disclaimer: without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.
characters/pairings: Sebastian/Blaine, Quinn, Santana, Sebastian's mother
author's notes: written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: arranged marriage. i'm not generally in the habit of posting WIPs, but i wanted to get something posted closer to this Sunday than the next. i promise i'm working on the next parts! inspired by the mini series Kings, hence the story reads as set in modern times. title taken from Two Princes by Spin Doctors.
WHAT A PRINCE AND LOVER OUGHT TO BE;;
chapter one
Temperatures barely reach the high eighties that summer, a breeze rocking the leaves in the trees along Union Street. A car travels incognito towards Unity Hall, where the King confers with his Court and Parliament convenes to discuss matters of legislation. Inside the car sits Duke Landon Anderson, palms sweaty and heart racing a million miles an hour, set to meet with the monarch upon his arrival.
It isn't his proudest hour, he has only ever begged another man once before in his life, but this must be done. If he wishes to save his family from ruin, hold onto the wealth his own father worked so hard to garner, compromises must be made.
When met with the King and Queen, he begs for their favor–their borders have been under siege for months and he has run out of men to defend them. He fears for his family and his vassals should the enemy troops invade, for the trade routes running to and from the kingdom.
The King, realizing the Anderson duchy provides 20% of his kingdom's grain supply and the fruit for his beloved wine, agrees to a union between the lands. The Queen, arguably as powerful as her husband, inquires about his children, for a wedding could greatly solidify the bonds between their lands, not to mention distract the people from the devastation of war. The Duke answers his oldest son married years ago, and his youngest son, well, his preferences lie elsewhere.
This makes the Queen smile contently, and a wordless conversation transpires between King and Queen, for the Queen, too, has a son she had almost abandoned all hope for.
Because everyone in the Kingdom knows his name.
Sebastian Smythe.
The Party Prince.
.
War had reigned between the lands for as long as he can remember. They lay divided, small kingdoms bordered modest manors, which were divided into demesnes and dependent farmlands. Each battled for something, for the rights to their lands, more land and its natural resources, dominance, and none were exempt the violence and savagery that ensued.
Growing up at Court of one of these kingdoms Sebastian heard stories of brave soldiers leaving behind home and hearth and trekking towards the borders to defend their country, to fight in name of their king. Those men fascinated him, kept him up at night while he imagined man fighting the other, each with their own beliefs, but it's those beliefs that drove them. He often dreamed of going to war once he was old enough to join up.
His own father left for the beginnings of the war not long after he was born, serving under King Clarington, but lost his life two years in. He'd never met his father, but his mind painted him as a hero, brave and honorable, unafraid in the heat of battle.
As his father's closest friend and confidant, and a recent widower himself, the King soon married his mother, and adopted him as his own son so the rest of the Court would consider him equal to the King's true heir, Hunter. His mother became Queen and he became a prince, and it's all the life he's ever known.
He had his duties, banquets and public appearances, fancy parties and his sister's ballet recitals, he was expected by his father's side during inaugurations of ministers and church services. He started his military training at sixteen so he might join the war effort when he came of age, and in the public eye he acted the dutiful son. He had no complaints, he lived a privileged life while plenty of people lived in discontent, he had money and standing, and access to everything and everyone.
Unfortunately his mother loathed his single status and often scolded him for his less-than-subtle transgressions with boys when he went out partying. Because he didn't half-ass anything, when he partied he partied hard; alcohol, sex and drugs, and he'd featured in the gossip columns more than he could count. So it shouldn't have been a surprise, then, that she attempted to set him up the first chance she got.
She breaks the news to him the way she does everything: cordial and warm, but a firmness to her tone that signalled arguing with her would be futile; she made up her mind and he would do well to follow her commands.
Maybe deep down he knew this day would come, his lifestyle put him in the spotlight too much and if there was anything his mother hated it was bad press she couldn't bribe out of the papers–and when a Duke with a suitable match so conveniently showed up on their doorstep, well, who was she to say no?
