Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns - Chapter Twelve, Part One
Title: Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns - Chapter Twelve (Prologue+12/?)
Media: Fic
Author: mothergoddamn
Beta: mothergoddamn
Rating: Rated R
Pairing: Klaine endgame, bumps along the way.
Genre: Romance, AU, Historical Fiction
Warnings: This is essentially a romance novel set in a violent time. There will be, throughout the story, the following: sexual liaisons, murder, torture, sexual blackmail, and political incorrectness.
Spoilers: While events and references from both seasons of Glee (which is not mine and never has been) may be adapted and worked into the story occasionally, it's otherwise fully AU.
Word Count: Story: 67,000+ This Chapter: 5900+
Summary: England, 1485: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. Allies of the House of York have come to the same conclusion and want to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon will be Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy.
Additional Notes: This is written in the vein of your typical historical romance novel with all the historical liberties taken that you'd expect. I do try to be as historically accurate as is feasible, though. There are some historical and some original characters that interact with the characters we know. If you haven't read any of this before, you can start HERE to read it on LJ or HERE to start it on AO3.
Kurt allowed Blaine to avoid him for seven long, agonizing days.
The Viscount took meals alone in his chambers and spent all of his time either barricaded in his library or out in the sparring yard with his Marshal. He took very great care to ensure that he was never accessible to Kurt, who carried on with Amelia's singing lessons and resumed their midnight chats under a cloud of discontent that, unfortunately for him, did not escape Amelia's notice.
They were sitting back to back in the window seat of Dalton's music library quietly reading by lamplight when she must have decided that she couldn't stand it any longer. “You've been in a dreadful mood for the last four days, Florian,” she had announced, closing her book and tipping her head back onto his shoulder. “And Blaine is avoiding you.”
“Is he? I'd not noticed.” Kurt concentrated on the songbook he held, both because he actually wanted to learn the song in front of him and because he wanted her to leave off from discussing the topic.
He didn't know why he'd even thought he'd had a chance at the latter. “Yes, you have. Just today when he went through the dining hall on the way out to the sparring yard and he didn't even look at you, I saw your face. Your jaw gets tight and you turn red when you're angry, did you know?”
Yes, he knew. He pressed his lips together and kept reading, ignoring her.
Amelia swung around and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I won't let you ignore me. Surely you know by now that you can't.”
“I apologized for the dress incident,” Kurt had replied as mildly as he could, licking his finger before he turned over a page. “That does not mean I won't arrange a repeat of it, Amelia. Perhaps with that blue and silver gown you're so very fond of.”
“I'm not afraid of you,” she'd retorted. “You're the one who said it was a shame to ruin my dress, you clotheshorse.”
“Absolutely earned yourself a second slushing,” he mumbled back. Amelia refused to back down.
“We've been here only a few days and God only knows how much longer we'll stay, Florian.” Her tone of voice was maddeningly reasonable. “It behooves you to get along with Blaine.”
Kurt picked up a bookmark and slotted it into place, snapping the book shut with an angry thump. “Amelia, you're only doing this out of some voyeuristic prurience. I will not be the pawn in whatever game it is that you're playing. And if you won't leave it alone, I'll just go back to bed, I'm tired anyway.” He'd slipped off of the window seat then, wishing he didn't have to tiptoe away to avoid rousing the household. Flouncing or stalking off would have been be so much more effective.
And faster. Amelia had kept pace with him easily as he tried to get back to his room. “It's not prurience. I love Blaine, and I care a great deal about you,” she'd insisted. “I'm trying to help. Why are you two so angry at each other? What could have happened in just a few days?”
He'd whirled on her, cheeks burning with fury, and spat out the words before continuing his slow, silent journey to his room. “He kissed me.”
He kissed me.
It was the first time he'd said it aloud, and somehow it solidified what had happened, taking away the edge of unreality that surrounded his memory of the event. He pressed his fingers against lips that seemed to still feel the softness and the pressure of Blaine's, felt the phantom traces of the embrace that had encircled him and made him feel somehow protected in the midst of a raging inferno.
It had certainly done nothing to help him remember that he needed to remain detached and mindful of his mission. It had, however, managed to completely burn away any lingering attraction he'd had to the unattainable Earl of Hudson. That was...somewhat helpful. To whatever degree that his fantasies were now fully concentrated on the man he was meant to destroy was able to be helpful, at least.
In the wake of his whispered confession, Amelia had stood stock still for only a moment before shaking off her surprise and chasing him down the corridor, pulling him to a stop. “He kissed you! When! Where?”
“On the lips,” Kurt had quipped, earning himself a stomp on the foot that he had to suppress a howl of pained rage over. “Fine! In the library. The second night. I couldn't sleep...”
