Fic: Take Me In, Turn Me Inside Out (A Peasant's Honour Pt 1)
Author: daltoneering
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3118
Summary: The Ceremony of the Butchered Horse is one of the biggest events of the year, and as a servant of the host, Lord Morris, Blaine is busy to have everything ready on time. Little does he know how the ceremony might bring him more than a few surprises, namely in the form of one very attractive young prince.
Author’s Note: Posted from my tumblr. I'll probably make this into a short series, as I have quite a few ideas about where it could go. In the meantime, enjoy some Medieval Klaine AU!
Read on AO3 | Tumblr
When he wakes up on the morning of the 48th annual Ceremony of the Butchered Horse, Blaine Anderson has never felt less like getting out of bed.
He groans, rolling over and pressing his face into the scratchy pillow, the thin cover falling off his back and exposing his bare shoulders to the crisp morning air. Shivering, his pulls it back up, burying his face back into the drifts of warmth that are left in the pillow, and tries his best to go back to sleep.
Unfortunately, he obviously isn’t trying hard enough, because barely a minute later there is a heavy banging on the door and a loud call to “get his scrawny ass of bed and down these stairs before I come up there and drag you down myself.” He sits up, wearily rubbing his eyes, and drags himself up off the low palette, still clutching the cover around his shoulders. He can hear shouting from down below, and shuffles over to the window, blinking blearily as he peers out into the misty pre-dawn morning. Despite the murkiness of the pane of glass, he can still make out Bayne, the steward, shouting at - is that Artie or Rory? it’s too dark to tell - as he empties two large cesspit buckets into the river that flows past the servants’ hall.
Yawning, he dresses quickly and heads downstairs.
*
It’s almost midmorning by the time the Ceremony properly begins. Blaine has been busy setting up tents and hauling barrels of ale and trying to back horses into stalls since he downed his meagre breakfast of porridge and bread crusts. There is a lot of work to do to set up a tournament like this one, and though Lord Morris boasts over two hundred servants, there always seems to be too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The four lords that Lord Morris has invited from the surrounding provinces are only the least of their guests - a formal invitation had been accepted by the King himself, who will be staying in the castle for three weeks after. And that means that everything has to be perfect.
Blaine wipes the thin layer of sweat off his forehead as he straightens up, looking out over the tournament field. The weather is fine, wonderful even for such an important event. People bustle around, women attending stalls to sell the baskets they’ve woven or the pies they’ve baked, men brushing down horses and polishing armour, children weaving between their parents’ legs as they play games of chase. A general feeling of excitement fills the air, only amplified by the bursts of song coming from the ale tent and joyful cries of the children.
Sighing, Blaine picks up the two saddles he was carrying and continues over to Lord Morris’ tent. Just behind it are stationed several of his knights, already preparing to joust or spar, attended by their pages as they strap on heavy, gleaming armour and test the sharpness of their blades. He deposits one of the saddles with Sir Hudson and hands the other over to Sir Evans, who sends him a grateful smile. Just as he’s turning round to go and do his next errand - finding a couple of extra cushions for Lord Morris’ frail wife - there is a loud cheer from the Southern entrance to the field. Coming round the side of the tent again, Blaine realises what’s got everyone so excited - the lords are arriving, and will be followed by the King.
The King is a good man, well-loved by most of the peasantry - and therefore, most of the country - for his efforts to improve their well-beings. Lowering taxes, setting up free broth stalls in most major towns on weekends and holidays, even taking a stand for the inclusion of women in matters of state. Although he is rumoured to be stubborn and hot-tempered, his good heart and love for his kingdom have proven themselves time and again when they have been on the brink of war. Even when the Queen passed away a few years ago, leaving him and his son alone, he kept the country running smoothly and the people happy.
A loud fanfare erupts, and Blaine wanders along the edge of the field, standing near the gap between the tents and stalls that serves as an entrance. A herald strides out in front of him, raising his hands to silence the crowd.
When the only sound left is the nickering of horses and the high wail of a baby crying, he speaks. “My Lord,” he says, bowing to Lord Morris, “My Lady,” bowing to Lady Morris, and turning to the crowd, “and everyone else here who hasn’t got a cushion to sit on!” There is a loud cheer of applause. “Please allow me to welcome Lords Marren, Gilliarin, Castelnaudary and Bowle!” More fanfares erupt as the lords ride out onto the field, each surrounded by a small group of knights and servants. The cheering continues as each group heads over to a tent, and only dies down when the herald raises his hands again.