"He's good-looking," his mother says, scanning over the pictures she'd caught him staring at on his computer. "Very photogenic."
"He's a saint." He slumps back in his chair, everything he's read about Blaine Anderson so far nothing but positive and charitable and almost too ridiculous to be true. "He gives to charity, volunteers at homeless shelters, reads to sick children?"
"It's for show, Sebastian." His mother squeezes his shoulders, hands smoothing down his arms before she kisses his hair. "You say 'I do', your father signs the contract and you consummate your marriage. You don't even have to go that far."
He blinks. "You and dad–"
"We developed a love and appreciation for each other," his mother answers. "Your father had his mistresses when he was younger. I had my lovers." She squeezes his shoulders once to emphasize what she's about to add, which means he better hear this clearer than anything else: "But discreetly."
She leaves the room and it goes quiet all around, her footsteps dying out down the hallway. He stares at an inanimate Blaine Anderson on his laptop screen, good-looking as his mother already pointed out, but good looks didn't guarantee an interested party.
He can hardly imagine Blaine's chomping at the bit to marry him.
.
Quinn Fabray, one of his mother's junior assistants, stands guard outside of Blaine's guest quarters–she's been showing him around and steering him clear of running into his future-to-be, so that the two of them won't meet until the day of the wedding. The rules were implemented decades ago when his great-grandfather rejected his bride at the first sight of her, and to avoid any future mishaps. Even though the advent of modern technology made it near impossible not to find information, the Court stood on ceremony and tradition, and the likelihood of him seeing Blaine before the wedding was slim.
But in his world rules were meant to be broken.
"Miss Fabray." He approaches the beautiful blonde with a smile–she visibly braces herself by straightening her shoulders, having dealt with his antics on more than one occasion. He's tried seducing her quite a few times as well, but had only been met with staunch rejection. "Might I have a moment with my betrothed?"
"You know the rules, sir," Quinn says, eyes darkening. "Not until the wedding."
"Quinn," comes his mother's voice, and it's truly remarkable how quickly Quinn schools her expression–no one goes against the Queen's wishes. Even he would scarce cross his mother. Quinn moves aside to let him pass and soon he pushes through the door to Blaine's temporary accommodations–an entire wing of the Royal Residence has been cleared for him and Blaine to move into after the wedding.
Blaine's being fitted for his tuxedo by one of the finest tailors in the country, preoccupied with studying his own reflection in one of the three mirrors surrounding him.
Both men glance up into the mirror upon his entering the room, Blaine breathing a hushed, "Sebastian," before he whirls around and steps off the stool the tailor had him stand on. Blaine stares at him the same way others do, in awe and with a tinge of fear. "I'm sorry," Blaine mutters, and greets him with a bow of his head.
He smiles and strides a few steps forward, while the tailor backs away from them. He reaches out a hand and curls his fingers under Blaine's chin. "You don't have to bow anymore, Blaine," he says. Blaine lifts his head again, blinking, and smiles nervously, a welcome sign that he's capable of loosening up. The hazel eyes that greet him are big and beautiful and easily compete with Quinn's. "That's better."
He smooths his thumb down Blaine's jaw line, feels him shiver at the touch, but he doesn't move an inch. Now that he's faced with the boy he's meant to marry for the good of the kingdom, he realizes they're in this together, they're both being forced into a union without knowing a thing about each other–and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved to get paired with a guy like Blaine Anderson. His pictures hadn't done him much justice; short curly hair and dark eyes, full lips that were made for doing all kinds of scandalous things, kissable collarbone revealed by the few buttons popped on his shirt, built a few inches shorter than him.
"We're not supposed to see each other before the wedding," Blaine says, eyes downcast, a soft blush coloring his cheekbones. "It's bad luck."
He grins. "I make my own luck."
Blaine looks up, but chooses not to comment.