“So you went looking for Blaine?”
“I went for a walk. And I found Blaine. He was asleep. I woke him up and...” He tilted up one shoulder in a shrug. “That was it.”
Amelia frowned. “Then why aren't you speaking?”
“I suppose he thought it was a mistake.” He'd kept his tone as light as he could, but she saw right through it and gave him a tight hug before retiring to her chambers without another word.
Three more days had passed, and now here he was, standing outside the door of the weapons training salle. He'd just seen David leave, so he was fairly certain Blaine was now alone. Alone, and expecting Kurt to be with Amelia for a lesson. He didn't know that Amelia had quite happily agreed to put off her lesson for a few hours to give Kurt time to confront him.
A plan that would only work if Kurt could muster up the courage to open the door and go inside before Blaine came out here and the opportunity was lost. Before he froze to death - spring was teasing its arrival, but it was still bitterly cold in late February, and he'd once again forgotten his cloak. His doublet was a thicker one for the weather, but still not heavy enough to simply stand around outside in. A shiver racked his bones and forced him to get a grip. Just open the door, Kurt.
Steeling his nerves, he curled his fingers around the door handle and pulled it open, sliding quickly inside and shutting it behind him. The hinges were well oiled and made no sound, and it was the work of an instant to quietly drop the heavy wooden bar down to secure it so that no one else could come in. Best of all, Blaine hadn't heard him - with the rhythmic thump of his heavy wooden practice sword on a thick post, he was making too much noise to hear Kurt approaching at all.
Kurt realized too late that this was a mistake. Blaine whirled in place to execute some complicated maneuver and Kurt was close - too close. The wooden sword collided with Kurt's upper arm, sending him tumbling down onto the hard packed dirt floor.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
Seven days. Seven days since he had kissed Florian and fled the room.
Blaine had run back to his chambers and barred the door behind him, where he'd then lain awake for hours trying to come to terms with what he'd done.
Edward Blaine Anderson did not act on impulse. He considered, he thought, he planned. Even his affair with Thad had been pre-meditated. He thought in a tactical manner at all times, which was why his frequent verbal gaffes in front of Florian mortified him so.
But kissing Florian went well beyond a verbal gaffe. A kiss changed everything. It forced Blaine to make a decision he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to make.
To choose between his duty to his country and his own desires. He could well be ruined if they were caught together, and at such a delicate time, that was unwise. Lord Crawford had made it abundantly clear that he and no other could manage what was needed amongst the ranks of the lesser nobles. No one else would be accepted. Blaine had the familial connections, the intelligence, and the friendship needed amongst the most well armed of the lesser nobles.
To risk all of that, to risk career and the future of England for his own wants and needs - it would be catastrophic.
But he wanted, and wanted badly. He felt both sixteen and twenty at once, understanding clearly his responsibilities and yet wanting nothing of them if it meant denying himself the one thing he truly desired.
How could he have let this happen?
He knew, with sinking heart, that he would have to put the campaign ahead of himself, would have to subjugate his own selfish wanting. The good of England and the advancement of the Tudors was most important. Blaine knew this was the right thing to do, and yet it still felt like a knife through his heart. The sixteen year old boy that still resided within him was shouting that it was unfair, unfair, unfair, but what could he do?
It would be difficult - he could not send Florian away, and there was no telling how long he and Amelia would need to remain under Blaine's roof. He would have to go through every day seeing that lovely face, hearing that unreal voice, how would he ever keep his resolve?
Blaine sat up in bed and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around them and resting his troubled, weary head there. He would have to just do his level best to avoid the man as much as possible. It was the last thing he truly wanted, but there was nothing else for it.
Perhaps once this war was over, once everything was resolved...perhaps then he could indulge himself. He remained sleepless the rest of the night trying to convince himself of that.
He caught glimpses of Florian over the next few days. Just long enough to see his mouth go into a tight angry line. To see his body stiffen at the blatant rejection and ignoring. To wish he could run after the singer and tell him he was sorry, so sorry, but this was the best thing to do. For now. He wanted to beg forgiveness and understanding, but Blaine was sure that any contact at all would be a mistake he would absolutely not be able to come back from.
He threw himself into his work, every waking moment spent with David or Wes working on strategy. Communications went out daily to his friends and peers, striving to arrange a large gathering of nobles to begin the process of preparing for war. If he wasn't taking meals in his own rooms or at work in his study, he was in the salle and sparring yard working with David to refine his weapons technique.
During those days, Blaine did not even really see Amelia, which made him unhappy but was also something of a relief. He could see her growing increasingly frustrated with both himself and Florian. It would be only a matter of time before she confronted Florian and demanded to know what was going on, and then she would do her level best to confront Blaine.
