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, Sebastian/Adam, Sebastian's mother, mention of Sam, Quinn, Santana, Marley, Hunter
author's notes: written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: arranged marriage. good grief, this is one chapter that refused to be written for the longest time! anyway, new installment, working on the last one : )
WHAT A PRINCE AND LOVER OUGHT TO BE;;
chapter two
Winter drags on longer than anyone anticipated, thick layers of snow blanketing solid frozen ground, a harsh backdrop to lands in conflict, a country crying outrage, his morality in question. His punishment comes in the form of judgment, his fall deeper than even he had anticipated. Somehow the media had learned of his evening of debauchery with a boy whose name he can't even remember, his picture on the front page of every newspaper and the day after it happened the story dominated the news.
The Crown's treasury usually manages to keep stories like these out of the press, but that soon proves his mother's punishment. Facing his mistakes had never been a virtue of his, nor is it now with the entire kingdom watching, but his mother forces it on him.
"I have never been so ashamed to call you my son," she cries, tossing the newspaper in his lap like a piece of garbage, one large unflattering picture staring back at him. There's a smaller picture of him and Blaine in a corner of the page, photoshopped with a jagged line running between them. A clever title reads 'Party Prince Strikes Again', subtitled with 'Royal Honeymoon Over'.
He holed himself up in his study when he learned of the public outcry at breakfast, missed lunch and didn't plan on leaving any time soon. This would never let up; he'd never be able to face his mother or Blaine, or any of his family, their judgment so much harder to bear, even though his past record had often seen it ignored.
"Your father won't even talk about it." His mother throws up her arms, despair instructing her erratic movement around the room. "You are a disgrace to the Clarington name."
He sags deeper in his chair, the ice cubes in his bourbon clinking against the glass. "Good thing I'm not a Clarington then," he mumbles, staring down into his half-filled glass.
"Don't take that tone with me, Sebastian." His mother's eyes leave burn marks all over his body. "You have a husband who the entire country adores, who's helped clear your reputation, who's been nothing but–"
"Cold?" he supplies, because he'll be damned if all the blame gets laid on his inability to bind himself to Blaine. Blaine hasn't tried to connect, hasn't talked to him, barely even looks at him. He wonders if Blaine sees him at all. "Distant? Closed off?"
"Is that what this is about?" his mother scoffs. "Because he won't sleep with you?"
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reluctant to tempt fate any further–his mother's already upset with him, and so is the King, he should accept he can't change the past and move on. His heart rate slows down and he regains control of his breathing. "Because he won't talk to me. I don't know anything about him."
"Try harder," his mother stresses and points at the newspaper. "Fix this, Sebastian."
"How?"
His mother touches her fingers to his cheek, thumb venturing a few quick strokes. She's mad at him, but she's still his mother–she'd forgive a great many trespasses before he lost her favor for good. "I raised you to be a resourceful young man, sweetheart," she says, and kisses his hair. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
He slams back a big gulp of bourbon as his mother's footsteps die out in the distance, the liquor a burn down his throat that makes him acutely aware of his surroundings. It's cowardly, hiding like this, shutting the world out like a child covering its ears when it doesn't want to hear the truth spelled out. He thought himself numb to these sensations a long time ago, but his mother was right: this time, he screwed up beyond belief.
Everyone loved Blaine, the country, the Court, the King, his mother. He brought the promise of peace, a symbol of non-hostile unification, and he did so with the brightest smile of all, charisma and poise, no questions asked. The people's favor was something fragile and precarious, easily lost at the wrong move.
There has to be something he can do. There must be.
The footsteps behind him fall so softly he doesn't notice Blaine until he's standing by his side, a tray of food clutched between both hands. "I thought you might want some food." Blaine places the tray on his desk before rolling his shoulders and taking a step back, hands in his pockets.
"Thanks," he answers automatically, even though the thought that he makes Blaine even more uncomfortable weighs heavy on him. They might not have any sort of relationship, but at least Blaine hadn't skulked his duty to the kingdom–more than he can say about himself.
Yet of all the people in his life, his mother and father, his brother and sister, Santana, Quinn, any of his personal guards, Blaine's the one who asks, "Are you okay?"
