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's mother, Jeff, mention of Sam, Quinn, Marley, Hunter
author's notes: written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: arranged marriage. the response to this story has been really overwhelming and absolutely lovely. thank you so much to everyone!
WHAT A PRINCE AND LOVER OUGHT TO BE;;
chapter three
Seasons come and go, one harsher than the other, even though the conditions lose their meanings in an environment of constant threat and heightened vigilance.
He's stationed near the Northern border, where enemy incursions are more the rule than the exception and he sees combat within his first week. His platoon pulls through with some bumps and bruises, a few cuts, and one bullet wound.
The first few weeks away from Blaine are the hardest, or maybe they seem the hardest because the living conditions change so drastically. He either sleeps in the tents on a hard army cot or on the ground outside, in a camp where a silent moment to oneself is rare; he got used to the food during training, but they're dependent on convoys to bring them supplies; communications are down or disabled for fear the enemy could intercept their transmissions–and if the enemy were to find out they had a prince among them their offence might become stronger.
But no one treats him like royalty here, he's one of the guys, a major in the King's army, and he doesn't receive any special treatment.
Blaine starts writing him good old-fashioned letters two months in, every week without fail, even though the convoy often misses a week and delivers two or three at a time. But Blaine's letters light his dark world every time he reads or rereads them, they update him on his work and his family, about the young count trying to seduce Marley but she won't have any of it, about how Blaine has sought counselling for his nightmares and he's doing better every day. And sometimes, rarely, Blaine writes about missing his arms around him at night, about a lack of soft words whispered in the dead of night–he understands that Blaine's trying to refrain from guilting him too much, but it's nice to read he's missed, too.
He rarely has the time to write back, but when he does it's usually in the middle of the night, everyone around him asleep, a small flashlight clutched between his lips to light the hand guiding his pen across the paper.
For a good few weeks during spring they're cut off from everything and everyone, convoys laid under siege by missile launchers positioned just across the border. There's a limited amount of rations and little to no supplies, and when Jeff complains about the cold one night he's been missing Blaine too much and too hard not to let him sleep in his arms, if only so he can close his eyes and imagine black curly hair between his fingers, a bright smile to light his way, hazel eyes shining through the dark.
Blaine's asleep in their bed on the other side of the country, unaware that some of his letters have gotten destroyed, and he has no means to let him know he's alright.
"I'm sorry," Jeff mumbles into the warmth of their combined body heat.
"Don't be," he says softly, as he sees, hears, and feels nothing but Blaine.
Summer brings some reprieve, along with a burning ache to his joints from all the nights sitting huddled in the trenches, head ducked and shoulders hunched to brace against the impact of the shells the enemy sends their way. Extra troops join them along the border and he starts receiving letters again, one equally as positive as the next, though Blaine's words betray a melancholy for the nights they spent together, a longing for days past and maybe even days to come. He holds onto that hope, grips it tight between the folds of his faltering heart, allows it to fill up the emptiness and blot out the white noise. If only for a little while.
.
Exactly one year after he was drafted his superiors come to him with an important mission.
He and his platoon are sent into Foxland Forest in the Northern Territory, beyond the border, to secure the first stronghold for the rest of the troops to take the valley, something they have failed to do for over three years. The operation has already been planned and gotten the green light, and he has no choice but to obey orders.
It's a bloodbath.
They barely make it across the border before all hell breaks loose, a bomb goes off to their right flank and they run for cover, but not before two of his men are swept aside by the shockwave like ragdolls, their bodies falling heavy to the ground, where they remain, unmoving.
A second bomb drops several meters closer, tree foliage flies around with shrapnel and dirt that gets stuck in his eyes, his ears ringing from the blast. Someone shouts, "Medic!" in the distance and he can't believe he's already lost count of the amount of men dying.
Gunshots sound in the distance, bullets impaling his first lieutenant in front of his eyes while the platoon gets surrounded by enemy troops. He runs over, the sound of his boots on the ground drowned out by dropping bombs and gunfire. "Wes!" he shouts, pulling Wes' lifeless body out of the line of fire to a more secure spot. "Medic!" he calls, but doubts his voice reaches over the cacophony of war.
He applies pressure to Wes' wounds, blood slipping through the clefts of his fingers until his hands are stained red, desperation and fear seizing around his heart.