"I'll let you get back to your grooming."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're too polite, Blaine." He chuckles softly, enamored rather than expectant of Blaine's impeccable manners. "It's Sebastian." He makes his way towards the door, turning one last time to add, "But if you ever call me 'love', 'honey' or 'sweetheart' I'll have you shot."
Shock freezes Blaine on the spot, confusion flashing through his eyes. He clucks his tongue, drawing a thumb over his bottom lip, highly amused by Blaine's reaction; he could get used to this innocent schoolboy thing.
"Blaine, relax," he says, hopefully soothing some of Blaine's reservations. "Soon all this will be yours too and there'll be nothing you need to worry about."
.
They get married in the largest Cathedral in the country's capital, paraded out in front of the news outlets, photographers and journalists covering the event, crowds roaring and fighting to the front for a peek at the royals.
The wedding celebration has the effect his mother intended–in a time of great turmoil the people often looked to the monarchy for answers or distractions, so the feast matches his own mother's wedding in grandeur, or so he's told. They pull out all the stops, the servants move like a trained army, distance between plates and glasses measured to the millimeter, extravagant flower arrangements and rose petals falling down the streets like rain.
Despite his experience with being in the spotlight he finds himself nervous, his skin crawls in anticipation of taking his vows, of binding himself to one person for the rest of his life, as far as the public's concerned. It's almost reassuring to see Blaine nervous too, rolling his shoulders more than once throughout the day, eyes skipping to faces he either recognizes or attempts to memorize, a small twitch to a corner of his mouth every now and then.
Blaine looks stunning in his tuxedo, tailored to fit, a bowtie that matches his own, and a smile that could light up the room. They've both been coached on what to do and what to say, but he admires Blaine's apparent ease–maybe he'd been prepared for this, or maybe he's that good an actor, either way he's impressed.
When their lips meet in a chaste kiss to seal their Sacrament and Blaine beams up at him as the cameras start flashing, he only sees a boy who's committing himself to this in earnest.
It would be a shame to not at least attempt to do the same.
.
The festivities last well into the night, and by the end of it he and Blaine must have been photographed from angles not even he could've thought up. Every minute of the day has been logged and written down, caught on camera and video phones, and he's suddenly grateful he doesn't live every second of his life under a magnifying glass. Even though it comes pretty close. Blaine took it all in stride, smiled at all the right times, polite to everyone who introduced themselves, by his side all day and all night.
And their night isn't over.
"You're stuck with me now, Anderson," he jokes as they make their way to the left wing of the residence, their new quarters ready and waiting for them. They're alone for the first time since Blaine came to the kingdom and he intends to make the most of it. He can't wait to see what hides beneath all his layers.
Blaine takes his hand and laces their fingers together. "There are worse people to be stuck with," he smiles, pushing through the doors of their bedroom. It's a modest room compared to his mother's lavish tastes, there's a large four-poster bed flanked by two large windows that reach from floor to ceiling, the room bathed in deep oaks and red colors.
"Do you like it?" he asks, peeling Blaine's jacket off his shoulders and tossing it over a nearby chair.
"I–" Blaine stutters, while he removes both their bowties as well. "Y-yes."
"Relax," he whispers low in Blaine's ear, and starts massaging at his shoulders, the tension leaving him little by little. Blaine turns around and reaches up a hesitant hand, curling around his neck. He doesn't waste any time; his lips find Blaine's like they had at the cathedral but their lips part simultaneously this time. He breathes into Blaine's mouth, tongue flicking against his lips as he backs them up towards the bed, Blaine's back hitting one of the bed posts.
"Sebastian–" Blaine whispers, still tense, but his hands roam over his body and he hisses a shiver when his lips venture down his neck, teeth scraping at his throat. "Hmm," Blaine hums, practically buzzing now, and shivers as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, his skin flushed beneath the white fabric.
"Sebastian, wait," Blaine hushes, eyes half-lidded.
