He still remembered it vividly, though he suspected the memory was composed as much of nightmares as reality. The water, impossibly cold, dragging at him, splashing over his face when he had been able to keep his head above it. He'd never been so terrified, before or since.
Then Marcello had caught him, dragged him out by the back of his shirt like a half-drowned puppy, and picked him up. "Goddess, you can't swim?" He'd sounded more disgusted than worried, but had nonetheless allowed Angelo to cling to him and cry and cough up water on his shoulder while he carried him to the healer. Angelo only vaguely remembered the buzz of worried voices, questioning, but he did remember Marcello's answers, "He fell in the moat...no, apparently he can't...I've got him...I'm already wet, I may as well...no, I've got him, we're fine...," and Marcello's hand on his back.
Angelo had forgiven him for the casual shove into the water before they'd even reached the healer.
Now, he guessed Marcello had just wanted to be there when the healer spoke to him, and make sure he didn't tell them what actually happened. Then, he had dared to hope Marcello actually cared about him, had clung stubbornly to that hope in spite of everything else Marcello had done.
He wasn't sure he wanted to trust Marcello like that again.
He wasn't sure he could stop himself, either.