No one had reason to ask, he messed up, he got drunk and picked up a guy and consciously brought him back to the Royal Residence, he spoke to Blaine in harsh tones, disregarded a respect that should be mutual but only Blaine had shown. So Blaine shouldn't be the one asking. Shame rips through him, fire and ice at the same time, his ears burning while his fingertips turn cold.
"Do you care?"
Blaine breathes in, barely registering in his peripheral vision. "I do," he says, words that tumble from his lips careless and quiet and some part of him hopes he dreamed them up–because then his guilt wouldn't reign so strong, wouldn't pull at him with claws and hooks he's learned to tend to with his own brand of medicine.
"I learned to live with my mother's disappointment a long time ago."
Not entirely true, he holds his mother's judgment in the highest esteem, yet somehow Blaine's has started competing. Which might be why he adds, "Yours is a different matter."
"Mine?" comes Blaine's quick question.
He huffs, thumb playing through the condensation on his glass. "You're right," he says. "I guess I've lived up to my reputation."
How could he have disappointed Blaine when all his expectations had been met? The Party Prince had been shirking his duties for quite a few years, after all, living large and decadent, fully profiting from every blessing life had thrown at him. Blaine had undoubtedly done his research, read about what he got up to at night, so he knew what to expect when they got married.
"You're more than your reputation, Sebastian."
Blaine's reply comes so unexpected that for a moment or two he's absolutely certain he imagined it–why would Blaine even consider defending him after everything he's done?
He turns in his chair and tries to gauge Blaine's mood, but that's hard to do when he's learned so little of the boy–Blaine doesn't budge, just stands there with his hands buried in the pockets of his yellow chinos, complimentary black sweater, and not for the first time he catches himself thinking how princely Blaine looks. Politically, Blaine's the right fit for him, his mother no longer has to worry about him ending up alone and ties between the kingdom and the Anderson duchy have been solidified, but he wishes at the very least there could be some kind of friendship.
Which brings him to the only solution he can think of. It's not a popular practice, but it's the one way he can truly show everyone he's capable of owning up to his mistakes.
"I'll make a public apology."
Blaine frowns. "You don't have to do that."
"I hurt you," he says, rising from his seat. "I hurt my family. I disgraced myself."
Blaine's eyes soften in sympathy. "That doesn't mean–"
"I have to own up to my mistakes," he says, venturing a few steps closer, the distance between them slowly but surely shrinking. Blaine doesn't flinch, not even when he pushes in tighter, standing taller than the boy so willingly his. "But I'll need you by my side."
"Of course." Blaine nods, tentatively reaching for his hand, another mixed signal in a slew of confusing ones. "Whatever you need me to do."
.
He'd been in a public relationship once before with a Viscount's son. Julian had been a perfect match–he could keep up with the pace of his nightlife and didn't do jealousy, mostly because their fidelity to each other was never in question; Julian liked his drink and his drugs, but most of all he enjoyed his fill of him every night they spent together, bodies a tangle of limbs, their lips locked while hands roamed wherever they could reach, more and harder and soft again, until his mind convinced him they'd do this for the rest of their lives, together.
But Julian had never dealt with the pressure, the spotlight, the cameras around every corner, people picking apart his life with a fine-tooth comb–they fought about it, long and often, but no matter what he did there was one thing he'd never be able to change about himself. He was a Prince. And he would live his entire life in that spotlight.
So Julian left.
Blaine could've changed all that for him, he didn't mind the scrutiny, rather he naturally excelled at giving the press what they wanted, a smile, a wink, a seemingly stolen kiss. They were both princes, they could share the spotlight. But yet again that wasn't meant to be.
His speech goes through three drafts before it's finished, Blaine's through two. His has to reflect regret over what he did, enough contrition in his tone to ensure the people he'd never do it again, but not too much as to not appear completely broken. Blaine has to make sure he doesn't condone what his husband did, but show enough affection so the people believe he might forgive him.
It's a fine precarious line they have to balance. People expect their royalty to be larger than life, they have to be the archetypes, the King righteous and strong, a fixed point, the Queen caring and kind, a mother figure, the princes the dutiful sons, the princess a picture of virtue. And his family has succeeded in upholding those images for the most part, Hunter is heir to the throne and no one would dare touch Marley with a ten-foot pole for fear of invoking the wrath of the King and her brothers.