"Call for air support!" he calls to his communications officer, before a sharp pain stabs at his temple and knocks him to the ground, where he passes out, darkness taking hold.
.
Thirteen months pass. And war turns out to be far less glamorous than the stories made it out to be.
.
The Capital remains unchanged, one winter has replaced the previous, the snow slowly melting as the season drifts into one considered livelier. A headache pounds behind his left eye, hiding behind dark sunglasses the doctors advised him to wear whenever he ventured outside for at least a few more weeks. He got lucky, a piece of shrapnel had left a nasty gash to his temple but missed his eye by a few millimeters, and hadn't broken any bone–if the shrapnel hadn't lost momentum after the bomb dropped he could've suffered brain damage.
Still, return to the field was not advised, not even after the month-long recovery he'd undergone.
So the doctors released him and told him to go home, something he'd been longing for before his mission, but now it felt like he was abandoning all those who still needed him, needed him to lead and be shown that an injury wasn't the end of a military stint. Unfortunately for him neither the King nor his brother would allow him to go back, and he has the strong suspicion his mother wouldn't either.
His palms turn sweaty once the guards outside the residence guide him out of the car and some of the staff greet him, his heart rampant against his ribcage as his footsteps walk him down the uncomfortably familiar hallway towards a boy he prays still recognizes him.
He hears Blaine's voice before he sees him, a hiccupy laugh interspersed with another voice he recognizes as Sam's–he takes a deep breath; he's back, he's safe, he has nothing to be afraid of here. Part of him could live with this, watch Blaine from the periphery because he fears he could be blinded if he were fully exposed to him all at once. But he could stand to be a little overexposed.
Sam sees him first, Blaine's back turned towards him until he notices how Sam bows his head out of respect and Blaine turns on his heels. "Sebastian," his name tumbles from Blaine's lips like a hushed secret he's been keeping close all this time. Blaine walks over steadfast, not a single moment's hesitation before Blaine's arms wrap around his torso.
He staggers on his heels for just a second, Blaine's face buried in his chest, and a dam breaks inside him, all the carefully placed constructions to keep from missing Blaine, to stay professional amongst his fellow soldiers, everything comes floating out and leaves him weak and weary and dizzy.
"You came back," Blaine whispers.
He pushes his lips to Blaine's hair, inhaling the scent of his hair gel that's at once familiar and alien. "I promised, didn't I?"
Blaine looks up at him, tears in his eyes. "You're a hero." He beams. "Everyone's been talking."
He swallows hard, unable to keep hold of Blaine's eyes. He's not a hero.
"They–" Blaine raises a hand to his temple and carefully touches his healed skin. "They told me you got hurt. But they wouldn't let me see you."
"Too dangerous," he says. "I was airlifted out."
"And your head?"
"Nothing more than a scar now."
Blaine smiles through his tears, a pang of pain and gratitude and something he forgot how to decipher. "I've missed you."
Somehow, he manages a small smile. "Me too," he says softly, and when Blaine hugs him again the weight of it stands out, the expectation enveloped within the simple embrace, and he's none too sure this is one expectation he could stand to bear.
.
In the days that follow his return it becomes clear that Blaine has found his place.
Marley and Blaine have gotten really close, they have their own things they talk about that few people manage to make sense of and go out together every so often. His mother treats Blaine like her own son, her little touches betray that easily, though he turns into the main recipient again once he's home.
Blaine's working on a petition on healthcare with Sam, one he plans to bring to his father during the next session of Parliament. He watches Sam and Blaine when they think he's not there, and sees a fondness in both their eyes that wasn't there before he left, an appreciation for each other, or even love. It could be his imagination, or maybe there's something there he should be afraid of, but what scares him tenfold is the realization that he doesn't really care.
.
At night Blaine sleeps soundly. There's an occasional whine and tug at the sheets, but nothing that would indicate Blaine's having a nightmare. He lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, accompanied by the steady sound of his heart, beating faster and louder than normal.
He still sleeps a lot during the day, especially when his headaches get too bad, so he rarely joins Blaine when he goes to sleep at night. The bed's too hard anyway, and all his naps take place on the hard settee in his office that's actually only there for show. He shoots awake in a cold sweat every time, clutching a pillow in his arms so tight it takes him minutes upon minutes to calm himself down enough to wrench his arms free.
