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Enzo tore off his gloves and swept off hat, hood, and mask. An aedicula outside the felze as the gondola glided beneath a bridge threw precious little light on his features. It sufficed to show how his brow furrowed, how his teeth caught his scarred lip between them, and how his dark gaze shone with a mingled torment of deep concern and sincere regret. His bare hands tentatively reached for Fiore’s. Fiore snatched them up in his grasp and clenched them tight.
“Are you all right?” Enzo asked. He sounded like the very first person in history to speak the question in sincerity.
Fiore knew not how to answer him. His heart continued pounding in his throat. His breath shuddered alongside the trembling that’d overtaken his limbs somewhere between the portico and wherever they floated now.
Enzo waited for a reply with more patience than Fiore deserved. Only then did he venture, however softly, to ask, “Is there anything I might do?”
Fiore had braced himself for questions. But not these. He’d expected Enzo to demand he account for his choices in the ballroom—why had Fiore stayed? Why dance with the impresario? Why make the hundred stupid decisions he’d somehow crammed into the course of a single evening?
But Enzo demanded nothing from him. As Enzo had never demanded anything of him.
For even in the midst of the ballroom’s terrors, Enzo had taken charge without taking away Fiore’s choice—seeing to it that Fiore was kept safe and whole and hale and as comfortable as could be considering the circumstances, and doing all in his power to whisk him away from danger, with only Fiore’s own demands preventing him from doing more.
Which meant that, despite all the evening’s horrors, Fiore had never felt more certain of his choice than in this moment.
Fiore opened his mouth to confess all.
But his voice would not emerge.
Enzo gazed back at him, brow furrowed in concern, still waiting to hear what he might do to alleviate Fiore’s suffering. The silence drew out—too long, far too long, and if Fiore let it stretch any further it would snap like a bowstring and slash them both—
So Fiore leapt forward and kissed him.
Enzo gasped into his mouth. The gondola rocked beneath them. Fiore fell into Enzo’s lap and Enzo, after going stiff with shock, melted into Fiore’s embrace and returned it with a tenderness that made Fiore’s heart feel as though it would shatter. He held Enzo all the tighter against it and kissed him again and again until his lungs burned as though he were drowning and then and only then did he dare draw back just enough to breathe.
His heart still flung itself against his ribcage. He was safe now, he reminded himself, safer with every passing moment, the gondola slipped further and further away from Ca’ Grimaldi, and here in the seclusion of the felze no one could touch him. Except for Enzo, and Enzo would only touch him if he asked. Which he did now without words, clutching Enzo tight ‘round the shoulders and curling himself up to fit into his lap.
Enzo trailed a gentle hand through Fiore’s curls—he’d lost his hat somewhere in the gondola’s rocking. His strong arms supported Fiore’s weight with ease, and yet without trapping him in their grasp. Fiore couldn’t see his face, but he could feel his worry in every attentive caress.
Fiore parted his lips again, determined to speak at least a fraction of the truth. But another lie fell out instead. “I’m fine.”
Darkness was as good as a mask. Fiore hadn’t the faintest inkling whether or not Enzo believed him.
But he felt more keenly than ever before the warmth coursing through Enzo’s firm yet gentle hold around him.
They sat entwined together all the way back to theKingfisher. It required considerable force of will for Fiore to disentangle himself from Enzo when they arrived. His pulse had calmed a little. His hands no longer trembled. At the very least he owed Enzo thanks for bringing him to the party and seeing him safely home. He opened his mouth to say all he’d meant to say before Nascimbene had spoilt everything.
“Won’t you join me?” he blurted instead.
Silence reigned for one horrible moment that seemed to stretch out for eons.
Then, in a low and resonant murmur that sent calming reverberations throughout Fiore’s own ribcage, Enzo replied, “Of course.”
It hadn’t been at all what Fiore intended to say. But at least he wouldn’t have to face the rest of the night alone. He tried to smile as he led Enzo out of the felze, onto the ship, and below decks to his quarters. He failed at holding his hand in anything other than a drowning man’s grip.
No sooner had the door shut behind them than Fiore fell upon Enzo. Again Enzo returned his embrace as if he were molded for it. Divesting each other of their suits was the work of mere moments; even so, Enzo did so with deliberate care for Fiore’s silks and satins, which Fiore well appreciated. He had only one good suit, after all. Then Fiore had but to give Enzo the barest nudge towards the bed, and Enzo withdrew just as he had in the dance to let Fiore steer him there and lay him down upon it.
Not a word passed between them. More than ever before Fiore felt far more fluent in the language of touch rather than speech. His pulse still thrummed through his veins, sparkling like the wine in the banquet hall. He knew but one way to turn his fear to exhilaration, and mercifully, Enzo granted him this. Slipping inside Enzo’s cunt felt as though the very core of him lay cradled safe within Enzo’s firm embrace. Every thrust made his name a perpetual murmur on Enzo’s scarred lips. Enzo’s cock scattered ropes of liquid pearls. His cunt clenched ‘round Fiore, and alongside the rising tide of his impending crisis Fiore felt the urge again to confess, to tell Enzo all he was to him, and all he wished they might be together. His lips already brushed against Enzo’s ear; he had but to whisper the fated words. But with another thrust his spend was upon him. His breath caught. The words choked back. His opalescent tide spilled within Enzo’s cunt. Ecstasy wracked his body and chased all fear from his mind. He thought only of Enzo and his gentle embrace and how deeply he wished they might remain entangled for all eternity, and all this dragged him down into the silent depths of sleep, broken only by the rising and falling of Enzo’s chest beneath him, as steady as the waves lapping the lagoon.
“Fiore?”
He opened his eyes to find afternoon sunlight streaming through the porthole and Enzo sitting on the gunwales of his bed with a cup of coffee in each hand. He offered one to Fiore. Fiore dragged himself upright and accepted it with more gratitude than mere words could carry. Instead he expressed his thanks in a kiss. Enzo’s gentle hand arose to caress his cheek, and if only Fiore could awaken like this every morning forevermore he might yet die content. When they parted, he drew back with the intent to confess all.
Instead he heard himself ask, “When shall I see you again?”
Because if Fiore told everything and it frightened Enzo away, he might never see him again. And if he clung to Enzo now, delaying his departure and whatever else he might do with his day, he would breed only resentment for his presence in Enzo’s heart. This question, however, was perfectly safe and guaranteed Enzo’s return.
Despite the commonplace enquiry, Enzo served him a stunned blink before he responded. “Would mèrcore be too soon?”
