Page 16 of Fiorenzo
Over and through the myriad bridges and back-alleys, Enzo seemed content to stride alongside Fiore in blissful silence.
Then it broke.
“Were you trained as an artist?” Enzo asked.
Fiore tensed. He forced his shoulders back down into place the very instant they hunched, but still he feared Enzo had noticed, even beneath his mask. He willed his voice to remain even-keeled as he replied, “Never formally. Though I did trade favors for lessons on occasion.” He let a smile slip through. “And nothing will prevent Artemisia from critiquing a sketch.”
“Have you ever wanted formal training?”
The enquiries, like Enzo himself, were entirely innocent. They sent Fiore’s heart into his throat regardless. Still, he kept it from leaking into his voice—his training had granted him that much command, at least. “Even if I did, I’m far too old for an apprenticeship now. Can you imagine me sweeping pencil-shavings?”
Enzo didn’t laugh at this image. “And before now?”
“In my youth, you mean? Then I had no family to pay for an apprenticeship. And I’ve acquired no family since,” he added with another smile, hoping the jest would cover up the honesty slipping through the cracks in his answers.
Enzo considered the matter. Or seemed to. The mask made his reactions far more difficult to read than Fiore would’ve wished.
By then the mizzenmast of theKingfisherhad mercifully come within sight. Fiore put on his most charming smile and quickened his step. With any luck, Enzo would mistake his nerves for mere eagerness to get inside and enjoy a private moment or two.
To Fiore’s relief, Enzo left off questioning him as they approached the ship. He remained silent as they climbed aboard and slipped belowdecks. The silence held a contemplative rather than a strained quality. Fiore hoped it might hold out throughout their encounter as he shut the door behind them.
But rather than slip off his hat or cloak, Enzo laid a hand on the bed’s prow and tapped his gloved fingers. He didn’t look at Fiore. Fiore, not knowing what he was about, hesitated to press the issue.
At length, Enzo turned to regard him, and in a voice not in the least bit unkind, asked, “Do you enjoy your present career?”
The most dangerous question of all. The obvious and correct answer was, “Yes.” But Fiore had begun to doubt whether Enzo would take that at face value. Again the specter of honesty loomed in his mind. It possessed him to open his mouth.
“It’s not my first choice,” Fiore admitted. “But then again, few have the luxury of choice at all.”
It was certainly better than the path the conservatorio had laid out for him.
Enzo cocked his head. “Would art have been your first choice?”
Again, a question few men had bothered asking him. When Fiore had recovered from the surprise, he smiled. “Rather. Though the stories I hear from Artemisia about her patrons aren’t much different from my own.”
“How so?” asked Enzo.
Fiore caught his tongue, realizing too late he’d already revealed too much. “Nothing sordid, only—doing as the patron decrees rather than following your own desires.”
More than ever, Fiore wished he could see Enzo’s face and have just a hint of how he felt about that particular revelation. What little he gleaned from the masked eyes seemed concerned.
With some hesitation, Enzo enquired, “You do desire men, do you not?”
“I do,” Fiore quickly and truthfully assured him. But before he could stop himself, he added, “Just… not always in the way they desire me.”
“And how do you desire them?”
Fiore’s answer stuck in his throat.I desire to bend you over my bed and fuck you within an inch of your lifewas not a proclamation which tended to go over well. In the absence of this, an uncomfortable silence arose.
“Perhaps,” Enzo added, “I ought to put it another way. Which do you prefer? To enter another or to have another enter you?”
It wasn’t the first time Fiore had heard the question. In his experience, it was never genuine. And so he replied, “I prefer to be paid.”
Enzo chuckled. “And if payment is assured regardless of preference?”
Which, again, in Fiore’s experience, was never the case.
Except now, however, the dark eyes beneath the mask shone with a sincerity that Fiore had never yet encountered in his profession. An honest desire which demanded an honest answer. The truth had taken them this far together, even with the mask between them. Perhaps Fiore might try the truth again. “I prefer to fuck rather than get fucked.”