So he's grateful Blaine's therapy has paid off.
.
Blaine catches on pretty quickly, that he starts sneaking out of bed the same way he used to, but unlike him Blaine approaches in the dead of night, makes sure to let him know he notices, maybe even understands. Because Blaine doesn't judge.
It's one of those nights, near the end of March, that he leaves Blaine sleeping alone and wanders to his office, opening the bottom drawer of his desk to unearth the letters Blaine wrote him. The ones he received anyway. He traces his fingers over the careless penmanship and tries to imagine Blaine behind his own desk, sucking on the end of his pen every so often, deeply concentrated on the words he put down, each of them carefully chosen for his benefit.
"Are those my letters?" Blaine's voice sounds behind him, not for the first time. Soon one of Blaine's hands lands on his shoulder and his body leans sideways into his, a weight he misses and fears at the same time. "You kept them all."
"They meant a lot to me," he says, placing the letters back in the drawer with a care that proves how precious they are to him. "They still do."
"I'm happy we don't need them anymore." Blaine smooths a hand down his back and kisses his hair, an arm around his shoulder that's meant to be an anchor, he wants it to be, but it only reminds him that he's not the same man that left here over a year ago. "Come to bed," Blaine says.
He stands up and lets Blaine guide him back to the bedroom, their index and middle fingers hooked together, and they both crawl underneath the sheets. But where Blaine no doubt hopes for the kind of physical intimacy they'd found before, he pulls himself onto his side, his back turned to Blaine, and tries to even out his breathing.
"Sebastian?" comes Blaine's soft call, but he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to cancel it all out; the mattress too soft, the residence too quiet, too eerie after all the background static he'd gotten used to, and Blaine too pure to taint with his darkness. So he lies still, fighting tears, clutching the mattress so hard his hands cramp up, but he keeps at it.
Blaine shifts behind him, and soon presses up against his back, his lips to his neck, a hand on his hip.
But he fails to reciprocate, or relax, or fall asleep.
.
Blaine's happy there's no longer any need for him to write letters, because he has him right there to talk to.
But they don't.
He doesn't talk about the war.
And Blaine never asks.
.
April brings with it tentative peace negotiations, so his mother assesses it's the opportune moment to throw a banquet in his name, the hero that set it all in motion. And he plays his part, dresses up in a new tailored suit and smiles for the cameras, squeezing Blaine's hand harder than necessary when his anxiety threatens to spill over, but it makes sure Blaine stays close.
His mother wrote an inspired speech about heroes and the consequences of war that he memorizes word for word, none of it true, none of it in line with his own spiraling state of mind. But he does what's expected of him. He greets dukes and their wives, ministers and preachers with the bravest face he can muster, while deep inside a dark and pitiful thing starts eating at his nerves, at his countenance, at his carefully construed mask of bravery.
He doesn't feel brave. If anything, he still feels wounded.
A few hours in he escapes to an empty room restricted to any guests; Blaine was having a lively conversation with the minister of health care. It's a small room, a fire burning in the fireplace and a piano in the far right corner, placed there almost as some kind of invitation. He walks over and taps a random key, the melodic sound unaccompanied by its usual soothing effect.
His entire body crawls with jitters, something growing weak inside him, the soft buzz from the other room bringing back the distant memory of what already seems like another life.
His eye twitches at the sharp sound of a bomb dropping somewhere in the distance, and a wet line runs down his cheek.
He wipes at his face.
Tears.
He breathes in deep and pinches his thumbs in his fists, trying to maintain control over his emotions. He traverses the room and heads for the cabinet by the wall, several crystal decanters on top. Before he gets to pick his poison, however, Blaine's voice sounds from the doorway, "Everyone's looking for you."
His fingers fold around a random stopper; he doesn't care what it is, as long as the burn of the liquor helps him recapture some sense of reality. "I needed some space," he says, the stopper clinking inside the neck of the bottle, too loud. He pours himself a glass with shaking hands, but Blaine stops him from bringing it to his lips.
"Where are you?" Blaine asks, the most apt question anyone could've asked him right now. Because Blaine's right, he hasn't been here, hasn't been present, his head stuck in that forest with Wes, hands stained blood red.
