author's notes: written for Seblaine Week 2017, Day 7: royalty au.
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Someone Else's Prince
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"I don't want it," Sebastian mumbles, stumbling unevenly into the bedroom his bodyguards usher him into; the tips of his toes graze along the deep red carpeting, weight divided between the two strong bodies carrying him, one to his left and one to his right, his head lolling back and forth.
With the window open, moonlight has forced most of the darkness from the room, falling in at a perfect 45° angle, the wind making the dark satin of the canopy bed swell as if it's a black sea before the coming of a storm.
"Leave him on the bed," a voice commands, his trusted Chief of Security following behind, "I'll take it from here," and Sebastian can't help the rebellious smile of old that threatens his composure. It's not often they're spared time alone, or either of them seeks it out anymore, but tonight, perhaps –only– tonight, the stage can be theirs.
Body lowered to the bed below he lies down on his back, mind swimming from the velvet red wine poured exorbitantly over the course of the night, a boisterous banquet thrown in celebration of his father's thirtieth year on the throne.
His thirtieth year wearing that crown.
Doors clicking to a close, he calls out, "Blaine," before he's willed his lips to move, stretching a hand out into what little darkness the room still holds, to a figure in the shadows he sees crystal clear nonetheless; he likes it there, his protector, cloaked in the shade of night and secrets, all in the service of keeping him safe.
Much to his surprise, Blaine heeds his call.
His hand falls to the bed, all too aware Blaine won't take it, and for the moment he won't push his luck; Blaine could call in servants or one of the chambermaids, but to his delight the soldier chooses a different option. Kneeling at his feet, Blaine first takes off his left shoe, then his right, soon joining the other perpendicular to the foot of the bed.
He sits up, room spinning around him, and kicks at both shoes, and when Blaine moves to retrieve them, poised with patience, he sticks out a leg, stopping him in his tracks. It's more obstinate than he cares for, and does not get his message across.
Blaine releases a calm even breath. "You're being childish."
No formalities. No protocol. For the first time in forever, Blaine calls it like it is; it's not his usual manner, but he'd seen something unwind in his friend tonight. He'd laughed and cheered, even danced with his sisters at their request, and each time their eyes met through the crowd they'd lingered a little too long, somewhat too noticeable out in the open like that. It can't have been the wine, Blaine hasn't partaken in those simple pleasures for several years, but perhaps it'd been that same indecipherable thing that simmered in him now.
He huffs, "And you're spoiling my fun", falling back onto the bed.
Sleep tugs at his body, yet it isn't strong enough to whisk him into unconsciousness, the breeze of a temperate summer night awakening other senses.
Next, Blaine's fingers are at his belt, detaching the ceremonial blade he'd carried all night in honor of his father's military history, now gently replaced in its usual resting place, hung on one of the walls of his chambers. Blaine reveres that history far more than he does, having trained in the army, while he can't so much as bring himself to care. Why would he, when he'd never be in any danger? Other men would die for him as he commands them into battle; he'll sit safe within the confines of his encampment, like this father, and his grandmother before him.
"Easy, soldier," he cautions without any true meaning behind it, as Blaine unbuckles his belt and pulls it free.
Sadly, his words don't elicit a response. Was it really that long ago, he wonders, that Blaine listened to his every word, the ones he shouted and the ones he whispered low in his ear, the ones he hid away inside the pores of his skin telling of each transgressions of their youth? Had it been so easy for Blaine to hide that all behind the uniform? Growing up at court had afforded Blaine a great many opportunities, but none brought him greater happiness than the days and nights they spent in each other's company.
So he'd believed anyway.
Ever since Blaine donned that uniform, it's become so hard to read him.
The boy he once raced up and down these very halls left for the Academy and came back a man, one he scarcely recognized at first; gone were Blaine's thick black curls he liked splayed between his fingers, the lively colors he used to dress in, and up until tonight that boyish grin had gone too, along with any delusions of what they shared. It's true that Blaine held the monarchy in high esteem, dedicated his life to serve and protect the royal family, but why did that have to come at the expense of what they had?
Those times in the dark of night when they lay whispering each other's names, touched at skin heated by passion and lust, but, above all, their implicit love for each other. Blaine promised him his heart, and he'd gift Blaine the world, his kingdom, his crown if he so pleased.