He looks at Blaine, exposed and vulnerable. "Could you be–" he swallows hard, something almost wounded touching his eyes, "–gentle?"
He freezes and pulls back, searching Blaine's eyes for answers. Of course he can be gentle, he's not an animal, even if his reputation as a party boy might have suggested he liked it a little rougher from time to time. But why would Blaine assume he'd just have his way and not consider his pace?
The realization hits him square in the chest. "You're a virgin," he says, and doesn't need it confirmed by an almost imperceptible nod from Blaine. He takes a step back, reeling at the realization that Blaine has pledged himself to him completely, body and soul, and– If he'd known he would've handled this differently, he would've slowed down. "Shit, Blaine, I didn't know."
Blaine casts down his eyes. "We can't all be the most desired guy in the kingdom."
"I thought you–"
"We were both forced into this."
"I know, I meant–" He takes a deep breath, the silence stifling.
"You thought I'd want you," Blaine offers. "Like every other boy or girl who you've taken to bed." Blaine buttons up his shirt again as his hands shake and tears fill his eyes. "Yeah, you're hot, I won't deny that, but–"
"Why did you go along?" he asks, because Blaine had been open and receptive all day, he'd smiled and touched and kissed him, taken his hand. And he'd been fully willing to go to bed with him without revealing he'd never done so before.
Blaine frowns through his distress. "Because it's expected of me."
"Blaine, you're a prince now," he says, louder than he intended. "You're not my servant or my lover. We're equals," he presses. Blaine stares at him like no one's ever spoken to him like this before, like he's never had an equal and doesn't know how to account for one in a new relationship. How can he even think about having this boy right now, hurt and lonely, miles away from home, launched into a life he didn't choose.
"I won't make you if you're not ready."
Blaine wipes at his face. "Thank you."
He releases a breath, but doesn't know what else to say to put Blaine at ease. So he makes his way into the bathroom for a shower, snakes a hand around his hard-on and finishes himself off in a few long strokes, hoping fiercely that Blaine doesn't hear him.
Blaine's already in bed by the time he steps back into the bedroom, curled up under the sheets with his back turned to him.
He doesn't sleep, and neither does Blaine, their breathing erratic all through the night.
.
Of course, when he told Blaine I won't make you if you're not ready, he'd rather hoped there would come a time when Blaine would be ready. He'd agreed to this marriage because it was his duty and because despite the forced match he'd still get laid on a regular basis, however shallow that made him sound. But Blaine never so much as touches him.
They have breakfast with his mother, Hunter and their sister Marley every morning, his mother's attempt at involving Blaine in the conversation a futile one–Blaine will say one or two words, usually agreeing with his mother, and fall silent once more. At lunch, he sits with his father and his dignitaries and has no idea what Blaine gets up to, because when they have dinner, just the two of them per his mother's arrangement, Blaine has little or nothing to say.
He understands it's all new to Blaine, this life, this house, their marriage, but nothing in that boy loosens up, not with time, not with words, not even with Quinn's gentle coaxing. And he never learned how to do this either, be in the kind of relationship they're meant to be in, how to talk to someone so they could earn each other's trust and affection.
So the days go by, silent mornings fade into awkward attempts at small talk at the dinner table, and the only other interaction that follows is a "Good night," before one of them goes to bed.
Most nights, Blaine doesn't sleep. For a time he's convinced Blaine didn't need sleep because he caught his uneven breathing in his own moments of wakefulness. But sometimes, towards early morning, he'd catch Blaine with his eyes closed, breathing serenely and unguarded for what seems like the first time in ages.
And he can't help but wonder what his prince dreams about.
.
Two weeks pass and nothing changes, much to the detriment of his mood, the servants, and his personal assistant, Santana Lopez. According to her he's barely tolerable on his best days, and his mood keeps sinking the longer Blaine keeps hiding behind his walls, pulls away every time he tries to move a little closer.
"What am I supposed to do?" he shouts, dragging a hand back and forth through his hair, scaring the servants out of the room. "I am trying, but I can't keep jerking off in the shower every night."