“And of course, His Royal Majesty King Burt and his son, Prince Kurt!”
The crowd erupts into noise as the King rides onto the field, alone save for the boy sitting ramrod straight on a chestnut horse next to him. He raises his hand in greeting, electing another wave of noise from the crowd. The stomping and banging on the barriers that surround some of the field is deafening, people yelling and shouting and cheering for their King.
But then King Burt turns towards his tent, towards Blaine, and all the noise fades from existence as if he had been smothered by several thick layers of mud.
Because the turn meant that whilst previously he had been on the King’s far side, obscured, Prince Kurt is now directly facing Blaine.
And he is the most beautiful human being in existence.
Their eyes meet - after all, Blaine is standing right in front of the King’s tent - and Blaine feels like he’s been hit by a cannonball. Kurt is simplyamazing, eyes such a shocking, beautiful blue, even though he’s standing several yards away, brown hair swept up on top of his head only accentuating his somehow soft-but-sharp features, pointed chin and sweet nose and such beautiful lips, and Blaine wonders what it would feel like to have them open and moving against his, one hand buried in Kurt’s soft brown locks and the other around his waist as he pulled their bodies together -
He mentally kicks himself, trying his best to get the images out of his head as he steps back to allow them to ride past, bowing deeply. His parents had pressed it into him as a child, how wrong it was to think of boys that way, unnatural and sick and shaming. He remembers his father’s words the last time he visited home, strong and harsh, when he had seen him glancing at the other boys at the village fair, “how dare you look at them that way, boy, you are a disgrace, if it wasn’t for the money Lord Morris is so kindly paying you, I would have disowned you by now, filth…”, remembers his mother’s silence and the guarded look of fear in her eyes when he had tried to explain that he couldn’t help it, that he was born like this.
Gulping, he still can’t help but feel a thrill in his stomach when he sees what it unmistakably Kurt’s leg go past only a couple of feet in front of him.
*
The feast begins just after noon, the King and all the Lords and their wives and sons and knights all seated at one long table arranged in the middle of the field.
The morning had been eventful, even though Blaine had been too distracted by glancing over at the King’s tent to watch most of it. Sir Evans squarely beat one of Lord Marren’s knights at the joust, but was later defeated by one of Lord Bowle’s knights in the swordfighting ring. Sir Hudson fared quite well at swordfighting, but lost atrociously to one of the King’s knights in the joust. Lord Morris’ other knights showed a range of victories and losses, but all is done in good will, and by the time the meal begins, everyone is tired and hungry but have thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
Blaine carries his pitcher of wine around the table, stopping whenever he sees a cup that needs refilling and topping it up to the brim. The smells of roast pork and venison and they even have a swan rise from the table, tickling at his nostrils and making him wish for a moment that he was one of them, dining on the best foods and drinking the best wine and being waited on hand and foot.
But then Lord Castelnaudary calls him over for a refill and he remembers what he is: a simple servant.
He carefully refills the lord’s cup, picking up snippets of his conversation with Lord Marren and the King.
“… Yes, he’s doing well. I think the death of his mother shook him, but he’s a strong lad, it didn’t stop him from becoming one of the best swordsmen I’ve known.” The King motions his cup at him, and Blaine hurries round to fill it up. With a jolt, he realises they are talking about Kurt.
“Is he competing today?” asks Lord Marren.
“No, no, he said he doesn’t want to. I don’t want to force him into anything.”
“And what about the ladies, eh?” says Lord Castelnaudary conspiratorially, leaning in as he also hands his cup to Blaine. “You plan on finding him a lovely wife any time soon?”
Blaine sees the King stiffen out of the corner of his eye. “No, he… he hasn’t shown any interest in marriage. Or any of the… ladies.”
Blaine’s ears prick up at this piece of knowledge, something like the smallest glint of hope running through him, but he’s called down the table before he can hear anything more.
*
The feast wears on, Blaine serving, and after having noticed early on that Kurt is nowhere at the table, the nerves and flutteriness he has had since he laid eyes on the beautiful boy begin to calm down. Soon most people are finishing, leaning back and stretching appreciatively. Blaine waits until the King has risen - followed suit by everyone else - to start clearing the table.