He's the odd one out. He has a reputation for flaunting authority, lacking virtue and propriety, even if he acts the dutiful son in official state events. The people hold him to the same standards as the rest of his family, yet his flaws remind them they're all still human too.
Blaine stands by him as he feigns to choke through some of his words, finds his eyes when he searches for Blaine's, holds his hand near the end of it and continues to hold it while he makes his own speech–tears make his eyes shine and his voice breaks a few times, and he stands in awe. He can't tell if Blaine's sincere or if it's all for show. Either way the press eats it up.
"You did really good," Blaine says as security has them stand back while they clear a path to their car. Paparazzi lurk around the corner and he's seeing spots from all the flashes, so he almost flinches when a hand slides up his chest, another pulling at his shirt collar. "I was so proud to be with you tonight."
He finds Blaine's eyes, but he can't tell anymore, where the deception starts and where it ends–Blaine can act so wonderfully caring in his touches, an intimacy he's scarce experienced with anyone but his mother or Marley.
"Do you really mean that?" he asks, as if he can't tell that Blaine's simply throwing assurances at him because it's expected of him.
Blaine's hands smooth down the lapels of his jacket, hazel eyes rife with ambiguity. "I do," he says softly, and everything in him screams that he could lose himself in those eyes given enough time, given permission, given the benefit of the doubt. He's not a bad guy, he just needs a little give and take to figure things out.
The camera flashes die out, security clearing the area.
And Blaine pulls back.
Blaine always pulls back.
.
He takes a lover.
It's not innocent and not what he promised the country, but it's a lot more discreet than his extravagant parties, a lot safer than one nameless boy after the other, and when he thinks about it probably a lot more respectful towards Blaine. He needs this like he needs air, some level of intimacy to forget himself and his responsibilities, or else he'd lose his mind.
He's a prince. He will always be one. Everyone will always know his name and his face, and will expect him to represent the fantasy of what they've construed as the consummate idea of royalty. The pressure to live up to that ideal stays with him every day, in his mother's and father's eyes, in the country's expectations of him, even in the seldom glances Blaine throws his way. And sometimes that gets to be too much.
Luckily, Adam doesn't expect anything at all.
.
Santana deposits the day's schedule and a newspaper on the breakfast table every morning for him to read, today no exception, safe for the extra file of information he'd searched together in his spare time. Hunter and his mother are out on official business, and Marley's taken advantage of their absence to sleep in.
"Where is everyone?" Blaine inquires once he finds his way into the kitchens, halting awkwardly in his tracks when he notices the only people in the room are him, Sebastian and a cook.
He looks up from his reading. "I thought we could spend some time alone."
For a moment or two it seems like Blaine might turn tail and run, shuffling like a caged animal considering all his options, and he wonders if it's truly that frightening a prospect, to sit down and have breakfast together, God forbid they have a normal conversation.
But Blaine decides to stay, sitting down opposite him at the table and pours out two glasses of orange juice. The cook makes them both scrambled eggs, but breakfast takes place in silence, both of them reading, Blaine not so much as glancing up at him.
"You slept through the night," he says, a futile attempt at getting anything out of Blaine.
"I didn't," Blaine answers. "You didn't hear me leave."
He takes a deep breath, his content over seeing Blaine still in bed this morning flowing out of him to be replaced by good old annoyance over Blaine's behavior. But he doesn't voice it, he promised his mother he'd try, and he will, for as long as he's able to.
He draws a napkin over his lips and gets up, putting the file he compiled down next to Blaine's plate.
"What's this?" Blaine asks, tentatively opening the folder, eyes scanning the information on the first page.
"A list of every charity organization in the country," he says. "I thought maybe you could find a worthy cause."
Blaine releases a breath and relaxes in his chair, shame riddled in his eyes. "You did all this for me?"
He could take that credit, appease Blaine with the idea that he did this out of respect and caring, a reciprocating gesture for all the times Blaine has stood by his side and pretended to be someone he's not.
But he doesn't.
