A/N: Times are hectic, readers. Time is scarce and energy is even more so. I'm surprised this ever accumulated into a full chapter at all, with my schedule. I'm terribly sorry if this isn't progressing as quickly as you hoped it would, because that is certainly the case for me.

Also, I wanted to clear up a common misconception I've been hearing quite frequently with regard to Embers:

Kurt is of noble descent, and is a lordin his Kingdom, but he is not a Prince. Blaine, however, is the son of the current reigning King and is a Prince. Noblemen and women are eligible to marry into royalty, but they remain below them on the hierarchy otherwise.

Also, 98 reviews. I'm about to cry with blatant joy. Thank you for sticking with me. 3


They stay like that until the tears and hiccups subside. Kurt feels like a child, being comforted and cradled in unfamiliar yet reassuring arms. Solid, sure, firm arms that hold him tight as the last dregs of tears are squeezed from his drying eyes. The fabric of Blaine's shirt is patched with wet spots, but he shows no sign of bother, and to be honest, Kurt's reluctant to move. He feels weak, drained, and it seems all he can do is curl his fingers slightly around Blaine's back to resemble a poor excuse for a hug. His breathing, though still shaky, eventually tapers out and evens as the night becomes quiet again except for the sound of their breaths in the barn.

Kurt's thoughts begin to reorder themselves as his rationality returns, but he tries to delay any real thought for as long as he can while he revels in the heat of another body being pressed tightly against his. Soon it is calm, and he is simply being held in the close embrace of an unlikely friend. That is what he has deduced this to be, and of this he is certain. Blaine's warmth seeps through his tunic into Kurt's cheek, chest, and arms, enclosing him in a little human alcove of ease and solace. He turns his face further into the Prince's chest, allowing to kid himself for only a moment that the friendly gesture may have been founded from a fonder place.

Before long, Kurt begins to feel that he has been held for too long and begins to pull away from contact; a little surprised to feel that Blaine's movements are reluctant. He sits cross-legged across from Blaine once more, gazing down at his open palms.

"I'm s-sorry t-to have b-been so foolish."

"You needn't apologize for something like that," the Prince assures, smiling ever-so-gracefully.

The moment that follows is silent; the static electricity in the air tangible and startling on their skin. There is only a beat skipped when a hand slips into his and they are connected once more. The act is gentle, tender and altogether not a thing that mere comrades would do. Hugging was one thing, holding hands was an entirely different package altogether.

The initial shock of the action had worn off when Kurt realized that once again, Blaine was breaching levels of intimacy he'd long forgotten and found him more than welcome to do so. Kurt has had enough of wondering why him? Tonight, so he gives in to his screaming heart that palpitates just slightly when Blaine squeezes his fingers, happy that that Kurt didn't pull away. But just as Kurt was ready to drop the question, Blaine was just about ready to finally pick it up.

Blaine had brought something with him in his saddlebag. Tonight had an eventful agenda; one he had decided was long overdue. He was killing two birds with one stone tonight- it had been weeks and weeks of visits and Blaine's time in Villon was becoming extraneous.

"...I did come here with more purpose tonight."

Kurt looks up to see soft eyes framed by a slightly lilted angle of dark lashes, looking at Kurt as if he was the only man alive. His cheeks alight at the tender gaze but he does not trust himself to speak, and so he only squeezes his hand lightly to prompt him further.

The Prince effortlessly scoops Kurt's other hand into his, holding both their hands up between them as a man would do to his maiden. He looks at Kurt earnestly, uncertainly as he presses a tentative, chaste kiss onto the knuckles of his right hand; then his left.

It's the second time Kurt's brain short circuits that night. The thick, very unsubtle line between friendship and courtship had been purposely and conspicuously crossed in a matter of seconds.

It was common knowledge throughout the land that a kiss on both knuckles was a request for courtship.

"Would you, Lord Kurt Hummel of Villon," he breathes, "accompany me as my partner to the Noblemen's Ball come this week-end?"

Kurt is certain that his impression of a cod is positively laughable right now, as his jaw has unhinged as the Prince of Gaveston, the very same who has just asked for his hand in courtship, watches him with open, amber eyes as he waits for his response. The fish out of water simply gawps at their joined hands, unable to fully process the indications of his actions.