He’s carrying what remains of a stuffed turkey back to the castle kitchens when he hears it - the snick of a branch being broken, the soft swooshof a blade twisting through the air, the crunch of moving feet of the leafy ground. Still carrying the turkey, he creeps towards the noise, away from the castle and into the woody strip that surrounds the lake.
He’s not gone far - just past a few trees, really - when he sees him. Tall and lithe and beautiful, graceful as a snake and just as deadly, Kurt is silently swinging his sword around, practising moves as he plunges the blade into invisible enemies and swipes it at the tree.
Blaine stares, shocked still, the turkey still loose in his grasp. So this is where Kurt had been during the feast. Silently practising his swordfighting in the woods, away from the tournament and the Ceremony and society. Blaine doesn’t understand why, knows that it’s none of his business. Kurt is facing away from him, towards the lake, and Blaine knows that this is private, that he should go. He starts to stumble backwards, away from the small clearing, hoping that Kurt doesn’t hear him.
As if nature itself had heard his thoughts and set out to oppose them, a branch snags at his belt and his foot twists in a root at the same time. He comes crashing down onto the leaf-strewn ground, the metal tray the turkey had been on landing with an even louder clang beside him. Up ahead, Kurt freezes, sword raised, then turns around slowly.
Blaine bites his bottom lip, struggling to stand, gasping out his apologies. “Your Highness, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t - I’m going, I’ll let you - please, just forget I was ever here -“
“Wait.”
Kurt’s voice is high and clear and beautiful and Blaine is immediately silenced, staring up in apprehension. The boy stops in front of him, still clutching his sword, strands of hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and a blue shirt hanging loosely off his thin but quietly toned frame. He looks at Blaine for a few moments, forehead creased, before extending a hand to Blaine.
Blaine stares at it, mouth hanging dumbly open, until his brain catches up with his body and he slowly slips his palm into Kurt’s, allows him to gently pull him off the floor.
Their hands linger a little longer than is strictly necessary, perhaps because of how well they seem to fit together. Kurt watches Blaine quietly as he lets go, eyes dropping to the turkey laying abandoned on the floor, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “Better get that back to the castle,” he says. “They’ll be wondering where you are, and I don’t think that telling them you were spying on the Prince is a very good excuse.” Blaine’s mouth drops open again as Kurt turns away, looking out towards the lake then down at the sword in his hand. “I should get back too,” he says, probably more to himself than Blaine.
Gulping and shutting his stupid mouth, Blaine nods awkwardly, spinning around to pick up the turkey and tray. He can feel Kurt’s eyes on him as he checks that the food isn’t dirtied - it’s fine - and smiles slightly at him before carefully stepping over the root and starting back to the castle. He hears a crunch behind him and feels a hand on his shoulder, causing his stomach to swoop.
“Hey, wait,” says Kurt, coming to stand in front of him and twisting his fingers together. “I - er - I didn’t catch your name.”
“Blaine,” he answers after a few seconds of hesitation.
Kurt nods. “It’s lovely to meet you, Blaine.” He pauses. “Keep an eye on that turkey,” he says with a hint of amusement in his voice, then turns away.
Blaine slowly heads back to the castle, stunned.
*
Evening has come, the music is loud, the ale is flowing, and the dancing has begun.
Blaine manoeuvres his way through the crowd, holding the bag of dried fruit he just bought aloft to avoid it getting knocked to the floor or stolen. It’s a strange mix of peasants from the surrounding villages, servants from the castle like himself, and nobility. Mingling, dancing together, enjoying themselves. He lets a little smile slip onto his lips at the thought.
Eventually he’s made it through the thickest part of the mob - he had to avoid the dance in the middle of the field, of course - and can sit atop a wagon to watch the throng of people under the dark sky. The music is quick and catchy, played on the flute and lute and fiddle. He finds himself tapping along with his foot as his eats his food.
Someone pats his shoulder and he looks up to see Rachel, one of the scullions and scandalously in a relationship with Sir Hudson, smiling eagerly at him.
“Wanna dance?” she asks, tugging at his sleeve.
“Uh… sure,” answers Blaine, carefully wrapping the bag up and sticking it in his belt. She squeals excitedly and grabs his hand, pulling him off the wagon.