"Your needs can be seen to, sir," Santana answers, eyeing him in such a way that makes him feel it even more. He has needs beyond the drugs and alcohol, he likes to go out and have a good time, throw his royal status off his shoulders and forget who he is in the arms of an all too willing participant–maybe he doesn't even want Blaine, he'd only remind him of his title, but he'd tried to be respectful as his mother had requested. They were married, for God's sake, and Blaine couldn't so much as give him the light of day.
He sighs. "Forget it."
.
A few days later he's called away for a field training exercise with his platoon, and he spends the better part of a week getting his mind off things. His platoon bests the others without breaking a sweat and the whole camp throws them a party at the end of training. There's booze and music and female entertainment for those interested, and he's none too shy to dance with any of them.
He drinks more than he should, but then so do all his fellow soldiers, and finds his way into another recruit's tent at the end of the night, not for the first time since he started his training almost two years ago. His security team stands guard outside, while inside a hot mouth sinks down around his cock, a heat he's longed for curling down his spine, a steady pressure building up in his groin as the blond bobs his head up and down, sucking hard and long around the head of his cock.
"Stop," he commands, and sits up, tastes himself in the other man's mouth, his tongue exploring for long agonizing minutes. Soon he has the other begging on his hands and knees, spreads him open with his fingers before driving his cock inside, their sweat-covered bodies sliding together fast, then slow, before he picks up a faster rhythm again. He takes his sweet time, relishing in the feel of a warm body willingly moving with his.
"Aren't you supposed to be lovingly married?" Jeff asks much later, pushing a kiss to his shoulder before stealing the joint from between his lips.
"I am," –he breathes out a cloud of smoke– "as far as anyone's concerned."
.
He comes home in the middle of the night the next day, much earlier than planned. Blaine's already in bed, sleeping for a change, and he's sore in too many places not to join him. He changes into a pair of slacks and pulls back the covers, Blaine jerking violently.
"Sorry," he whispers, sliding slowly underneath the sheets, and receives no further complaints. He lies back, closing his eyes, until the bed shakes with another jerk of Blaine's body. Whatever's going on, he's not the cause of it. He looks to his right, Blaine's sleeping form a dark heap barely visible in the moonlight seeping in through the windows, but Blaine's head tosses and turns in his pillow.
"No," Blaine whines, curling tighter into himself, and he realizes only then that Blaine's still asleep. "Rachel," Blaine cries, and something clenches in his chest at the childlike helpless sound.
He turns and scoots closer to Blaine, drawn towards the scared boy in his bed–is this why Blaine fails to sleep so many nights? Does he wish to avoid whatever monsters live in his dreams? He carefully places a hand on Blaine's shoulder, sliding it down the length of his arm to gauge his reaction, but Blaine seems to relax.
"Rachel, no," Blaine whimpers, just as he slips an arm around Blaine's waist, curling his body around the shorter boy's. Blaine feels warm and sweaty, but he pushes back into his body, which gives him all the more reason to stay put. It takes several minutes, but eventually his breathing evens out, and he doesn't make a fuss for the rest of the night.
His own dreams are plagued with naked bodies of boys that bring him no release, that leave him empty and cold inside, every kiss tastes like ashes, every touch coarse against his skin.
When he wakes in the morning Blaine's no longer in his arms, but sitting at the edge of the bed.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, rubbing at his eyes.
"You didn't have to do that," comes the only reply, soft, vulnerable, but grateful.
He leans up on an elbow, tempted to run his fingers down Blaine's spine. "Talk to me," he asks instead.
Blaine takes a deep breath and releases it again. "Thank you for what you did," he says softly, but gets up and disappears into the bathroom without saying anything more.
.
Nothing much changes, if anything Blaine tries harder to hide his nightmares, often sneaking out of their bedroom to sleep somewhere else, or to forego sleep altogether.
.