"It's time you stop doing what you think I expect you to do," he answers, the truth setting stark beneath his skin as Blaine casts down his eyes. He can't stand the thought of making Blaine uncomfortable, but this will be the last time, he'll show caring and respect when necessary, but beyond that Blaine needs to find his place first. He hopes this will be the first step towards that goal. "You might be stuck with me, but you're stuck with your title too. Make the most of it."
He's halfway across the room when Blaine's voice sounds, "Sebastian." He turns around to see Blaine has turned in his chair, facing him, hands uncertain around the folder. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah." He sighs. "Me too."
.
The sheets curl around his legs as he turns in the bed, sticky with sweat and lube and come, but as he settles on his side, head propped up on one arm, he smiles involuntarily. He'd never taken to the idea of a lover before, but he could get used to this, spend his nights in the same company, carry on a conversation, experience pleasure and intimacy in the hands of one and the same man.
"I don't remember giving you permission to leave the bed."
Adam's body shines with sweat, his skin a pearly white where the moonlight can reach, standing tall and naked in front of the window. "Missing me already, are you?" he asks, a question he leaves unanswered.
He'd never describe his attachment to Adam as having feelings for him, but he already wakes up to an empty bed at home whenever he sleeps there, so he prefers to avoid it here whenever he can, even if he leaves Adam to wake up to an empty bed himself in the morning.
Adam makes his way back to the bed and sits down at the edge, well out of his reach. "What does your dreamy prince have to say about all this?"
"He understands I have certain needs."
Adam scoots closer. "Needs he doesn't fulfill."
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling–Adam's right, Blaine leaves him alone and wanting, but he's reluctant to speak ill of him in private quarters. Blaine's not a bad guy either, but the crippling thought that they're not compatible coils tighter around his heart every passing day. Maybe Blaine had hoped to marry for love one day, but he's pretty sure that deep down he too had hazarded that longing.
"How very noble of him." Adam kisses his shoulder and settles over his body, warm and welcome, before his curiosity gets the best of him again. "Do you love him?" Adam asks, another kiss to his chest, lips tracing lower and lower.
"I don't know him." He sighs, a frown creasing between his eyebrows at his own reply. "He won't let me in."
Kisses trail down his abdomen, Adam's tongue spoons into his bellybutton, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"You want to love him," Adam says, licking over his hipbone, teeth grazing over his skin.
He reaches down and wires his fingers through Adam's hair. "Does that surprise you?"
Adam smirks up at him, eyes dark and lustful. "Not one bit."
.
Blaine takes his advice to heart, meeting with the boards and chairmen of some of the charities that catch his eye, and he becomes the benefactor of quite a few. He hires an assistant to help him with the work and organization, a cheerful blond by the name of Sam Evans, who everyone quickly takes a liking to.
And it's an absolute delight to come home and see Blaine smile, to hear his laughter fill up a room from time to time, to see him focused on paperwork with the most serious look on his face as if his plans would save the entire country.
He gives Blaine time and space, selfishly hoping that one day he might be rewarded for his patience.
.
He doesn't remember his early days at Court, barely three years old, safe for playing with Hunter's toys while their nanny frantically tried to keep the peace between them. It was much later, once he found himself more stable on his toddler feet, that he became a real menace–his mother soon had to hire a second nanny, because he escaped supervision every chance he got, whether he was allowed to roam around or not, and he explored every nook and cranny of the residence.
Until one day he found a room that had captured his imagination. Inside was a piano, a Steinway concert grand he would later learn, and when his little fingers pressed down on one of the keys, it made the most beautiful high-pitched sound. He'd pulled himself up on the bench, his legs kicking back and forth because his feet didn't quite reach the ground, and he happily tapped away at random keys.
His mother got him a tutor not long after that.
Since that day, whenever the residence got too loud or too crowded, whenever his mind became a heap of chaotic thought, he sat down behind that piano, played his favorite pieces, Marley often sitting down next to him, listening, humming along, but never saying a word.
He's neglected his playing these past few years in favor of going out and having fun, sexual release something other than the quiet soothing tones of the music but equally capable of cancelling out all the background static.
"I didn't know you played," Blaine's voice sounds, his footsteps as imperceptible as ever.