He realises he must have kept silent for too long when Blaine finally lowers their hands, looking defeated though valiantly trying to hide it.

"I... understand that you may not... enjoy the company of men, as I do, but I simply had to try," he says. He is sad-sounding and his head is certainly not held as high as it was before. "I'm sorry if I'm overstepping."

You are, Kurt thinks, but of course, that never gets said aloud, because Kurt's tongue is lead in his mouth and his hands feel like clumps of ice at the end of his wrists. The nerves in his head are sparking off at the speed of light, desperately searching for reaction, anything, anything at all to somehow piece his frenzied mind back in order. The only nerve impulse that makes it is the one to his neck, causing him to shake his head once, very slightly, as his jaw remained slack and slightly agape.

The tiny gesture feels like a sledgehammer in his chest. The ever-growing lump in his throat rises uncomfortably as the full extent of rejection settles in his gut. His brow is a little wet from nervousness despite the night chill and his face is burning in embarrassment. He's grateful for the dim lighting because Kurt won't be able to see the full extent of humiliation registering on his face, which had always let on more emotion than he meant.

Maybe it's because he's the Prince, or maybe it's just because of Kurt, but Blaine hadn't expected it to hurt so much. He acted upon a silly little crush he'd developed on a man- a boy- that had unbeknownst to him had saved his life, and he ended up shooting an arrow into his own foot. But Kurt seemed so fragile, so gentle, so frail- it was almost as if Blaine was delusional enough to buy into to all the stories they'd read to him about the 'knight in shining armour' when he was a child. Of course, he was heir to the throne, so he could have never been a knight, but he'd managed to delude himself into thinking up this ludicrous image of grandeur. Blaine moves to pull his hands away from Kurt's, feeling his palms grow clammy as the pain of rejection sunk its teeth further into Blaine's gut. He'd kidded himself into thinking that he'd come in and swoop the man or woman of his dreams off their feet, whisking them away from distress and loving each other forever and ever until they die.

His eyes widen when he realises he can't pull his hands away.

Kurt is holding on, gripping tight.

He doesn't want Blaine to let go.

"...Kurt?" he dares to inquire, voice sounding small and tentative. Kurt still has the same open-mouthed expression he'd had when Blaine first asked, and he's beginning to grow more worried for the boy than he is for his own confused feelings.

The word seems to cause something to click in Kurt's mind as he flutters his eyelashes and blinks, snapping his jaw shut abruptly. He looks disoriented, almost dazed. Then, he looks back at Blaine with those wide, doe eyes and shakes his head again, almost imperceptibly.

You can't go to the ball with me.

Blaine bites his lip at the lack of actual response, trying hard to keep his hands as still as possible in Kurt's grip, as if a slight shift could warrant him to take his hands back and push Blaine away.

We're both males. This is Villon, not Gaveston- they'd be outraged.

I have no appropriate attire. I do not have permission from my stepmother to go.

You are the esteemed guest. All eyes will be on you and who you choose to bring to the ball.

I have been a servant for ten years. I never learnt proper social etiquette.

I cannot waltz, nor can I dance to anything else. I'll be an embarrassment.

I am uncultured, unrefined, and uneducated.

I know nothing about being a nobleman.

The kingdom thinks I'm ill in the head.

You don't want to show up with me on your arm.

None of Kurt's thoughts ever leave his mouth. His throat is parched and dry as every possible reason why he cannot comply to Blaine's request lists themselves in his mind. He can't go, he can't go.

But god, does he want to.

Words have once again failed him. Blaine is waiting, so patiently, for a straight answer.

Kurt does what comes easy. He stops thinking about things to say, how to say them, and what they mean. Instead, he takes their joined hands and puts it on his own chest, letting the beat of his heart pulsate through his shirt and into their hands. There, he shifts his fingers to intertwine with Blaine's, letting his eyes droop and close at the sheer intimacy of it. He levels his breathing before looking up to meet Blaine's gaze again, willing him to understand why this simply cannot be.

He shakes his head again, harder this time, pointedly looking at their tangled fingers, then back at Blaine.

You can't go to the ball with me.

