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It began with a twinge.
Not quite a pang. Not even an ache. Just a point of queasiness low in Fiore’s gut from the moment of waking.
Fiore blamed it on last night’s wine and thought no more of it, though it did prevent him from breaking his fast.
Nor did he take anything at mid-day. He spent the hours sketching and waiting for the queasy feeling to subside. It did not. Instead, it grew into a pain that ebbed and flowed, sometimes spreading across everything between his ribs and hips, sometimes diminishing to that singular point low in his gut where it had begun. He supposed he had something within him that would work its way out on its own. He could wait it out.
By evening, the pain had ebbed again, and he had hopes it might vanish altogether by the following dawn. He felt confident enough to go up on deck to the tavern. There he found a gentleman interested in what he had to offer and brought him down to his room.
While Fiore didn’t feel up to much, he thought he could make do with his mouth. The gentleman was neither particularly large nor particularly rough. Fiore had many years’ experience swallowing others just like him.
Yet when the head of the prick touched the back of Fiore’s tongue, he gagged.
Even that he could usually work past. But tonight when he tried to swallow, his gorge arose, and he had to whip the gentleman from his mouth and turn his head to avoid spewing all over him. He’d eaten nothing; most of what came up was acid and bile. Still, it was enough to kill the mood, and the gentleman excused himself without paying.
Fiore remained kneeling on the floor for some time. When the nausea ebbed, he staggered upright to fetch bucket and rag. He managed to clean the mess without adding to it, which he felt a feat worth celebrating, then groped his way to his bed. He crawled beneath the bedclothes and lay clutching his stomach in darkness for he knew not how long before sleep claimed him.
He awoke to a gentle tapping at his door.
Fiore opened his eyes none too willingly. Sunlight poured in through the window. He’d slept through the night, at least, and supposed that was something. His guts still ached and lurched within him as he dragged himself out of bed and shrugged on a robe to answer the knock. He opened the door and found perhaps the only person he could feel genuinely happy to see even in the midst of his discomfort.
Fiore smiled despite his stomach. “Thought you weren’t coming until mèrcore.”
Enzo blinked beneath the mask. “It is mèrcore.”
Fiore’s stomach did a queer plunge. “Oh.”
“Is everything all right?” Enzo asked.
“I’ve overslept,” Fiore admitted. He did not, however, divulge that he’d overslept by an entire day. That felt a touch too disconcerting.
And yet not quite so disconcerting as the way the whole room slid down to the left as if theKingfisherhad slipped back out to sea.
Fiore staggered. His vision blurred. Strong hands clasped his shoulders and held him steady. When the room ceased spinning, he knew not how long after, he found Enzo’s masked eyes staring keenly into his own.
“You ought to sit down,” said Enzo.
Fiore rather agreed. He let Enzo steer him back towards his bed and sat on the edge of it. Enzo sat beside him and laid the back of his hand against Fiore’s brow. His knuckles felt queerly cold.
“Don’t,” Fiore protested. “I don’t know if it’s catching.”
Enzo heeded him not. “I’ve already had the plague. That’s why I’m mother’s favorite.”
Fiore didn’t have the strength to argue. Still, he groaned through gritted teeth, “So have I.”
This seemed to give Enzo pause. He dropt his hand from Fiore’s brow and instead began rubbing circles onto Fiore’s back, which felt comforting, despite all. At last he spoke again, this time with more hesitation. “I’ve heard that, in your line of work, there may occur certain interior tears or bruising. Is this perhaps…?”
“Already done as well,” Fiore said, biting back another groan. “It’s not that, either.”
Enzo fell silent again. Fiore knew he ought to send him off. But his touch—and his presence, Fiore had to admit—soothed him and made the sickness feel more bearable.
“May I try something?” Enzo asked.
Fiore nodded.
Enzo ceased rubbing his back, much to Fiore’s disappointment. He moved to stand in front of Fiore. His hands reached for his breech-buttons.