Where had that boy gone? Where had that promise gone?
Son to one of his father's advisors and his mother's housekeepers, Blaine grew up in the same rooms he did, and had been considered one of the few suitable playmates for a crown prince — Blaine knew the ins and outs of the palace, understood his place in its hierarchy, and, most importantly, never put his needs before that of the kingdom. As someone afforded every luxury, he'd been drawn to Blaine's quiet composure, his withholdenness, his grace, his insistence on following the rules.
It hadn't taken them long to start breaking a few of those rules together, stealing desserts from the kitchen to eat in their secret hide-out in the garden, sneaking away from banquets to play soldiers in the bedrooms with sticks they fashioned into swords, but even in their calmer moments they were inseparable; studying together in the library, reading to each other by the fire.
Laying side by side in the grass as dusk set in, one star at a time appearing in the night sky, Blaine eyes becoming ever brighter.
At fifteen, that's where Blaine kissed him for the first time, leaned in hesitantly with a faint blush in his cheeks, and brought their lips together. His reciprocation came equally hesitant, the first brush of their lips more breath than touch, because his feelings for Blaine had been confusing for long enough to make him question the very fabric of reality.
But he hadn't longed for any other lips since.
"Help me out of this thing."
He sits up grumbling, pained by his whimsical memories, alighting one after the other with Blaine so close, and pulls helplessly at the sleeves of his tunic. His mother had insisted on the formal wear, even though it'd seemed more like a thin excuse to dress the twins in the frilly frocks they loved so much, and the fabric scratches harsh at his skin now, dividing his mood unevenly between pleasantly drunk and angry in hindsight.
Blaine steps forward and gives him a hand, helping him out of the offending garment, and as soon as he's pulled free his hands move of their own accord, fingertips touching to Blaine's jawline, a careful caress up his cheeks until those luscious curls slip between his fingers again — like those nights by the fire and Blaine lay with his head in his lap and he carded his fingers through his hair, watching him slowly fall asleep. Like those rare days in the cabin in the woods after a day of hunting, and they'd sink into the heavy copper bathtub together, Blaine stilling in his arms as he shampooed his hair.
"I don't want it," he whispers, somewhere close to Blaine's ear, and feels the soldier shiver.
But it's not like it used to be; Blaine's still quiet and withholden, graceful, but grants him such little warmth whenever he does get closer. Now, Blaine slowly disentangled from his hold, however reluctant, and hums, "What is it you don't want, Sire?"
"My crown," he hisses, and curls a hand around Blaine's neck as if some petulant child, but it's the final insult added to his injury, that final word right there, that title, that sobers him up entirely. How dare he, he thinks, why does Blaine insist on making his place known when he couldn't care less about his inheritance?
"I don't want it. I want you."
Could he not join Blaine in the shadows, walk away from all of this and let some other misguided fool take his place? Why should he have to carry all of this by himself — a kingdom, a crown, a life in the spotlights?
"Sebastian." Blaine's hands grab around his wrists, trying to break free. "You know we can't."
"Why not?" he demands. Had he made the mistake of not fighting for them? Had he complied with the kingdom's inherit demands that he not be this, a lovesick fool for another man, and abandoned Blaine to fend for himself? Was that his mistake? He never wanted it to be like this; if his sisters hadn't caught them they'd still be in the shadows together, hiding, and not under the entire court's constant scrutiny. Yet he is crown prince, heir to the throne, shouldn't he be able to have what he wants?
He chases Blaine's lips and he can tell it takes the soldier all his strength to resist him.
"Why can't we?" he whispers.
"You'll be King one day."
Like that, his hands fall away and he turns his head, even as Blaine settles next to him on the bed, the accusation too deafening, a scream into the deep abyss heard by them alone. It sounds almost like one of his sisters' fairy tales; he the Prince, Blaine the commoner, falling in love within the confines of a world where their love's forbidden. As of yet he can't see this story having a happy ending. Stories don't have scenes where lovers cry, where one leaves for military training, where one demands a promise the other could impossibly keep.