From then on his needs are seen to discreetly. He's snuck out of the residence by his closest trustees, a handful of people his mother and father agreed would answer to him alone and keep his secrets at all costs, and delivered him to a private flat he often used for his casual affairs.
He no longer goes out partying, but the boys are brought to him. They're caught on camera by his staff, where they state their names and swear they're there willingly, and find their way into his bed, where he ravages them, sometimes several times, searches for intimacy where there's none to be found.
It loses its appeal, his lifestyle was never about sneaking around and doing things he wasn't supposed to, he never got off on deceit or sticking it to the established order. It was only ever about shucking off his title, being someone else for a change because being a prince took a terrible toll.
.
He and Blaine only ever act the happy couple at public events. They hold hands and share smiles, feign happiness like they've been doing it for years, and he's still impressed by Blaine's acting skills. Looking at him during his parents' fifteenth wedding anniversary even he could be fooled into thinking they have a happy marriage, that they kiss each other good morning and goodnight, that they actually communicate on a regular basis and know each other intimately.
Blaine adjusts his tie whenever there are cameras watching, smooths a hand down his chest and grabs for his hand when the King narrates a beautiful speech about lasting love and trust. They share a kiss outside and the entire country cheers, their two princes the pinnacle of young love that will grow into something deeper.
But nothing could be further from the truth.
As soon as the limousine leaves the press' line of sight the pleasantries end, Blaine stares out of the window for the rest of the drive and doesn't talk to him. The same silence reigns as they make their way to their quarters and enter the bedroom, where Blaine starts stripping out of his suit.
And he loses it.
"What is your problem?"
Blaine blinks. "My problem?"
"You were all over me all night and now–"
"Jesus Christ, Sebastian, you really are clueless, aren't you?" Blaine says. "You spend most of your nights in someone else's bed, you haven't even taken the time to learn anything about me, and you expect me to what? Spread my legs and beg you to take me?"
"That's not fair. I tried, Blaine, but you–" He takes a deep breath, aware that his meaning got misconstrued–he has no intention of coaxing Blaine into his bed, he's accepted that as something Blaine can't give him for whatever reason and he would never take that unless Blaine wanted him to, but Blaine won't budge, won't give him an inch of breathing room to even try and get closer. He knows nothing about Blaine beyond what his Google search had provided, and Blaine hasn't made any attempt to change that. Blaine's as much to blame in all this as he is.
"You agreed to marry me," he says, hands balling into fists, anger constricting his lungs.
"I didn't have a choice!" Blaine shouts. "It was marrying you or condemning my family. That's not a choice, Sebastian, that's–" Blaine takes a breath and turns his back on him, reluctant to speak his own mind too blatantly.
"A life sentence," he provides, because that's how it feels now, like he drags a ball and chains around with him wherever he goes, a constant reminder than the life he had was out of his reach forever.
"That's one way of putting it."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Blaine sighs. "We both did what we had to do. We have to make the best of it."
"How?" he asks.
Blaine twists on his heels in one smooth move like he asked the strangest question known to man. And Blaine must see, he's not blind to his pain, he understands that he struggles with this new life and his nightmares on top of that, he realizes he might not be the man Blaine expected, but this is all the man he knows how to be.
"You're not happy."
He moves a step closer, but watches Blaine retreat back behind his walls, his eyes averted once more. "You hardly sleep and when you do? You have nightmares that scare the crap out of me."
Blaine shakes his head. "Those have nothing to do with you."
That's all Blaine says, all he ever learns–he's not at fault, he gets to take what he wants, he committed to a sham of a marriage and a boy who refuses to be with him.
.
He falls back into old habits. If Blaine refuses to follow his own advice in getting to know him better he doesn't see why he should be the one to put in all the effort. He brings the parties to him rather than seek them out, he goes back to his drugs and alcohol and sloppy but satisfying hook-ups at the end of the night, taking guys to bed whose names only the camera learns, but there's worship in their fingertips, care in their kisses and an awe in the desire they share he craves above all else.
