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And there was his Enzo.
Bereft of mask. Flanked by city guards. Breaking from their ranks to run toward him. Heedless of the bloodied blade still in Fiore’s grasp. Never fearing for a moment that Fiore might hurt him.
Fiore spread his arms wide to meet him.
Enzo clasped him tight with enough force to lift him off the ground. The sword dropped from Fiore’s hand and clattered to the dirt forgotten. His blood sang with satisfaction. The devouring kiss he bestowed upon Enzo couldn’t begin to express even a fraction of the relief he felt to have him in his embrace again. The fight had left him winded, forcing him to break off sooner than he wished. Over Enzo’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of the guards blocking Nascimbene’s cohorts from departing the arena. A welcome sight, yet still not so welcome as Enzo’s dark eyes gazing down on him, safe at last.
“I’m sorry,” said Enzo.
Fiore knew not what for.
“Are you hurt?” Enzo asked.
“Only a scratch,” Fiore intended to tell him—except before he could get the words out, a pulse of exhaustion overtook him—like being struck a blow over the head with something soft and suffocating—a wave crashing over him and dragging him down into depths he couldn’t kick out of.
Fiore staggered. Enzo caught him. His embrace was all Fiore wanted in that moment. Even so, he tried to stand. But just lifting his head from Enzo’s collar felt like dragging an anchor.
Enzo called for the chirurgeon. To Fiore he asked, “Where are you wounded?”
“Nowhere,” Fiore insisted—though it felt impossible to gather enough breath to do so. He tried again. “Just a scratch.”
Enzo knelt and laid Fiore gently down, his upper half in Enzo’s lap. Which, again, was everything Fiore wished. Apollo could not have cradled Hyacinthus even half so tenderly. Gazing up at his Enzo, Fiore wondered if the mortal had felt as contented in the god’s arms. He wished only that he could do something to alleviate the fear in Enzo’s eyes.
But all strength failed him as he sank down into oblivion.
~
CHAPTER FORTY
Fiore didn’t expect to open his eyes ever again.
Because of this, the sight of the peacock-blue bed-curtains and coffered ceiling of Enzo’s chambers in Ca’ Scaevola, while familiar, nonetheless surprised him.
All appeared hazy at first, the image growing more distinct by gradual degrees, and with a curious tilting sensation as if he lay aboard a ship that rocked in rhythm with the pulse thudding slow in his ears. He waited with mounting impatience for his vision to clear. When at last the room stilled and no shadows encroached on the corners of his eyes, he dared to loll his head to glimpse what he might of his surroundings.
Enzo sat at his bedside. He didn’t look at Fiore. Instead he fixed his dark gaze on the middle distance, hunched over with his elbows propped against his knees. His fingers laced over his mouth in a Gordian knot to match his furrowed brow. Blue shadows hung beneath his eyes. Strands of hair had torn free from the cord at the nape of his neck to fall across his scarred face. He wore no coat, just his waistcoat and breeches, with his shirtsleeves not folded nor rolled but rather shoved up past his forearms.
“Enzo.” Fiore’s voice left him in a creak hardly above a whisper.
Yet Enzo leapt and whirled as if he’d heard a thunderclap resound from a clear blue sky. His shock dissolved into a disbelieving smile as he met Fiore’s gaze. In two shakes of a sail he was upon him, cradling his jaw in his soft palms, smoothing sweat-slicked hair off his brow.
Fiore craved nothing more than Enzo’s touch. Yet even just Enzo’s fingers gently combing through his hair made his scalp sting and burn. His very bones ached with fever. Down to the teeth. All the joints pulled out of place by his captivity in the catacombs were set aflame. A pained whimper escaped his throat despite his best efforts to suppress it.
Enzo ceased caressing him. Fiore couldn’t gather the wit or wherewithal to protest the loss before Enzo had poured a glass of water and ever so gently cupped the back of his skull to tilt his lips to the rim. Fiore drank with a thirst he hadn’t realized he’d possessed until the water touched his tongue.
“Coffee?” he croaked as Enzo took the empty glass away.
“Not just yet,” Enzo replied with an apologetic wince.
Fiore supposed that’d been rather too much to hope for. Still, “Wine?”
A wan smile graced Enzo’s scarred lips. “I’m afraid not yet, either.”
Fiore didn’t have the strength to conceal his disappointment. “…Limonata?”
“Soon,” Enzo promised him. “And chocolate as well, if you’d like.”
Something to look forward to at least. More importantly, however… “You saved me.”