He swallows hard. "You know where," he answers, and waits unnerved until Blaine releases the bottom of the glass, lips forming around the cold glass, whiskey running hot down his throat. Blaine clasps a hand around his arm and rests his lips to his shoulder, his touch informed with the same longing his letters had reflected–his guilt threatens to tear him in half, but he can't be here for Blaine, he's not the man that left here, he's not the man Blaine developed feelings for, no, that man sits trapped between cold war seasons and his desire to return to warm summer days lying wrapped up in Blaine's kisses. But he can't reach either. He doesn't feel the brave soldier that left home and hearth to fight for his country, not since he learned what mud soaked with blood looks like, and he doesn't feel like the husband who had pulsed with the promise of coming back home.
He's stuck.
Not a lover. Not a prince. Barely even a man.
He stares down at the clear liquid left in the glass. Tears blur his vision and his breathing deepens, his heart breaking at what he's about to do. "Don't wait up for me tonight," he says, replacing the glass on the cabinet, and pulls free from Blaine's hold.
"I thought we–" Blaine starts, but doesn't voice the echo of a promise in the past.
"I respect you, Blaine. Isn't that what you wanted?" He looks at Blaine, every bit the broken he'd once found in his bed over and over, and he can't stand the hurt in the hazel eyes that lay superimposed over all his nightmares. But his fear of hurting Blaine physically has burrowed so much deeper, has upturned the realization that he's not like Blaine, he won't be healed by soft touches in the night. So, he cuts Blaine down, pushes him away the only way he knows how. "Besides, you and Sam seem to be getting along."
And the way Blaine's eyes immediately shift from hurt to rightfully accused shouldn't hurt so much.
Blaine shakes his head. "We haven't–"
"You should." He casts down his eyes. "You deserve more than I can give you right now."
Blaine remains silent, and he can't bring himself to look again, so he tracks towards the doorway.
"Where are you going?"
"You know where."
He lies.
Blaine can't know, shouldn't know, that not a single warm body could ever reawaken his dispassionate heart, he's seen too much, lost good men, men who had husbands and wives and children that did love them and awaited their return. How had he deserved to survive?
He doesn't go out like he suggested to Blaine, instead he tells the staff to ready one of the guest quarters in another wing of the residence and instructs them not to tell anyone that he sleeps there. He foregoes using the bed, but lies down on the hard couch in the small salon of the room.
.
He's not proud, he's not happy, pushing Blaine away hasn't negated his guilt or lightened his burden. The problem is he doesn't feel much of anything. There's something wrong with him, beyond his frayed nerves and aching heart, much deeper than his healing scar.
He looks at his hands and they're bloody. Some nights blood pours down them and soaks his clothing, some nights he dreams about having Wes in his arms again and he wakes up having torn a pillow to shreds, tiny feathers strewed all around him, his heart beating equally bloody in his chest.
Some nights he dreams about holding Blaine, and he screams himself awake because he can't, he won't, he refuses to hurt Blaine.
.
He never avoids Blaine, though–he attends breakfast and even manages some half-assed attempt at conversation, catches Blaine's eyes on him from time to time, ever laced with the same concern. He hasn't returned to work, he can't face people that would pat him on the back and praise him for what he did in the North when he hasn't accepted it for himself yet.
One of those mornings he makes his way back down to the left wing alongside Blaine, where Sam's waiting with his briefcase and papers and a light coat. Blaine's presenting his healthcare bill to the King today.
"Today's the big day, huh?" he says, and Blaine seems so surprised that he stands and blinks a few times, making sure he said anything at all.
"Yeah."
"Well, good luck." He digs his hands into his pockets and his eyes can't decide where to land, his nerves still too close to the surface for him to control. "I'm sure you'll do great."
"Thank you," Blaine says softly; he takes a step closer, rising on his toes to plant a kiss to his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly, before he stares down into bright hazel ones that beg just enough of him not to buckle under the pressure. "Have a nice day, okay?"
He casts down his eyes, but nods, shuffling a little, and maybe Blaine wants to say it, maybe he could even stand to hear it, how they're stuck with each other, there's no one else they'd rather be stuck with, that Blaine will be patient and give him time, because the roles have become so painfully reversed for them there can't be anything else but that deep understanding.
But Blaine knows that any assurances might not be reciprocated, so he retreats down the hallway with Sam.