They dance their way into the crowd, Blaine’s hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder, the others clasped, both grinning with infectious smiles. Blaine has the entire evening off, and suspects his friend Rachel does too, and he intends to make full use of it. The music is even louder over here and blares as they swing past the little stage the musicians are on. Blaine spins Rachel around, laughing as she puts on a pouty face, pretending to be noble, as she dances. The song changes and now they’re changing partners, Blaine spinning around and grasping hands with a rosy-cheeked middle-aged woman. They stomp their feet and dance around and change partners again, and again, and then he’s back to Rachel.
She grins and pulls him in tighter as the tempo picks up, and they spin around dizzily before they have to change partners again, laughing, swaying, spinning, jumping, dancing and then Rachel twirls off again and Blaine twists around -
- and finds himself neatly tucked up in Kurt’s arms.
“Oh my - Your Highness - I’m sorry -“ he exclaims, barely noticing the way Kurt keeps them turning with the dance and with the other partners, too shocked by the fact that he spun into Kurt and is dancing with Kurt and oh my gosh Kurt’s hand is on his waist. Kurt shakes his head, grinning, keeping Blaine transfixed as he gracefully leads him around the dance floor. Blaine’s blood is pulsing in his veins at the physical proximity and the fact that he can smell Kurt and that he smells absolutely amazing. He shuts up after a few more garbled sentences, simply letting Kurt’s silent grin and bright eyes almost green in the low yellow light wash over him as they dance.
The music is leading up to another partner change, but instead of letting him spin off backwards, Kurt gentle leads-dances Blaine over to the edge of the circle and then out of the mob of people entirely.
He lets go of Blaine, taking his hand instead, and tugs him after him through the dark tents and stalls. Blaine follows, dumbstruck.
Kurt stops at the edge of the tents, right on the edge of the field, and turns to face Blaine. His skin is bright in the soft moonlight, all smooth and pale and gleaming. He looks up at Blaine through his eyelashes, an almost nervous look on his face.
Blaine tilts his head gently, silently prompting Kurt to say something, do something, anything. He has no idea what they’re doing out here, no idea what is going on, no idea why Kurt is looking at him like that, as if he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Kurt moves closer, closer, until his face is barely inches from Blaine’s, cool breath ghosting over his skin. Blaine sees his eyes flick downwards and back up to look at him, and the look there is so intense and intimate that it makes Blaine’s head swim.
And then Kurt presses his lips to his, and the world turns upside down.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3118
Summary: The Ceremony of the Butchered Horse is one of the biggest events of the year, and as a servant of the host, Lord Morris, Blaine is busy to have everything ready on time. Little does he know how the ceremony might bring him more than a few surprises, namely in the form of one very attractive young prince.
Author’s Note: Posted from my tumblr. I'll probably make this into a short series, as I have quite a few ideas about where it could go. In the meantime, enjoy some Medieval Klaine AU!
Read on AO3 | Tumblr
When he wakes up on the morning of the 48th annual Ceremony of the Butchered Horse, Blaine Anderson has never felt less like getting out of bed.
He groans, rolling over and pressing his face into the scratchy pillow, the thin cover falling off his back and exposing his bare shoulders to the crisp morning air. Shivering, his pulls it back up, burying his face back into the drifts of warmth that are left in the pillow, and tries his best to go back to sleep.
Unfortunately, he obviously isn’t trying hard enough, because barely a minute later there is a heavy banging on the door and a loud call to “get his scrawny ass of bed and down these stairs before I come up there and drag you down myself.” He sits up, wearily rubbing his eyes, and drags himself up off the low palette, still clutching the cover around his shoulders. He can hear shouting from down below, and shuffles over to the window, blinking blearily as he peers out into the misty pre-dawn morning. Despite the murkiness of the pane of glass, he can still make out Bayne, the steward, shouting at - is that Artie or Rory? it’s too dark to tell - as he empties two large cesspit buckets into the river that flows past the servants’ hall.
Yawning, he dresses quickly and heads downstairs.
*
It’s almost midmorning by the time the Ceremony properly begins. Blaine has been busy setting up tents and hauling barrels of ale and trying to back horses into stalls since he downed his meagre breakfast of porridge and bread crusts. There is a lot of work to do to set up a tournament like this one, and though Lord Morris boasts over two hundred servants, there always seems to be too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The four lords that Lord Morris has invited from the surrounding provinces are only the least of their guests - a formal invitation had been accepted by the King himself, who will be staying in the castle for three weeks after. And that means that everything has to be perfect.