"We can't," Blaine cried, choking back sobs, tears streaming down his face like wild untamed rivers. He drew closer on instinct, folded his arms around the boy who's stood by him his entire life and pulled him into his chest, cradling him there in the hopes of taking some of his pain.
Their pain.
They'd been careless, too caught up in their love affair to notice the twins spying on them, and before they knew what happened the gossip spread throughout the entire palace; they'd been called before his father not long after and reprimanded for their shame, and had both stood helpless in the face of it. What could they do, what could they say, to make this all better?
Nothing. Because nothing could erase the way they felt about each other.
His father ordered them to stop their foolish pursuits, but he decided he couldn't, he wouldn't, not ever. If he had to he'd give it all up — his crown, his luxury, his life at court, if it meant he could be with Blaine.
"Sebastian" –Blaine shook his head– "I love you more than anything, but they'll never let us be together."
If he didn't feel Blaine's pain already he definitely did now, Blaine's fingers digging hard along his waist, as if trying to hold onto the remnants of what his father meant to shatter — he'd fallen on the side of anger.
"I can make them." He licked over his teeth. "I can order them–"
When he is King, should the people not love him? Should they not follow him without question, without reserve? Why should his love for Blaine be considered weakness?
"To set aside their prejudice?" Blaine asks. "They'll never accept us, Sebastian. Never."
"Then–"
His mouth went dry, his inability to fix this paralyzing. Now that the time had come, and his choices were achingly apparent, he couldn't see the path ahead. He was raised to be King, to lead the people, to put his people's needs before his own, but did that mean he had to be miserable? Did that mean he had to sacrifice his own happiness?
"What are we supposed to do?"
"I'll leave court." Blaine shrugged. "I'll–"
"No," he decreed indignantly, and reached forward, hands on Blaine's face and lips half an inch from his. "You can't leave me."
Even if it was a solution, some last-ditch effort at complying with his father's wishes he wouldn't stand for it. Why were their desires forfeit? Why should he give up the one person who was more than just a lover, more than just a friend? Blaine had always been there, without fail, through all the good and all the bad.
"I can't do this without you."
In Blaine's eyes he recognized his own torment, ripping through his chest, a helplessness born from duty; was he wrong, asking this of Blaine?
Blaine nodded. "Okay."
"Promise me."
"Of course," Blaine hushed, and his eyes shone with tears as well as the memories of countless of night spent beneath the stars. "I promise."
"I knew you once," he muses, and strokes trembling fingertips along Blaine temple, down his cheek, struck by how pale he looks in the moonlight, how easily he could merge back into the background and he might not even notice.
"You–" Blaine swallows thickly, his eyes alight with fresh pain while he resents their proximity — because if he can't have Blaine why should he have to withstand this temptation? If he lost Blaine to social convention, why can't he disappear altogether?
Closing his eyes, he nonetheless cherishes Blaine's hesitation, a last trace of what they shared, and he's overcome by the thought of his sole complicity, of his single sin.
He never fought for them.
He never fought for Blaine.
He's kept them both prisoner inside this palace without any hope of freedom, and that captivity forced Blaine to change — all so he could bear it, so he could carry the crown with him.
"No," he breathes, voice heavy with tears pushing against the inside of his eyelids.
What was it all for? What is a king without any love in his heart?
"Sebastian," Blaine calls, possibly even softer, and he opens his eyes to find Blaine closer, his heart parallel to his. It cascades through him like the initial rumblings of a storm, how badly he still wants Blaine, and goosebumps rise along his spine. Could it be, that just for tonight, the stage can be theirs?
"You still do," Blaine whispers, as a tear rolls down his cheek. He wishes they were younger still, back in the cabin in the woods, or the grass of their secret hide-out, and their responsibilities were far-off weights they needn't worry about.
And then it happens not unlike the first time; the first touch of their lips is more breath than touch, hesitant and doused with inexperience, like they've unlearned this in the time they've spent apart — all lips and fearful breathing, his heart starting the high winds.
"Blaine–"
He tries to pull back, even though his body quivers with a longing they've denied themselves for too long, and it's Blaine who sets him free. "I'm still yours," he mutters, and kisses him in earnest, shifts closer on the bed and brings their bodies together.