"He waited for you, you know," his mother's voice sounds as soon as he rounds the corner into the salon, standing by the large settee in front of the window. "Every day, he stood staring out this window," she continues, "hoping for news from the front. News from you."
His mother smooths a hand over the fabric of the headrest, replaced with a new pattern. "He worried this seat silly." Tears break through his mother's words and he aches to think how much his absence had affected everyone; his mother, Marley, Blaine, they were all so happy to see him again, to have him back. But he wonders if they realize only part of him came back. "Had to have it replaced."
"Mom."
He closes the distance between them and pulls his mother into a tight hug, her body shaking against his. "I was so worried," she cries. "When they told me you'd been hurt–"
"Everything's okay." He rubs up and down his mother's back. "I'm back now."
"My sweet boy," his mother says softly, "Are you?"
.
Post traumatic stress.
It sounds like too simple a term for the indescribable complication hard coded into his brain, but a diagnosis is better than continuing to live with the uncertainty that somehow his source code got rewritten without a way to unscramble it.
He'd already figured it out, the memories that plagued him whether he was awake or asleep, his plummeting sense of control, the stark numbness set underneath his skin for anything or anyone that approached him, all symptoms of the same disease.
The doctors tell him, with time, with patience, with the proper therapy and a healthy drug regimen, he should be able to regain control, take back the life he had before, reassemble all the pieces that got lost along the way.
And Blaine knows, of course he knows, he was an idiot to think Blaine was blind to his pain and preoccupation, to his lies and the way he struggled every minute of every day to reflect some normalcy. So it shouldn't come as such a surprise that one night, when he lies tossing and turning in the bed, which he's gotten slowly used to again, Blaine's there when he shoots up straight, arms clutched around another pillow torn to tatters.
Panic seizes around his throat, his limbs go numb and he flinches backwards, away from Blaine.
"It's okay!" Blaine calls, hands outstretched.
He shakes his head and curls up against the headboard, head ducked and shoulders hunched the way he did when the shells dropped in the middle of the night, made the ground shake and the dirt shake up around him.
"Stay away from me," he says, knees pulled up to his chest, his skin aflame, breathing erratic.
"Sebastian, please." Blaine crawls onto the bed, closer and closer, and he keeps shaking his head, chokes out, "I'll hurt you. I'll hurt you," over and over until there are tears running down his face and defeat washes over him–he's fooling himself, soft touches might not heal him, but he needs Blaine to balm the wounds the doctors had been unable to reach.
"No, you won't," Blaine whispers, "Let me–" he begs, and his breathing eases once Blaine touches his face, pulls him closer and rests his head over his heart, much steadier than his own, much safer and sounder, much saner in all this madness. He curls up against Blaine's chest, too tall and lanky for a boy Blaine's size, but Blaine makes it work, their bodies spooned together like yin and yang.
His tears flow freely, Blaine's words a soothing chorus of "Shh, it's okay," and "I'm here," and "I've got you," while he drags his fingers back and forth through his hair, and he tries to memorize every single inch of this feeling, safe in Blaine's arms.
He doesn't sleep, and neither does Blaine. Come morning he disentangles himself from Blaine's limbs and they sit on opposite sides of the bed, silently waiting for one of them to speak.
"I'll get better," he says. "I promise."
And he swears the air vibrates with the sound of a smile.
"I'll be here," Blaine says.
.
Nothing much changes. They sleep in the same bed, but he makes Blaine promise to keep his distance, even if he has a nightmare–he's scared to death that one day he'll wake up with his hands around Blaine's throat, but even more afraid of what his subconscious would plague him with should he put too much space between them.
It's a precarious balancing act, but one they try to master.
Sometimes at night, when Blaine thinks he's sleeping, he'll feel Blaine's fingers at his back, tracing careful patterns, a promise whispered into his skin, or a kiss planted between his shoulder blades, as if to remind him even in sleep that his prince is there to watch over him.
.
Ever since he was three years old music had been wondrous, a new and exciting plaything for him to discover and learn more about, and it's a skill he cultivated and cherished, a skill his own and one that didn't exist in service to his life at court. He shared it with others, taught Marley to play some of her favorite songs, and it was always there to bring order whenever his mind felt in chaos.
Now, however, no matter how often the doctors advised him to pick up things he loved, the melodies sounded off. He played the pieces perfectly, his fingers moving over the keys the way they had in the past, but no matter how often he tried, the music didn't bring him joy.