He glances over his shoulder, smiling, "Plenty of things you don't know about me, killer," before returning his gaze to the keys, his entire body swaying to the sounds of the music.
At first he expects Blaine to leave, or at the very least remain in the doorway, because that's been his MO since they started living together. So he's more than a little surprised to see Blaine take Marley's usual spot on the bench next to him. There's a good few inches between them, but there's nothing awkward about it.
Blaine raises his hands to the keys alongside his, picking up the melody with the greatest ease. They play for a good long while, and he gets the sense his sister and his mother check in on him, but refrain from sticking around to give him and Blaine some privacy.
The song ends and he pulls back his hands, Blaine playing a made-up melody.
"I'm impressed."
"Plenty of things you don't know about me," Blaine smiles, "–sweetheart."
He blinks, but a laugh escapes him at Blaine's attempt at humor.
"I'd like to," he says, betraying his deepest desire.
He's not sure Blaine hears it.
Blaine continues to play, and when he loses himself in thought he can't help but wonder where he goes, who he thinks about, whether his mind floods with memories of home and how much he misses it, or if the music transports him to some place he'd rather be. And somewhere at the back of his own mind, a tiny voice starts whispering: does he put that pressure he's so desperate to drown out in Adam's arms on Blaine too? Are his expectations suffocating this beautiful boy?
.
Somewhere late spring the Duke and Duchess visit for a few days, but before he can decide to give the Anderson family some space, he notices Blaine acting distant. He hadn't taken or gotten the time to get to know his mother and father-in-law before the wedding, so he never saw Blaine interact with them either, but seeing Blaine so closed off from his parents as well starts off a curious panic. What hope is there to ever thaw Blaine out if he can't open up to his own parents?
The day the Andersons leave again Blaine sits himself down in the garden, under the rustling guard of a giant willow tree; he has some books with him but doesn't seem to be reading, so he ventures closer, his curiosity gnawing at him for answers.
"You miss home?" he asks, because it's the only reason he can think of for Blaine to be sad.
Blaine lets the question sink in, but shrugs, "Not really."
He takes Blaine's answer as an invitation to sit down by his side, but waits for Blaine to decide on the pace should there be room for a more thorough explanation. What he gets instead, has him listening more attentively than ever.
"It's never been easy for me to connect to people, Sebastian," Blaine says, tugging at some blades of grass. "It isn't you."
He sits back against the willow, legs crossed at the ankles. "You're the nicest guy I've ever met."
Blaine looks at him, and smiles. "I'm good at pretending."
That much he believes, Blaine has this knack of lighting up an entire room with the warmth of his smile, and that must be a power he realized he had a long time ago, because he employs it masterfully. But what ever gave Blaine reason to believe he had to pretend before they even met? What gruesome event did he relive every night that has scarred him into a frightened boy?
"But you like the attention."
Blaine shakes his head. "Not at the cost of someone else's."
"Tell me about your home."
The request pushes past his lips involuntarily, it's been burning right there for months and gotten all the more insistent these past few days–he's been patient, Blaine's had time, his guard seems down for the first time since they got married, so maybe he'll finally learn a little more.
For long moments the wind sounds solitary through the foliage, accompanied by birdsong and a hedge trimmer off in the distance. Blaine crosses his legs and stares out in front of him, but slowly, little by little, Blaine divulges his family history; about growing up under his uncle's rule, which was a lot less peaceful than his father's; how the fields around the manor stretched for miles in every direction and he'd walk for hours and hours, exploring, lying in the grass, watching the stars once it grew dark; how they had horses and rabbits and a whole bunch of other livestock in the farms surrounding his home, how his mother had taught him to ride ...
He gets the distinct impression that there's something Blaine leaves out, he paints a perfect picture of his life in the duchy and no origin for his nightmares, but he foregoes the question. They sit and talk all afternoon, about both their lives, and he's not about to push his luck.
Santana never shows up to remind him of his three o'clock appointment.
Neither Quinn nor Sam shows up to get Blaine to attend his duties.
And he makes a mental note to thank his mother for that later.
.
"Hey," Adam whispers, his soft call shaking him from his thoughts, fingertips drawing small circles over his chest. "Where did you go just then?"
