Page 164 of Fiorenzo

Fiore, already scolding himself for failing to recall the sequence, nodded.

This seemed to satisfy her. “Again.”

And this time, he parried every strike.

Over and again they drilled. Scuttling back and forth. Clack—clack—clack. A glance at the courtyard sundial told Fiore not a quarter of an hour had passed since he took up his wooden blade. The arm holding it burned as if he’d borne its weight for hours. His thighs didn’t feel much better. Whatever athleticism he’d once possessed had fled his body over the course of his long convalescence. How pathetic he must appear under Enzo’s gaze. He’d witnessed Enzo’s strength and stamina before but had never considered how he might’ve acquired these traits. No wonder Enzo could lift him with ease and fuck for miles if his daily regimen demanded all this of him.

Maestra Rovigatti, meanwhile, had not yet broken a sweat an hour later. Still, she looked Fiore up and down and declared their practice finished for the day.

“When you’re ready, your grace,” she added, turning to Enzo.

~

Enzo could’ve happily watched Fiore spar for a century.

Like Fiore, he quite enjoyed the sight of a man with a sword in his hand—even a mere wooden waster. He likewise enjoyed seeing men half-bare and engaged in rigorous exercise. These familiar delights heightened when the man in question was as beloved to him as Fiore; more particularly when for so long Fiore had languished in convalescence and only now began to return to the health he’d enjoyed before his ordeal. All the moreso when the trials Maestra Rovigatti set for him sparked a gleam in his eye that Enzo had long missed.

Furthermore, Fiore had a great deal of natural grace which made him a wonder to watch in any athletic pursuit. While not a sword-fighting prodigy by any means, his fluid poise made even his mistakes beautiful.

So beautiful, in fact, that Enzo could almost forget that soon Maestra Rovigatti would require him to raise his blade against Fiore.

Far sooner than would’ve sated Enzo, Maestra Rovigatti declared Fiore’s training done for the day. Enzo hastened to pour a glass of water for Fiore as he resumed his seat on the bench.

“You’re doing very well,” Enzo told him.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Fiore gasped.

Adrenaline spiked in Enzo’s veins. “Have you torn something?”

Fiore shook his head and quaffed the water.

“Where does it hurt?” Enzo pressed.

“Legs, mostly,” Fiore replied while Enzo refilled his empty glass. “Arms a bit. Gut least of all—not a rip,” he quickly added as Enzo’s head shot up in alarm. “Just the same burning as everything else.”

That, as Enzo knew well, was normal. Still he would’ve spared Fiore it. “If that should change—”

“I’ll speak up,” Fiore promised. An exhausted but no less sincere smile curled up his cheek. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Fiore might as well have told a dolphin not to swim. But Enzo took him at his word nonetheless and went to meet Maestra Rovigatti, who’d waited with her sword all the while.

Enzo’s own sword-fighting lessons always had an audience in Vittorio. But to have Fiore watching him in the months since his lessons had resumed remained an altogether new experience. No one else—save perhaps Orazio—had held such an open admiration for Enzo’s dedication to his sport. And even now, exhausted though Fiore was by his first bout with swordplay, still Enzo could feel Fiore’s appreciative gaze upon him. It made him all the more eager to excel, to prove himself worthy of his affections, to show what he would do to all who dared threaten his beloved.

Likewise he felt eager to soothe Fiore’s physical pains. Enzo had been trained up in swordplay from the moment he could hold a blade. The pose and pace felt natural to him. To Fiore, however—Enzo could but begin to imagine his aches. He looked forward to doing something towards ending Fiore’s pain.

As he looked forward to ending Nascimbene.

~

Fiore’s legs burned. His gut throbbed. His left arm ached from the weight of his false blade, and his right felt only slightly better after holding itself aloft for an hour, even loosely. He guzzled water as Enzo and Maestra Rovigatti played out the same rapid and elegant dance of blades as they had every morning, and which even now he never tired of watching.

When their sparring came to a close, as all good things must, Fiore’s aches had deepened rather than dissipated. He discovered this as he attempted to leap up and return the favor Enzo had done for him. He accomplished only staggering upright with a groan.

Enzo dropt his sword and caught Fiore by his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Fiore said through gritted teeth. “I promise I’m fine. My limbs are just cast-iron, that’s all.”

Enzo’s look of frantic concern melted into wistful sympathy. He guided Fiore back down onto the bench and poured his own water—shameful, ridiculous, Fiore ought to have done it for him, if only he weren’t so weak and pathetic—