He touches a finger to a random key, the high-pitched sound that follows beautiful, but it stirs nothing of those old sentiments inside him.
"You're not going to play?" Blaine asks, sneaking up behind him.
He thinks it should drive him crazy, Blaine stalking him around the residence, watching his every move, but he doesn't. He likes the thought of Blaine looking out for him.
"Why don't you play something for me instead?" he asks in return, unwilling to chase Blaine away with his silence the way Blaine used to do to him.
"My sister was the musical prodigy of the family."
His fingers fall listless off the keys onto his lap, but he manages to ask, "Really?" because part of his therapy meant learning how to communicate again, and if anyone deserves to see him open up, it's Blaine. Blaine's one of the things he loves too, after all.
"She had so much talent," Blaine says. "When she sang the entire house fell silent. Even my uncle."
"Quite a talent."
Blaine smiles. "I wish you could've known her."
He's seen enough photographs to be able to picture Rachel, eyes as dark as Blaine's, dark hair that reached all the way down to her waist, a big smile that matched Blaine's in brightness; he can see the two of them together, Blaine playing the piano while Rachel sang, the entire house carefully listening to the siblings.
"I know her through you."
Blaine stops playing and turns his head, eyes roaming over his face like he's searching for a clue where to take this conversation, whether he's up for it or if Blaine should start easing back. But he's quite comfortable still in Blaine's presence, that hasn't changed. "She wouldn't have liked you."
And miraculously, like the sun breaking through the clouds after a terrible storm, a laugh escapes him. It takes him by surprise, the sudden burst of sunlight inside his chest, and combined with the way Blaine's eyes shine it's almost too much for him to handle. But he takes it all in, Blaine's eyes and his smile, the lilting tease in his voice, lighting cavernous places in his heart he thought lost to the shadows.
He leans closer to Blaine. "She would've warmed up to me."
"Like I did," Blaine whispers.
He pushes in tighter and presses his lips to Blaine's, who freezes at the suddenness of it all, but quickly melts forward against his mouth, parting his lips for him, but he just nips at Blaine's lips, wants to live inside this moment and not let anything bad touch it ever again, protect it from his madness and the numb ice-cold core of his heart that try as he might, refuses to melt. For now.
He doesn't know how long it lasts, he's too acutely aware of the way Blaine's fingers start playing through his hair, body drawn close so he can feel its heat against his own, tongue licking carefully at his lips until they're dizzy with it and have to catch their breath. He keeps his eyes closed, Blaine drawing his lips down his neck before he rests his head on his shoulder–nothing can touch them.
"I want to know you again."
He's not sure which one of them says it.
But yes.
Yes.
.
He finds the first letter on Blaine's pillow one morning, after he wakes up from a restless night of barely dreaming. Blaine's gone to visit his parents for a few days after assuring him his absence wouldn't be seen as an insult, and the letter comes as a welcome addition to an empty bed. His name's handwritten on the envelope, the same way it had been on the letters Blaine sent to the front.
He curls up again underneath the sheets and spends the next few hours reading and rereading the letter.
It doesn't say a whole lot, but it outlines all the ways in which Blaine had missed him the year they lost; how struggling with his nightmares had gotten harder without him there, yet it had given him the strength to take hold of his own life and seek help; how he'd never expressed his gratitude for never pushing him for an intimacy he wasn't ready to share, but that he's certain that they will, because there's no other person Blaine could imagine being with.
And a confession, about how Sam had come to mean something to him before Blaine had realized or recognized it, but that nothing had ever happened, on Sam's or Blaine's part, and nothing ever would, because Blaine loved him, and him alone.
The second letter rests against the bathroom mirror.
He smiles involuntarily, too distracted by Blaine's enticing penmanship to shower, or dress, and he spends another two hours sitting on the bathroom floor, reading, smiling, starting to exist a little closer to home again.
.
The letters don't stop, not even after Blaine's return. And he cherishes each one as much as the next.
.
In the mornings he goes out for a run, followed closely by two security guards, the wind in his ears and the steady burn in his legs helping clear his head, his heart racing at an uncontrollable speed, but he manages to will it into submission again. He has breakfast with Marley, Blaine and his mother, and feels more like himself again, like he's there with them rather than stuck somewhere in a past memory.