Blaine knows, sees him stumble into bed in the early morning hours often enough to put two and two together, smells the alcohol and sex on him because he can't bother to shower until he's slept off his hangover. Blaine never says anything, in fact he seems content that they no longer have to spend their nights in the same bed or avoid seeing each other at the breakfast table. And he often skips dinner to get an early start.
It's like they have the unspoken agreement that this can be their relationship for the foreseeable future. They were both forced into this and tried to make the best of it, so if Blaine craved solitude and he wanted his needs sated, then, well, this would do. To the outside world they were the happy newlyweds whose union brought a new prosperity to the kingdom, and indoors they were two people, living their lives, separately.
.
It almost stood to reason that after four months of this, he'd be the one to mess it all up.
They sneak into the residence through one of the servants' entrances, falling over their own feet, fingers loose to lips, hushing, "Shhh," as they stumbled their way to the left wing of the house. His partner-in-crime, James, or Jamal, whatever, sways against his body, their blood alcohol content dangerously high because his vision has blurred, and yet he'd managed to shake off his security detail.
He's not sure what he hoped to accomplish, but the idea of getting off in one of the other bedrooms of his new abode while his faithful husband lay sleeping in their shared bedroom seemed kind of hot. He'd have to keep Jamie, Jack, who knew, quiet, a hand over his mouth while he pounded into him, his own moans held back at the back of his throat, straining, wanting, anticipating getting caught at any second.
But they never make it into any bedroom.
Considering the amount of times Blaine had failed to sleep in their bedroom, he could've guessed he'd still be up, but he hadn't counted on finding him in the salon, reading quietly under soft guard of a single night light.
"Sebastian?" Blaine startles as he trips into the parlor, hand locked firmly in, Jacques'?
"Hello, love." His partner giggles and he barely holds back laughter. "Don't mind us, we're just looking for a quiet place to do our thing."
For a moment or two he's invincible, he's convinced Blaine will accept this as part of their agreement and quietly retreat for the night. What he hadn't expected was the anger that flares in Blaine's eyes, pure unadulterated anger and disappointment he'd only ever seen in his parents' eyes before. And it turns his blood into ice.
"Guards!" Blaine calls, and shoots up from the sofa, two guards soon filing into the room behind him. Blaine points at his date. "Get him out of here."
"Belay that order!" He raises a finger at Blaine, unstable on his feet. "You don't have that authority."
"Yes, he does," an all too familiar voice sounds. He releases a shaky breath and turns around, face-to-face with the woman who'd made him swear to act discreetly. His mother smiles at the two guards, "Make sure this young man gets home safe," she says, and nods at Blaine.
His breathing deepens realizing the depth of his transgression. It was one thing to tempt Blaine's wrath, he had no idea how the boy would react to this, but his mother would not let this go. One way or the other, he was in bigger trouble than he'd ever been, and he didn't dare to think about what his punishment might be.
"I see you made friends with my mother," he says, voice shaking around a new kind of fear.
"She knows what it's been like for me."
He turns to face Blaine, his husband, who just witnessed exactly what depravity he's capable off. "What do you want me to do, Blaine?" he asks, utterly defeated. "I'm not like you, I don't do celibacy."
How Blaine remains so calm he can only guess, but when he speaks again his words come slow and calculated, laced with a defeat similar to the one he's experiencing. "I'm not asking you to," he says. "Sleep with whoever you want. But not under this roof."
"I don't get told what to do." He grits his teeth together, a rebellious streak he never learned to control. "I'm a prince."
"So am I," Blaine retorts. "I'm your husband. And I deserve your respect."
Yes, he thinks, Blaine does deserve his respect, though at times he wishes Blaine would throw his manners out the window, shout at him just so he could get a peek inside and ascertain what he wants.
Blaine leaves the room, and he drops into the sofa, left utterly alone. Again.
#
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