He draws a hand down his face. "I just have a lot on my mind."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No," he says, and gets up, heading straight for the bathroom.
He leaves his wine on the nightstand, too warm to drink now.
.
After almost a year he dares say he and Blaine have become friends. There's a mutual respect and understanding between them and it hasn't gone unnoticed. His mother has expressed her pride and marvel, he stays out of the gossip magazines, and Blaine features in his own stories about his charity work.
War continues along the northern borders, and there's talk about Hunter joining the war effort now that he's turned eighteen, but the people are happy. For the most part.
At breakfast, Blaine and Marley talk excitedly about theatre productions they're both dying to see, about taking Marley shopping or meet with designers for new dresses she'd like. His mother doesn't have to desperately try to make conversation anymore, rather she enjoys sitting back and listen to her children, laughing, talking excitedly amongst themselves.
He still sees Adam two or three times a week. He loves that from time to time he gets to wake up next to someone who wants to be there, who kisses him good morning before he slips away, and always knows how to make him feel good.
At dinner Blaine talks about his day and the work he's doing, about how much help Sam has become and how lovely Marley is. And he can talk to Blaine too now, about his work with his father, about his worries about the war.
They're friends, and he can live with that.
.
Blaine's nightmares grow less frequent, but every time they come around they frustrate him more. His moods turn dark and he locks himself up in his office, refusing to talk to anyone. It soon becomes clear he's the only one aware of Blaine's nightmares, though some of the staff have undoubtedly heard him late at night. Most nights he won't hear Blaine leave, he's too sound a sleeper, but his heart aches every time he opens his eyes to an empty bed, every night he's roused by the click of the door, Blaine sneaking out or back in to fool him into thinking he stayed.
He wants to be able to fix this too, but he doesn't know how.
One night at the height of summer, the windows opened to let in the slightest gust of wind, Blaine spooks him awake with a whine and a tug at the sheets, even though both of them are barely covered.
"Blaine," he whispers, and draws closer, but gets no reply.
He's careful not to move too much, but he settles his chest to Blaine's back, however warm and sticky, and snakes an arm around his waist, hoping that holding Blaine will be enough to calm him down.
"Don't," Blaine says, his voice breaking through the peaceful silence inside the room.
The moonlight reveals Blaine's eyes are open, the rays catching in his long eyelashes. "Tell me what to do." He traces his fingertips down Blaine's arm, less easily persuaded to back down. "Please, Blaine, talk to me. You can't keep hiding this from me, it's not good for you."
"My sister–" Blaine croaks.
"You have a sister?" he blurts out, against his better judgment, because Blaine cringes and slips out of his hold, sitting up in the bed. But Blaine's never mentioned a sister, neither had the Andersons or his mother–there's an older brother, Cooper, so what happened to a sister?
"I did," Blaine says softly.
Oh.
Before he can say anything else Blaine stands up and disappears from the room, leaving him to question everything Blaine has told him so far. Blaine told him the duchy had achieved peace under his father's rule, not his uncle's, that there was fighting he could hear all the way from his bedroom when he was little. Had his sister somehow gotten caught up in that?
He lies awake for a good long while, listening around for any clue that Blaine might return, but after a good fifteen minutes he sits up–he can't keep waiting for Blaine to come to him, or else it'll be another year before he gets the truth out of him. He should take action and urge Blaine to talk about whatever trauma lay at the core of his nightmares.
Blaine's in the salon standing by the window, his body outlined white by the moonlight.
"Tell me what happened."
Blaine inclines his head. "Is that an order?"
"It's–" He sighs, sitting down on the couch. "It's me getting to know you better."
Silence once again fills the space between them, crickets chirping underneath the windowsill, the moon their only source of lighting. He's determined to wait it out for as long as he needs to, he'll wait until the sun comes up and the house wakes up around them–one way or the other Blaine will talk to him.
He's not sure how much time passes before Blaine finally speaks.
"I like it here because it's safe," he says, staring out the window, tears touching his eyes.
He gives Blaine the respect of his own silence this time.