He still has nightmares and he's still afraid, but he has methods of dealing with them.
And every morning, without fail, Blaine hands him another letter. He walks Blaine out, followed closely by Quinn, and pushes a kiss to his lips after wishing him a good day. Blaine will smile and wish him the same, often stealing another kiss before he can pull himself away completely.
His heart will beat a little faster, uncontrollable and heavy, but he does nothing to tame its curious rhythm.
They go out and have dinner with Blaine's colleagues, they're at important unveilings and state dinners, they're in the front row together at Marley's ballet recitals, and on very special nights they curl up on the couch together, princes, but content to just be husbands.
"Where's Sam?" he asks one night as they're getting ready for bed, pulling back the sheets.
"I let him go."
He blinks. "Because of me?"
Blaine looks up at him. "Yes."
"I don't want you to spread yourself too thin."
"I'm not." Blaine smiles softly. "Quinn's ready to take on some more responsibility."
He lies down in the bed while Blaine fusses with his contacts and stares at his back–he wishes more than ever that things could be the way they were, that he could flip some switch that brought them back where they parted ways and continue on from there. Because right now he's still afraid, afraid all his pain will taint Blaine should he touch him, that his hands will stain his skin blood red, and he doesn't want that. He wants to be that careless boy again learning responsibility the hard way, wants to wrap his arms around Blaine, nightmares or not, and lie entangled in their love for each other.
Blaine deserves that.
He deserves that.
"Come here," he says softly, watching Blaine turn around. He stretches out an arm and holds his hand out to Blaine, who smiles softly. Blaine turns off the nightlight and crawls underneath the sheets, coming closer until a warm hand slides up his torso, resting over his heart.
"If I–" he starts, even though he doesn't really have to say it.
"I know," Blaine says, head resting on his shoulder. "I'll back off."
He kisses Blaine's forehead and wraps his arms around his prince. "I love you, Blaine," he says, "I hope you know that."
Blaine smiles against his skin. "I love you too."
.
Blaine's the one who suggests they get away from things for a while. Summer has hit and the war has come to an end, and his mother not-so-subtly mentioned they maintained a lake house that had been sitting idle for a long time. The villa was secure and lay surrounded by a large lake and a forest, there was a swimming pool and a large terrace, and stables for horses; Blaine's eyes go wide at hearing the description and the goofy hopeful smile directed his way is too impossible to resist.
So they pack up and go, maybe for a few weeks, a few months, maybe even longer, depending on how well it goes.
Their first morning waking up there has Blaine jumping out of bed, because can't he hear the birds, smell the freshly cut grass, feel the static electricity in the air that could suggest a storm's coming. And he can't help but smile because Blaine's enthusiasm has always been infectious.
They spend their first day out on the small pier protruding into the lake; there's a small terrace along with some lounge chairs, and a raft in the water about a hundred yards from the pier. Some days they'll sit by the water for hours, talking or simply enjoying each other's company, they'll swim out to the raft or have lunch on the small terrace. Sometimes they go for a walk in the forest, or ride on horseback, Blaine a much more experienced rider than he is.
And at night they'll sit out on the terrace, upstairs or downstairs depending on what view they want to admire: sundown over the tree line, or the sunlight slowly fading in the reflection of the water.
More often than not they'll tumble into bed lip-locked, having picked up right where they left off seasons ago, their kisses growing more heated with each passing day, his lips venturing down Blaine's neck and torso while Blaine's hands roam hot over every patch of skin they can reach.
But he always makes sure they don't go too far. He's not sure he trusts himself not to take what he wants.
Until one night at the peak of summer Blaine's hands roam further south than they've gone so far, fingers pushing past the waistband of his boxers, further and further and a shiver coursed through him. "Blaine, stop," he says, rolling onto his back, but his body pulses with want. "I'm sorry. I can't."
Blaine pushes up against him, his hard-on pressing against his thigh, kisses to his neck. "Why not?" he asks, fingers deftly tracing down his torso again.
"Blaine," he whines, because he wants to surrender more than anything, he can't express how much it means to him that Blaine's willing to share this intimacy with him alone, but his fear reins louder. "Stop." He catches Blaine's hand around the wrist, but Blaine isn't dissuaded. Blaine sits up and throws a leg over his body, straddling his hips between his thighs, lips nudging at his.
