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“More,” Enzo groaned. His hips rolled around Fiore’s cock, still rigid inside him. “Harder.”
Fiore released his hold on Enzo’s wrists and settled both hands onto his waist. Enzo’s arms came down to embrace his shoulders as his thighs around his hips drew him deeper in, begging for more, entangling them both. Overwhelmed with how Enzo welcomed him—wanted him—Fiore held out for but a few thrusts more before ecstasy overtook him and he poured all of himself into Enzo’s willing vessel. He collapsed atop Enzo’s heaving chest. Enzo’s bound arms clasped him tight.
After a few moments of delicious delirium, Fiore forced himself to rise. He slipped out of Enzo’s embrace—arms and cunt alike—and untied his wrists. He worked his hands between his own and reverently kissed the scarlet marks the rope had left behind. Glancing up, he found Enzo watching him with adoration.
Fiore, who felt no less, slipped into his embrace once more and was rewarded by Enzo’s strong arms holding him tight.
He knew not how many minutes passed. Enough for Enzo to drift off, his chest rising and falling steady beside him.
Fiore remained awake.
Calm had come over him, but it didn’t drag him down into slumber beside his Enzo just yet. He ran his hands idly through Enzo’s hair and cast his eye over their bedchamber for something to occupy his mind whilst he waited for sleep to claim him. The pile of books on the nightstand might’ve tempted him if he’d not spent the last few months abed reading. His zibaldone proved a more promising prospect.
But even as he considered it, his gaze fell upon Enzo’s lute, propped up against the nightstand from when Enzo had last serenaded him.
Fiore stared at the instrument for a long moment. Then, surrendering to impulse, he reached across the bed to retrieve it. Drawing it into his lap felt as familiar as breathing. He laid his hands across its strings experimentally. He hadn’t dared to try since his hand had healed. Now, while he couldn’t quite achieve the grip the conservatorio had trained into him, he nonetheless found it less impossible than he’d feared. It was different, certainly. And it required something of a contortion.
But it wasn’t altogether beyond him.
~
Enzo awoke to a curious sound.
The soft strains of music echoed through the night. Enzo rolled towards them and beheld Fiore perched on the foot of the bed, limned in the foxfire lantern’s mossy glow, bent over Enzo’s lute in his lap.
This would’ve been wondrous enough, given his wounded hand, but something else had caught Enzo’s notice. Another sound hovered just beneath the plucked strings. The merest whisper weaving through the melody, beautiful and ethereal, so faint Enzo thought he imagined it. But as he stared he beheld Fiore’s mouth, and the movement of his lips left no further doubt.
Fiore was singing.
~
The End.
~