Blaine wipes the thin layer of sweat off his forehead as he straightens up, looking out over the tournament field. The weather is fine, wonderful even for such an important event. People bustle around, women attending stalls to sell the baskets they’ve woven or the pies they’ve baked, men brushing down horses and polishing armour, children weaving between their parents’ legs as they play games of chase. A general feeling of excitement fills the air, only amplified by the bursts of song coming from the ale tent and joyful cries of the children.
Sighing, Blaine picks up the two saddles he was carrying and continues over to Lord Morris’ tent. Just behind it are stationed several of his knights, already preparing to joust or spar, attended by their pages as they strap on heavy, gleaming armour and test the sharpness of their blades. He deposits one of the saddles with Sir Hudson and hands the other over to Sir Evans, who sends him a grateful smile. Just as he’s turning round to go and do his next errand - finding a couple of extra cushions for Lord Morris’ frail wife - there is a loud cheer from the Southern entrance to the field. Coming round the side of the tent again, Blaine realises what’s got everyone so excited - the lords are arriving, and will be followed by the King.
The King is a good man, well-loved by most of the peasantry - and therefore, most of the country - for his efforts to improve their well-beings. Lowering taxes, setting up free broth stalls in most major towns on weekends and holidays, even taking a stand for the inclusion of women in matters of state. Although he is rumoured to be stubborn and hot-tempered, his good heart and love for his kingdom have proven themselves time and again when they have been on the brink of war. Even when the Queen passed away a few years ago, leaving him and his son alone, he kept the country running smoothly and the people happy.
A loud fanfare erupts, and Blaine wanders along the edge of the field, standing near the gap between the tents and stalls that serves as an entrance. A herald strides out in front of him, raising his hands to silence the crowd.
When the only sound left is the nickering of horses and the high wail of a baby crying, he speaks. “My Lord,” he says, bowing to Lord Morris, “My Lady,” bowing to Lady Morris, and turning to the crowd, “and everyone else here who hasn’t got a cushion to sit on!” There is a loud cheer of applause. “Please allow me to welcome Lords Marren, Gilliarin, Castelnaudary and Bowle!” More fanfares erupt as the lords ride out onto the field, each surrounded by a small group of knights and servants. The cheering continues as each group heads over to a tent, and only dies down when the herald raises his hands again.
“And of course, His Royal Majesty King Burt and his son, Prince Kurt!”
The crowd erupts into noise as the King rides onto the field, alone save for the boy sitting ramrod straight on a chestnut horse next to him. He raises his hand in greeting, electing another wave of noise from the crowd. The stomping and banging on the barriers that surround some of the field is deafening, people yelling and shouting and cheering for their King.
But then King Burt turns towards his tent, towards Blaine, and all the noise fades from existence as if he had been smothered by several thick layers of mud.
Because the turn meant that whilst previously he had been on the King’s far side, obscured, Prince Kurt is now directly facing Blaine.
And he is the most beautiful human being in existence.
Their eyes meet - after all, Blaine is standing right in front of the King’s tent - and Blaine feels like he’s been hit by a cannonball. Kurt is simplyamazing, eyes such a shocking, beautiful blue, even though he’s standing several yards away, brown hair swept up on top of his head only accentuating his somehow soft-but-sharp features, pointed chin and sweet nose and such beautiful lips, and Blaine wonders what it would feel like to have them open and moving against his, one hand buried in Kurt’s soft brown locks and the other around his waist as he pulled their bodies together -
He mentally kicks himself, trying his best to get the images out of his head as he steps back to allow them to ride past, bowing deeply. His parents had pressed it into him as a child, how wrong it was to think of boys that way, unnatural and sick and shaming. He remembers his father’s words the last time he visited home, strong and harsh, when he had seen him glancing at the other boys at the village fair, “how dare you look at them that way, boy, you are a disgrace, if it wasn’t for the money Lord Morris is so kindly paying you, I would have disowned you by now, filth…”, remembers his mother’s silence and the guarded look of fear in her eyes when he had tried to explain that he couldn’t help it, that he was born like this.
Gulping, he still can’t help but feel a thrill in his stomach when he sees what it unmistakably Kurt’s leg go past only a couple of feet in front of him.
*
The feast begins just after noon, the King and all the Lords and their wives and sons and knights all seated at one long table arranged in the middle of the field.
