, “Anyone who would call your scars ugly doesn’t deserve to speak.”
Fiore knew there wasn’t any real logic behind Enzo’s argument. Still, it warmed his heart to hear it.
“But,” Enzo continued, his words gentle again, “if you would prefer a private bathhouse…”
“You would arrange for one to be emptied?” Fiore guessed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