"Back when my uncle was still in charge of the manor there was a lot of rioting," Blaine continues. "He wasn't like my dad, he–" Blaine swallows hard. "He didn't treat the people or the servants well, and–"
Blaine draws in a shuddery breath. "One night they decided to fight back."
"We were seven years old," Blaine says. "We were meant to be hiding, but Rachel got caught up in the struggle. Cooper tried to get to her, but it was too late."
He can see it so clearly, two scared children running for their lives in their own home, no clue as to what's going on, pulled apart without warning, a brother crying out for his sister in the dark of night–and his Blaine, his prince, forced to hear her scream in his dreams every night.
"Blaine," he hushes, "I am so sorry."
"Our family hasn't been the same since." Blaine sniffles, wiping at a stray tear. "My parents tried, but without Rachel–"
What he hears is Blaine hasn't been the same since. It's a shame. It's a tragedy. He'd like to have known that boy he was before, unencumbered by grief or loss, free to laugh and cheer without feeling guilty over disrespecting his sister, a small curly haired menace with the brightest smile imaginable. But he understands why he had to become this boy instead.
Blaine walks over to the couch and sits down next to him, and he can't stop himself from reaching out a hand for Blaine's cheek, thumbing small but soothing circles into his skin. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "I'm so sorry."
Blaine's body sways closer to his as he places a hand over his heart beating frantic, eyes shining, cut open raw and bleeding and when Blaine pushes his lips to his mouth, his part without thinking, his tongue darts out and licks a line over Blaine's upper lip, he falls forward and licks inside Blaine mouth but only because his body learned how to do it.
Blaine lets out a small whimper, instantly reminding him how they got here.
"Don't–" he says, forehead settling against Blaine's, acutely aware of Blaine's labored breathing, the way his body sits tensed against a concession he's more than willing to make. But he's not willing to take it now that Blaine's so vulnerable.
"I want to be someone you deserve," Blaine says softly, the tips of his fingers cold against his chest.
He draws in a shaky breath, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. He sniffles, "I'll never be good enough to deserve you, Blaine Anderson," and kisses Blaine's forehead before he pulls away, well out of Blaine's reach, on his feet without him realizing. "Never."
.
He pays Adam handsomely for his silence, and doesn't see him again.
.
From that night on Blaine stops hiding from him. Every time he tosses and turns or wakes up restless he stays in bed, and never complains when he curls his body around his, holding him until he falls asleep again, often until the morning light. And it's only when this happens, this sudden change in their behavior, this small status quo that took quite a while to find, that he realizes this is the kind of intimacy he craved all along.
.
"You don't go out anymore," Blaine tells him one early morning, sunlight gleaming in the windows, warm nights swayed into cooler ones and the sheets tolerable over their half naked bodies. His legs are drawn up around Blaine's outline, lips to the back of his neck, nose buried in his curls.
"I know."
Blaine slides a hand over the arm draped around his hip, his fingers wiggling between his. "Because of me?"
The question comes loaded with meaning, layer upon layer; does he stay because Blaine doesn't approve of his nightly escapades, because he values his opinion, or because Blaine's company is enough? The truth turns out to be just as layered. He wants to be a person Blaine deserves, the person he owes himself to be, a prince, a husband, maybe, in time, even a lover.
"Yes."
Blaine reveals yet another layer. "You don't have to stay with me every night."
"That's not what I meant," he says, and kisses Blaine's shoulder before he turns in his arms, hazel eyes so familiar, so precious. He plays with Blaine's hand too, pained by this minute pull inside his chest begging him closer, urging him to admit to something that's been beating steady for a very long time. "I didn't know this was for me."
"What was?"
A smile pulls at a corner of his mouth. "Love."
"Sebastian," Blaine whispers, fingers flitting careless over his skin, eyes darting between his eyes and his lips and next a hand curls around his neck, pulling him down until their lips meet. Blaine's body melts against his like it's been doing so for years, fingers digging rampant through his hair like he's trying to claw the truth right out of him.
"Love?" Blaine asks, breathing hard against his lips, shaking in his arms.
"Or something like it," he admits, none too sure what exactly it is they've found.
.
They hold hands in public.
They kiss in public.
Even when no one's watching.
.