"Blaine, please." His conviction falters as he grabs around Blaine's hips, grinding up against him. He's longed for this and they deserve this, they've both been waiting for so long, for Blaine to open up, to fall in love, for him to heal and his fears to subside. Blaine's tongue pushes past his lips just as his hand slips inside his boxers, fingers folding around his hard-on. "Blaine," he begs, trying to find the strength, voice the reason why he's so afraid.
He cups Blaine's face between his hands and forces him to slow down. "You told me to be gentle," he whispers.
But Blaine shows no hesitation, only a small smile at the memory almost two years old. "Then let me." Blaine chases his lips. "Let me," he begs, "Let me," he whispers, over and over again, until the words lay etched into his skin, until they're coded inside the kisses trailing down his torso.
Yes, yes, he'll let Blaine decide the pace, he'll lie back and trust Blaine with his pleasure, allow him to hold his heart in fragile hands. Blaine takes him in his mouth, working his lips and his tongue around him softly, with the kind of care he's always known them capable off, unspooling his nerves and ridding him of any anxiety, slowly erasing the outlines between their bodies.
He comes with Blaine's name falling from his lips, over and over again, and returns the favor once his breathing has slowed down.
.
A loud bang wakes him up in the middle of the night, and before he's registered the movement he's standing on his feet next to the bed, a conditioned response to the unexpected and dangerous, his heart racing a million miles an hour. He can't find his bearings, and when another bang sounds, lightning illuminating the entire room, he whispers, "Wes," under his breath, and takes off.
He pushes through a door and descends some stairs, feet carrying him without purpose or direction, and once he pushes through a glass door, rain assaults his naked skin, cold drops like tiny pinpricks all over.
Lightning flashes through the sky and he stares at his hands and–
Blood.
There's so much blood.
He closes his eyes and covers his ears, the cacophony of war muted, and he knows it's not real, it can't be real anymore, the war is over and he hasn't seen battle for months, but sometimes his remembrance becomes so starkly real that it feels like he's been transplanted right back into the heat of it, like his therapy has been for naught, like he's worked for nothing all these months.
"Sebastian!" comes his only solace, Blaine his anchor and his guide, his voice of reason and another kind of madness. He turns around, rain blurring his vision, watching Blaine pad over to him in the rain, arms folded around his own body, shaking visibly. "Baby, please, come inside."
He might never be completely free of this, his nightmares could come back in a moment of disregard, but there's one thing that won't ever change again. Blaine will always be there to ground him.
He looks down at his hands, locked in Blaine's before he realizes. "They're clean, Sebastian," Blaine says. "Your hands are clean."
They're not, not right now, there's blood pouring down them, but unlike before he recognizes it's not real, it can't be real, so he dashes forward and kisses Blaine, cups his face without fear of staining his skin, but with the utmost love and respect for having stuck by him all this time.
Blaine gets him inside and out of his clothes, they make love in front of an open fire as the rain on their skin dries and soon glisten with sweat–Blaine breathes his name into his skin, gentle like a secret, and he moves at that same space, clocks himself to Blaine's rhythm, thrusts in and out and has to catch his breath when he stares down at the beautiful boy bared beneath him. He'll never let this go, won't ever let it slip away from him again.
"Why did you do all this?" he asks later, warm and sated, caressing lines up and down Blaine's arm, Blaine's head resting on his chest.
"All this?"
And he realizes the term comprises so much more than Blaine's loyalty and devotion–Blaine married him to save his family from certain ruin, without knowing anything about him; Blaine gave up his home and family and moved his entire life elsewhere, received a title and got put in the spotlight; he opened up after careful coaxing and fell in love with a boy he might never have considered had they not been set up, and then that boy left for war, returning as someone quite different.
"Why did you wait for me?"
Blaine raises himself up and finds his eyes, smiling softly. "You know why."
He smiles, feeling the heat of the fire, but even more so the heat brought on by Blaine's body, his love and care. Blaine has changed him in more ways than he can say–he taught a young and foolish boy that one relationship could bring all the intimacy he'd always been looking for, that time and patience could be virtues, that intimacy entailed more that physicality. And ever since his return Blaine has been reminding him of the man he could be, the prince, the lover, his.
You know why, Blaine says.
"Because you waited for me."
THE END
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