The morning had been eventful, even though Blaine had been too distracted by glancing over at the King’s tent to watch most of it. Sir Evans squarely beat one of Lord Marren’s knights at the joust, but was later defeated by one of Lord Bowle’s knights in the swordfighting ring. Sir Hudson fared quite well at swordfighting, but lost atrociously to one of the King’s knights in the joust. Lord Morris’ other knights showed a range of victories and losses, but all is done in good will, and by the time the meal begins, everyone is tired and hungry but have thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
Blaine carries his pitcher of wine around the table, stopping whenever he sees a cup that needs refilling and topping it up to the brim. The smells of roast pork and venison and they even have a swan rise from the table, tickling at his nostrils and making him wish for a moment that he was one of them, dining on the best foods and drinking the best wine and being waited on hand and foot.
But then Lord Castelnaudary calls him over for a refill and he remembers what he is: a simple servant.
He carefully refills the lord’s cup, picking up snippets of his conversation with Lord Marren and the King.
“… Yes, he’s doing well. I think the death of his mother shook him, but he’s a strong lad, it didn’t stop him from becoming one of the best swordsmen I’ve known.” The King motions his cup at him, and Blaine hurries round to fill it up. With a jolt, he realises they are talking about Kurt.
“Is he competing today?” asks Lord Marren.
“No, no, he said he doesn’t want to. I don’t want to force him into anything.”
“And what about the ladies, eh?” says Lord Castelnaudary conspiratorially, leaning in as he also hands his cup to Blaine. “You plan on finding him a lovely wife any time soon?”
Blaine sees the King stiffen out of the corner of his eye. “No, he… he hasn’t shown any interest in marriage. Or any of the… ladies.”
Blaine’s ears prick up at this piece of knowledge, something like the smallest glint of hope running through him, but he’s called down the table before he can hear anything more.
*
The feast wears on, Blaine serving, and after having noticed early on that Kurt is nowhere at the table, the nerves and flutteriness he has had since he laid eyes on the beautiful boy begin to calm down. Soon most people are finishing, leaning back and stretching appreciatively. Blaine waits until the King has risen - followed suit by everyone else - to start clearing the table.
He’s carrying what remains of a stuffed turkey back to the castle kitchens when he hears it - the snick of a branch being broken, the soft swooshof a blade twisting through the air, the crunch of moving feet of the leafy ground. Still carrying the turkey, he creeps towards the noise, away from the castle and into the woody strip that surrounds the lake.
He’s not gone far - just past a few trees, really - when he sees him. Tall and lithe and beautiful, graceful as a snake and just as deadly, Kurt is silently swinging his sword around, practising moves as he plunges the blade into invisible enemies and swipes it at the tree.
Blaine stares, shocked still, the turkey still loose in his grasp. So this is where Kurt had been during the feast. Silently practising his swordfighting in the woods, away from the tournament and the Ceremony and society. Blaine doesn’t understand why, knows that it’s none of his business. Kurt is facing away from him, towards the lake, and Blaine knows that this is private, that he should go. He starts to stumble backwards, away from the small clearing, hoping that Kurt doesn’t hear him.
As if nature itself had heard his thoughts and set out to oppose them, a branch snags at his belt and his foot twists in a root at the same time. He comes crashing down onto the leaf-strewn ground, the metal tray the turkey had been on landing with an even louder clang beside him. Up ahead, Kurt freezes, sword raised, then turns around slowly.
Blaine bites his bottom lip, struggling to stand, gasping out his apologies. “Your Highness, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t - I’m going, I’ll let you - please, just forget I was ever here -“
“Wait.”
Kurt’s voice is high and clear and beautiful and Blaine is immediately silenced, staring up in apprehension. The boy stops in front of him, still clutching his sword, strands of hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and a blue shirt hanging loosely off his thin but quietly toned frame. He looks at Blaine for a few moments, forehead creased, before extending a hand to Blaine.
Blaine stares at it, mouth hanging dumbly open, until his brain catches up with his body and he slowly slips his palm into Kurt’s, allows him to gently pull him off the floor.
Their hands linger a little longer than is strictly necessary, perhaps because of how well they seem to fit together. Kurt watches Blaine quietly as he lets go, eyes dropping to the turkey laying abandoned on the floor, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “Better get that back to the castle,” he says. “They’ll be wondering where you are, and I don’t think that telling them you were spying on the Prince is a very good excuse.” Blaine’s mouth drops open again as Kurt turns away, looking out towards the lake then down at the sword in his hand. “I should get back too,” he says, probably more to himself than Blaine.