There's a voice in his head that's telling him not to do this, that's convinced this will only get him hurt again and make it that much harder to recover this time around — but there's a younger version of him steering his actions, whose muscle memory is so strong he can't help but kiss Blaine back, lets him get in "Sebastian," and "I'm–" and then with a sigh, "Always," before their surrender reaches its final stage.
He tugs at Blaine's tie and it gives way easily, as does his jacket and his khaki shirt.
Blaine lies back on the bed and he captures his lips hovering over him, tongue licking inside his mouth — it's an act of fighting for their freedom as well as abdication, offense as much as it's them waving the white flag, their bodies inscribed with a past they haven't escaped and a present they're trying to.
There's no lust behind any of their actions, the teeth behind Blaine's ear or the nails that Blaine digs into the small of his back, the tilt of his hips as he moves inside Blaine — Blaine gasps and meets his moves and never once loses sight of him, their bodies synchronous yet lazy, and he shudders at the passion coursing through their veins.
"I love you," he whispers, and sinks down over Blaine's body.
Sometime later, could be minutes, could be hours, both bathed in nothing but the moonlight, he's finally brave enough to ask, "Did I do this to us?" and caresses down Blaine's shoulder as if trying to memorize its texture. There's no guarantee this will happen again, however much he'd like it to, and he wants it imprinted all over his skin.
Blaine's head rises, and their eyes meet, and there it is, quite unexpectedly at a corner of his mouth; that boyish smile. How he's missed it, he thinks, and thumbs over it as if trying to surmise its validity.
"Did you make us fall in love?" Blaine asks, chin at his sternum, warm in his embrace.
"That's not what I meant."
For a moment or two their shackles feel too heavy, too unbearable, and he wonders if their childhood swords could cut them in half — they're not boys anymore, not those boys anyway, but something of them must still be there. What they had was real, it is real, and no amount of decorum or military training can erase that.
Blaine leans up. "I want to be here, Sebastian. I always have."
"But" –He tugs at Blaine's curls helplessly– "the Academy."
"I thought–" Blaine casts down his eyes. "I thought you knew."
Know? Know what? From one day to the next Blaine disappeared; no note, no goodbye, and for all he knew he'd never return. He'd come back eight months later in that uniform in his newly appointed position as Chief of Security and nothing had been the same since. Having Blaine at his beck and call wasn't like having him in his arms, nor had Blaine's obedience ever been on his wishlist. For almost a year now, his heart slugged broken inside his chest without any hope of repair.
"I needed a reason to be by your side, Sebastian." Blaine sits up, as if answering in any other position would be undignified. "I couldn't just–"
"Blaine," he says, for no other reason than to reassure him that he's listening. Of course Blaine would think he needed to change; no longer the boy deemed appropriate, but rather a thorn in his father's side became someone indispensable with regards to his protection.
"I would never ask you to give up your crown. It's your destiny."
Destiny. That's right. Even after everything he'd have a hard time relinquishing his birthright; it's all he was ever taught, and like Blaine, he's always known his place. For him it just happens to be the highest one. So, yes, he does consider the weight of the crown his destiny, even if it means little without Blaine by his side.
Lying back against the pillows, the evening breeze traipsing over him like the coming tide, he forgives himself. He forgives the part of him that thought he forced a promise on Blaine, when he's known all along that Blaine –like the crown– was his. Always. Implicitly. His. But while the most important parts of him belong to Blaine as well; his heart, his soul, his body, there's a part of him that isn't his or Blaine's.
Something Blaine has always known.
He belongs to the people, too.
Blaine gets up and dresses, and he wonders idly if this will happen again, if they'll find more stolen moments like these, if they'll risk everything all over again like they hadn't been aware they were before.
Maybe they'll find some other way.
"We should go hunting again, sometime," Blaine's voice sounds in the dark of the room, and soon it's the soldier that reappears from the shadows. Composed. Withholden. But with a glint in his eye telling of their transgression.
He smiles, mind swimming with memories. "I'd like that."
Then, Blaine leans in one final time and brings their lips together in a kiss; a kiss where the sun can't reach, hidden in the fabric of a world they've both come to understand far too well. One kiss, to unlearn, if but for a moment, their true places.
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