He receives the news one dreary September day, a storm has turned the world outside dark and gray, and that's exactly how it feels when he reads the message. He knew it would come eventually, he's been training for it for years, but he never expected to be married, to be in love with a boy who asks him to hold him at night for fear his nightmares would get the best of him.
How does he tell Blaine that he's leaving for war?
He decides on a specific day at a specific time, makes sure they're alone so he can assure Blaine with his eyes and his hands, with his arms and body, with his lips if need be, because the thought of breaking Blaine's heart has gotten to be unbearable.
But he never gets the chance.
He enters the bedroom half-dressed when a sniffle catches his attention, Blaine standing just inside the door, a newspaper in one hand, tears in his eyes.
"You're going to war?" Blaine's voice breaks.
A dull thud pounds violently against his ribcage.
"You're going to war and you didn't tell me?"
"How did you find out?"
"It's in all the papers." Blaine storms over and shoves the newspaper into his arms. "Everyone knows."
He stands pinned to the ground, all his plans up in smoke, the front page of the paper announcing his intentions in big block letters. "Blaine, God, I'm so sorry." His heart beats fast at the thought of Blaine's panic while his own rises, because Blaine has backed away from him.
This isn't how it was supposed to be.
"Someone leaked this," he says. "I swear I was going to tell you today. Properly."
"So it's true," Blaine says. "You're leaving."
"I've been training for this for years. I'm old enough."
A tear spills down Blaine's cheek. "I thought after everything we've been–" but he doesn't say it, not after all the effort they've gone through to get here, why point out how far they've come, how far they have yet to go, how amazing they could be if given enough time. But now time has caught up, war will rip them apart for God knows how long. "Why would you want this?"
"I serve my King, same as anyone else. It's the right thing to do."
"Your father died in the war."
"Hunter is–"
"Hunter is heir to the throne!" Blaine shouts. "I'm not stupid, Sebastian, he won't see any combat."
"Blaine."
He takes a step closer, grateful when Blaine doesn't flinch, and cups Blaine's face between both hands, faced with that once-scared little boy, and he hates how that it's his fault this time around. "You have to understand I have to do this. For both my fathers."
"I do understand, I just–" Blaine shakes his head, grabbing a tight hold of his wrists, keeping his hands firmly in place. "I thought we'd have more time."
"Me too." He pushes a kiss to Blaine's forehead and pulls him to his chest. "Me too," he whispers, his heart beating fast, empty, painful.
.
The morning of his deployment Blaine helps him into his dress uniform. They're silent through the entire process, stepping into his dress pants, buttoning up his shirt and sleeves, pulling his jacket over his shoulders, the brass buttons gleaming. They've already said all that could be said, lying in each other's arms all night, exchanging assurances and hot kisses and endearments he never thought himself capable of expressing.
"Don't worry, Anderson," he'd said close to morning, neither of them sleepy. "You're still stuck with me."
And Blaine had smiled at the memory, though a little sad, "There are worse people to be stuck with."
Once he's dressed, his service cap tucked underneath one of his arms, they walk down the hallway hand in hand, catching each other's eyes every few seconds. Every sense of duty in him wants this, wants to serve his country the way his father did, for the King, fight for honor and justice, though in all his years spent dreaming he never thought there'd be something tying him down. The thought of leaving Blaine to fight off his nightmares on his own cripples him.
"Stop worrying." Blaine attempts to quiet his fears. "I'll be okay. I have a place here now."
They reach the front hall, where Marley runs over and throws her arms around his neck, trying her best not to cry. His mother hugs him tight and kisses him on the cheek, clearly struggling with tears herself.
Last, he turns to Blaine again, who takes hold of his hands and rises on his toes, planting a soft kiss to his lips. "Promise me one thing," he whispers.
"What's that?"
Blaine licks his lips, uncertain about what he's about to beg of him. "Come back to me."
He stares down into Blaine's eyes for what could be the last time in a long time. "I promise," he says, convinced of it with every fiber in his body, every thought, every conviction, his every heartbeat informed with three simple words. "I'll come back."
He kisses Blaine's temple and turns around before anyone can see the tear rolling down his cheek, and marches towards the front door.
And he doesn't look back.
#
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