Gulping and shutting his stupid mouth, Blaine nods awkwardly, spinning around to pick up the turkey and tray. He can feel Kurt’s eyes on him as he checks that the food isn’t dirtied - it’s fine - and smiles slightly at him before carefully stepping over the root and starting back to the castle. He hears a crunch behind him and feels a hand on his shoulder, causing his stomach to swoop.
“Hey, wait,” says Kurt, coming to stand in front of him and twisting his fingers together. “I - er - I didn’t catch your name.”
“Blaine,” he answers after a few seconds of hesitation.
Kurt nods. “It’s lovely to meet you, Blaine.” He pauses. “Keep an eye on that turkey,” he says with a hint of amusement in his voice, then turns away.
Blaine slowly heads back to the castle, stunned.
*
Evening has come, the music is loud, the ale is flowing, and the dancing has begun.
Blaine manoeuvres his way through the crowd, holding the bag of dried fruit he just bought aloft to avoid it getting knocked to the floor or stolen. It’s a strange mix of peasants from the surrounding villages, servants from the castle like himself, and nobility. Mingling, dancing together, enjoying themselves. He lets a little smile slip onto his lips at the thought.
Eventually he’s made it through the thickest part of the mob - he had to avoid the dance in the middle of the field, of course - and can sit atop a wagon to watch the throng of people under the dark sky. The music is quick and catchy, played on the flute and lute and fiddle. He finds himself tapping along with his foot as his eats his food.
Someone pats his shoulder and he looks up to see Rachel, one of the scullions and scandalously in a relationship with Sir Hudson, smiling eagerly at him.
“Wanna dance?” she asks, tugging at his sleeve.
“Uh… sure,” answers Blaine, carefully wrapping the bag up and sticking it in his belt. She squeals excitedly and grabs his hand, pulling him off the wagon.
They dance their way into the crowd, Blaine’s hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder, the others clasped, both grinning with infectious smiles. Blaine has the entire evening off, and suspects his friend Rachel does too, and he intends to make full use of it. The music is even louder over here and blares as they swing past the little stage the musicians are on. Blaine spins Rachel around, laughing as she puts on a pouty face, pretending to be noble, as she dances. The song changes and now they’re changing partners, Blaine spinning around and grasping hands with a rosy-cheeked middle-aged woman. They stomp their feet and dance around and change partners again, and again, and then he’s back to Rachel.
She grins and pulls him in tighter as the tempo picks up, and they spin around dizzily before they have to change partners again, laughing, swaying, spinning, jumping, dancing and then Rachel twirls off again and Blaine twists around -
- and finds himself neatly tucked up in Kurt’s arms.
“Oh my - Your Highness - I’m sorry -“ he exclaims, barely noticing the way Kurt keeps them turning with the dance and with the other partners, too shocked by the fact that he spun into Kurt and is dancing with Kurt and oh my gosh Kurt’s hand is on his waist. Kurt shakes his head, grinning, keeping Blaine transfixed as he gracefully leads him around the dance floor. Blaine’s blood is pulsing in his veins at the physical proximity and the fact that he can smell Kurt and that he smells absolutely amazing. He shuts up after a few more garbled sentences, simply letting Kurt’s silent grin and bright eyes almost green in the low yellow light wash over him as they dance.
The music is leading up to another partner change, but instead of letting him spin off backwards, Kurt gentle leads-dances Blaine over to the edge of the circle and then out of the mob of people entirely.
He lets go of Blaine, taking his hand instead, and tugs him after him through the dark tents and stalls. Blaine follows, dumbstruck.
Kurt stops at the edge of the tents, right on the edge of the field, and turns to face Blaine. His skin is bright in the soft moonlight, all smooth and pale and gleaming. He looks up at Blaine through his eyelashes, an almost nervous look on his face.
Blaine tilts his head gently, silently prompting Kurt to say something, do something, anything. He has no idea what they’re doing out here, no idea what is going on, no idea why Kurt is looking at him like that, as if he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Kurt moves closer, closer, until his face is barely inches from Blaine’s, cool breath ghosting over his skin. Blaine sees his eyes flick downwards and back up to look at him, and the look there is so intense and intimate that it makes Blaine’s head swim.
And then Kurt presses his lips to his, and the world turns upside down.