“Protector of Lorenzo.” A phrase that clung to Niccolò Moretti like the damp chill of Volterra’s winter fog, heavy and inescapable. Each time he heard it, a fresh wave of weariness washed over him, affirming a maturity he neither sought nor recognized. Adult. Two syllables that grated, like ill-fitting garments on a sensitive skin. His life, once a meticulously charted map of intellectual pursuits and solitary studies, had been violently redrawn. Weeks had blurred into a monotonous cycle. Mornings dissolved into lectures at the Academy, afternoons were swallowed by the hushed corridors of the Sanatorium of Saint Elara. His studies, a once cherished solace, now felt like an elaborate deception. Half his classes went unattended, his mind a turbulent sea of worry and resentment. He would arrive, heart a leaden weight, and Lorenzo, always waiting, would burst forth from the convalescent wing, a hound greeting its master. Then the torrent began, a daily chronicle of indignities and complaints, all the wretchedness of a day spent confined. “The chirurgeon speaks again of opening me, Niccolò. Another incision. My leg, it smarts just thinking of it. And this gruel… it’s fit for pigs, not a scion of Volterra. My stomach is not an invalid, it yearns for real sustenance, not this tasteless slurry!” Lorenzo ranted, his face twisted in a genuinely miserable mask, not a whit different from a petulant child. Niccolò sighed, a shallow, quiet sound, and rummaged through his satchel. He despised the way his leather bag now carried the persistent scent of cooked food. The aroma, a greasy ghost, clung to the fine hide. His lip curled instinctively. Yet, this was preferable to carrying the offending package in his hands, exposed to the judging eyes of the city. “What?” Lorenzo’s voice held a curious note. Was that a glimpse of a hopeful, drooping tail in Niccolò’s mind’s eye? A thick, furred appendage? Repugnant. Utterly so. He shook off the grotesque image, pulling a carefully wrapped box from the depths of his satchel. Lorenzo’s despondent gaze fixed on the offering. The gloom in his eyes shifted, slowly, into something else entirely. “What is this?” “A midday meal. I inquired. They said you are still some weeks from the next procedure, so this would not interfere.” “A midday meal?” Lorenzo’s voice was a whisper. “Do not imbue it with meaning. I simply procured it from a nearby vendor.” The words felt hollow, even to Niccolò. The reason he’d instructed Lorenzo not to read into it was precisely because he himself had given it far too much meaning. He would never admit to the frantic, meticulous search for a respectable establishment near the Sanatorium that served food both palatable and safe for the ailing. He refused to dwell on it. He merely wished to appear as one performing a simple act of human courtesy, nothing more. Even that bare offering seemed to be enough. Lorenzo, with his barely functional right hand, scratched furiously at an ear. The flesh, where Niccolò caught a glimpse of it, burned crimson. Niccolò’s gaze drifted lower, towards the fingers. The way they curled, slightly gnarled, looked grotesque. His face twisted. Why did those fingers captivate him so? Why could he not tear his eyes away? A familiar tightness constricted his chest. “...T-Thank you.” Lorenzo’s voice was oddly subdued. He glanced hesitantly at Niccolò, and when their eyes met, he flinched, quickly fumbling with the strings of the lunchbox. Or was it a pretense of being startled? As if being caught looking at Niccolò was an transgression. As if he wished his gratitude to remain unseen. Watching Lorenzo devour the food with mechanical precision, Niccolò leaned his exhausted frame against the hard wooden bench. It was a repulsive spectacle. Food dribbled from his lips, splattering the pristine white linens. Lorenzo’s small finger, the ring finger, and the middle digit of his right hand remained stubbornly unbent. Niccolò could not discern if this was genuine impairment or a dramatic performance. Slowly, Niccolò moved closer, taking the spoon from his brother’s hand. “What do you desire?” “...” “The braised boar?” At the very least, Niccolò carried a responsibility to acknowledge the authenticity of Lorenzo’s suffering. With lips smeared in sauce, Lorenzo chewed, bowing his head slightly as he smiled. Niccolò could not fathom why this brother, who would never again wield three fingers with true dexterity, whose thigh and back bore a ragged tapestry of scars, could smile with such unadulterated joy. He simply could not comprehend it. He couldn’t bring himself to meet that bright, glowing face. What, in God’s name, was so amusing? Were it Niccolò, he would pray for oblivion. He selected what appeared to be the choicest morsel and pressed it to Lorenzo’s mouth. Lorenzo chewed forcefully, the smile unwavering. This brother, always unsettling. Niccolò had purchased the meal not solely out of obligation, but because of an encounter before he arrived at the Sanatorium—a detour to the Moretti palazzetto. --- It was the second visit since Lorenzo’s latest skin graft. Surprisingly, Niccolò still possessed the guardian’s pass, a document that granted him access to the family estate even in the Duke’s absence. He had encountered Lorenzo’s immediate family a scant three times within the Sanatorium walls. Once, his father, Duke Alessandro, a man of formidable presence but little familial warmth. Twice, his mother, Isabella, who adopted a saccharine demeanor towards Niccolò, a silent acknowledgment of his undertaking the duties she so readily delegated. Lorenzo merely rested his chin on a fist, staring at his mother’s retreating back, his expression unreadable. Niccolò had come only to retrieve a few more of Lorenzo’s belongings. To alleviate the tedium of convalescence. Nothing more, he had told himself. He, better than anyone, understood the soul-crushing boredom of a hospital room. He had known such confinement before, and thus, he knew precisely what Lorenzo might require. This was not sympathy, he had staunchly insisted to his own conscience. Nor was it affection. That day, instead of returning to his spartan rooms at the Academy, Niccolò had decided to commute from his childhood home. He made the necessary stop at the Moretti palazzetto. The grand house, ancient and silent, still offered him entry. But Vittoria, Lorenzo’s sister, did not. Leaning against the cool stone wall of Lorenzo’s deserted bedchamber, Vittoria asked, her voice dry as aged parchment: “Still hovering over Lorenzo, Master Moretti?” Frankly, Niccolò harbored no fondness for Vittoria. How could she neglect to visit the Sanatorium, not even once? Her own kin lay suffering. An instinctive sense of decorum made him silently judge her. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Not intentionally. The moment the thought surfaced, he clamped his jaw shut, stuffing more of Lorenzo’s treasured maps and sketchbooks into his satchel. “Yes.” “He truly is mad for you, isn’t he? That lunatic is utterly obsessed.” His hand froze. Niccolò turned, as if possessed. “...Obsessed with me?” “What, does that amuse you?” “I merely asked.” “No one merely asks, Master Moretti. You desired to know, so you sought the answer.” Repugnant. She muttered something under her breath, but Niccolò pretended not to hear. Still, she stepped closer, dismissing his presence entirely. The entire Moretti line, it seemed, possessed a peculiar talent for ignoring those they deemed beneath them. Vittoria, Lorenzo, even their father. “Tell me, where did you disappear to after your tutelage concluded?” “Yes.” The entire city, Niccolò suspected, already knew. “It’s not as if I sought the information. But Lorenzo… he threw a fit. That wretch, who never darkened a church door, suddenly began praying, then screaming. Not long after, he tore apart the rosary our father had gifted him and wailed, called God a mongrel, or some such heresy.” “A rosary?” “Indeed, that very thing. He treasured it, you understand? Said it was a token from the Duke. Then he barricaded himself in his room and refused to emerge. The house, for once, knew peace. He fails to comprehend who the true wretch is. Idiot.” Her voice, which had been mocking, suddenly lowered, probably at the sight of Niccolò’s expression. “What now? Your face is flushed.” “It is not.” “Nonsense. Do you truly… feel for him? You desire him?” “I said no.” “...Saints preserve us.” She gasped, covering her mouth as if horrified. “You are truly mad. Utterly.” Why did she persist when he had already denied it? Annoyed, Niccolò yanked the satchel’s zipper shut, the harsh sound echoing in the silent room. He wanted to cast his own judgment at her. “Why did you speak of such things to me? Your father claimed Lorenzo as his second son.” “What? What in the nine hells are you babbling about?” --- A True Contradiction. He understood the irony. Sandro, that perpetually irritating scholar, once remarked that Niccolò, despite his best efforts, always ended up performing acts of true compassion. Regardless of his stated intentions. But now, he had an excuse. The faint, brown scars that spread across Lorenzo’s back. Just as Lorenzo could not meet Niccolò’s gaze, Niccolò found himself unable to look upon those marks. “Niccolò.” “Yes.” “Then… may I believe in you?” His hoarse voice crept closer. Niccolò feigned indifference, but every nerve ending prickled. He listened. “What foolishness are you speaking?” “I will not desire you.” In that instant, Niccolò’s heart plummeted. His stomach twisted. Something tightened around his chest. He almost asked—without thinking—*Why not?* The words nearly escaped his lips, and he recognized the terrifying truth behind them. His own hidden thoughts, laid bare. *Niccolò, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, swallowing the question, pushing it down. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Then instead, I shall believe in you.” But Lorenzo’s words twisted into something else entirely. His voice, a strange blend of sorrow and elation. Like a supplicant receiving a revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this moment? Niccolò did not comprehend his words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not flee. The suffocating weight on his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced him. “I am an atheist now. Truly, you are far more essential to my life than that distant entity in the heavens.” “Silence, you blaspheme every single day.” “No, that is untrue! I was raised a devout believer, you know!” Lorenzo shook his hands frantically, as if his very life depended upon it. His tone—desperate, on the verge of tears. Were Niccolò to doubt him, he might truly weep. Caught off guard, Niccolò remained speechless. Then, as if he had reached a profound decision, Lorenzo slid suddenly from the bench and dropped to his knees. “Then I shall show you.” “Stop this. What are you doing?” A large hand clasped Niccolò’s foot. As he had been sitting with his legs propped, he slid forward, precariously balanced on the edge of the seat. His foot, suspended, was held firm. Lorenzo’s gaze fell upon the scar on the sole of Niccolò’s foot, a jagged mark left from shattered glass, a memento from an ill-fated cartographic expedition into Volterra’s older, crumbling districts. His brow furrowed. And to Niccolò’s disbelief, his eyes welled with tears. Niccolò recoiled in shock, attempting to yank his foot away. Before he could escape, Lorenzo bowed his head. “What in the—” “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Cold fingertips brushed Niccolò’s ankle. A sharp ache shot up his calf, deep into his stomach. What lunacy was this? He tried to free his foot, but his strength abandoned him. Lorenzo looked up once, his face utterly devoid of disgust. Like a true believer touching a sacred relic. “I greet the Lord.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Niccolò’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Niccolò’s ankle, a feather-light tickle. The gentle press of his lips rubbed against the base of Niccolò’s toes. “S-Stop it…” Niccolò threw an arm over his face. Lorenzo’s right hand tightened around his ankle. And in that moment, Niccolò ceased his struggle. Three weak fingers held him fast. A delicate, fragile grip tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that cursed God every day traced a path up his calf. And Niccolò did nothing to stop him. That was when he understood. This relentless, incurable malady—this nightmare of his youth, eternally entangled with Lorenzo—still was not over.

A Burden of Parchment and Blood