His mother always taught him that if you really, really wanted something, you had to try really, really hard. Part of really, really hard entailed not taking no for an answer. The monarchs of Gaveston were characteristically hardheaded and determined, and Blaine was not unlike them. He had a slightly more gentle nature than, say, his iron man of a father, but he had been taught strategy in combat and battle growing up and was fully armed to organize a crusade with effective structuring.

All of that was useless against Kurt. He couldn't really do anything but grovel at this point. While Blaine is royalty, his mother had also taught him to never be proud.

Kurt looks at him in a way that can't mean no. He looks at him like he wants to pull him into those blue pools and keep him there forever. There's no way he's saying no because he's not attracted to him because he can feel the pull between them, intoxicating and strong for something so intangible.

And yet, he is shaking his head, gripping Blaine's hands so strongly they may bruise.

Blaine is so confused.

"May I know... why?" he questions, feeling Kurt's hands tremble whilst his grip falters almost imperceptibly at his words. He can feel the pulse of Kurt's hands beating fast and frequent under his touch, so he knows it isn't only his heart that's racing.

He's amazed how much he can learn from Kurt without him ever having to say a word. Sure, there are still some gaps, but Blaine likes being able to pick up a feeling or two based off of a gesture or a look or even the chemistry of his body. He thinks that, in time, he could potentially read all of Kurt without any semblance of speaking.

He does hope they'll do more speaking, however, even if Kurt rejects him completely after tonight. The stutter is barely noticeable when you're listening to a voice as delicate and light as Kurt's. It sounds like a voice that is a little creaky and dusty after years of being seldom used; an old antique left in the attic to gather dust through years of being hidden away; stagnant.

"Please tell me."

Deep breaths, re-organize thoughts, focus on the hard letters.

"F-frankly, I don't f-fit in. I d-don't want to emb-barrass you."

Blaine's mouth opens to protest, but a surge of courage in Kurt's heart tells him with a steely eye that he is not finished.

"I didn't get t-taught how to b-be a gentleman growing up. I'm j-just as clueless as a c-commoner about n-noble formalities. I... I wouldn't b-belong, B-Blaine. You'd be b-better off t-taking Clementine or- or-"

Cue sharp intake of breath, because Blaine is sitting much closer than he was two minutes ago and his face is really quite close to his. Kurt marches on.

"...B-Beatrice. I'm n-not worth your r-reputation here, and b-besides, T-Tourneboulle would n-never let me go and I haven't any p-proper attire. They'd b-be scandalized to see me at the b-ball, everyone in Villon knows I'm- w-wait, where are you-"

Blaine had scrambled off the haystack rather ungracefully somewhere while Kurt was talking, leaving Kurt's hands empty and cold. He stumbled his way in the low light to his stationed mare to fumble around in the saddlebag, where it seems he has brought even more things with him. He takes out a sizeable bundle of cloth and resumes his position on the haystack. He sets it in his lap and takes Kurt's hands once again.

Blaine forces his stare onto Kurt, fixed with an intense, soul-boring gaze on ambivalent blue that wavers but never fully strays away. He needs to truly, truly witness this in all its open honesty because he knows. He just knows.

"Look at me in the eye and tell me you don't want to go to the Ball with me."

"I-I can't-"

"Tell me you don't want to."

Though his stare of intent is strong, his eyes are pleading. Please, please, please feel what I feel.

"Look at me and tell me."

"I can't," Kurt shouts, despaired.

Shouts. Blaine pushes.

"But you'd like to."

Kurt is frustrated by Blaine's insufferable attitude. He's already gotten him worked up to the point of sobbing; what more could he possibly want? Did he want an outright proclamation of Kurt's magnetism towards him? The inherent forces of attraction between them?

Kurt sobs dryly in defeat, emotions flaring in his chest but restrained by the tight coil of his throat.

"Yes."

Blaine breathes a sigh of relief and swallows his noise of joy at the admittance.

"D-Did you just want t-to hear me say it? Yes, I want t-to go to the B-Ball with you, b-but if they see the village madman d-dancing with the P-Prince-"

"You forget, dear Kurt-" Blaine interrupts, hand pulling something out of the bundle of rich cloth in his lap. "-that this Ball is a masquerade, and that you will be wearing..."

Blaine makes quick work of the silk ribbon, tying it deftly behind Kurt's head.

"...a mask."