On the seventh day, he escaped her in the nick of time as he vanished out to the salle with David to practice movement. He was getting better at controlling his urge to give in totally to instinct, much to his and David's satisfaction. Now that he knew for certain that he would be facing a battlefield, he needed to be sure he could concentrate and keep a cool head.
After two hours, David gave up. “Blaine, I've got to go. I need to confer with Wes on the next round of correspondence.”
“That's fine. I'll work with the pells. I've been meaning to for a few days now.”
David frowned and looked hard at Blaine, seeing the emotional walls that he'd put up and that his eyes were opaque, giving away nothing. “Are you going to tell me what's going on that you're working yourself into exhaustion every day and night?”
“No.” Blaine had his squire strip off his chestplate and then dismissed him, leaving him standing in a light mail shirt, shinguards, gauntlets, and his worn practice clothing. He yanked his helmet off and racked it, since he wouldn't need it for solo work. “It's nothing.”
David debated pressing the matter, but one look at Blaine as he picked up his weighted wooden pells sword changed his mind. He had no wish to have his head caved in for being a meddling fool. With a salute, he turned on his heel and departed the salle, leaving Blaine to face the stout wooden post that served as a drill target.
Now completely alone, he applied himself with focused determination to his drills, the thwack of wood on wood in a prescribed rhythm almost hypnotic, almost even soothing. Already sweating from his workout with David, now sweat dripped from his curls into his eyes, stinging and blinding him. He wiped away at it with his sleeved arm, wishing he'd thought to bind his hair back when he took his helmet off.
One more maneuver, then he'd stop and get some water and would tie his hair back. He wanted to practice a spin technique that would allow him to target two opponents at once. Stepping back, he raised his sword once more and attacked the pells, pulling away and spinning to face his imaginary second foe.
Too late, Blaine saw surprised blue-green eyes just before his heavily weighted wooden sword smashed into Florian's right arm and forced him to the ground, keening in agony.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
“Florian!” Blaine's voice was aghast as he tossed his weapon aside, landing on his knees at Kurt's side as the wooden blade clattered to the floor. “I didn't know you were there! What are you doing in here? Don't you know not to get so close to someone who's at weapons practice?”
Kurt struggled to sit up. His arm somehow managed to be numb and on fire all at once. It wasn't broken, though, he could tell. That was a relief. “I would have if I had exercised common sense,” he admitted, blinking back tears of pain. “It really should have occurred to me that it would be a poor notion to walk up behind someone with a weapon in their hand. A failing on my part.”
“You're hurt.” Blaine was clearly distressed and didn't know what to do. “I'm afraid to touch you, I don't want to hurt you more.”
“It's not broken, and besides, I've had worse from a horse.” Kurt shrugged and immediately regretted it as fire shot through the injured limb. “Not much worse, I confess, but worse. It's going to be fine. I just need a snow compress.”
“I'm sorry.”
Kurt mustered a smile. “Don't be. It's my fault for being so determined to corner you and talk to you that I didn't think.”
“You wanted to - oh.” Blaine's expression shuttered immediately. “Well, then, you've been doubly thoughtless. Surely you're aware we've nothing to discuss.”
“That's not true,” Kurt protested, reaching to grab Blaine as the Viscount made to stand up. His hand landed on the other man's wrist and he held tight. “You kissed me, Blaine. You also seem to think it was a mistake.”
“I didn't mean for it to happen.” Blaine looked away, tugging to get his hand free, but it was a weak effort. “You're a guest in my home.”
“You obviously failed to notice my complete lack of pushing you away,” Kurt snapped. “Were your approach unwelcome, I would not have risked life and limb to come speak to you in here. You're being ridiculous.”
Blaine succeeded in yanking his arm away, standing to pace the room in agitation. He pulled off his gauntlet and ran a hand through his sweaty tangle of curls. “What do you want from me, Florian?”
“I'm not sure,” Kurt replied slowly, trying to consider the best way to express himself. Once again, he cursed Jesse St. James for casting him into this so entirely uncharted territory without any sort of direction or assistance. Not knowing what else to do, Kurt opted for an embarrassingly straightforward approach.
“No. That's not entirely true. I want you to kiss me again.”
The look on Blaine's face was a mingling of confusion, anger, and what Kurt fervently hoped was desire. “Are you at all aware of the social and religious implications of such an event?”
“Yes,” Kurt replied, his stomach knotting up as he considered again what St. James had told him and what he had to do. “It doesn't matter.”
“You're a music teacher, of course it wouldn't to you,” Blaine sneered. “I, however, am of greater political importance. I do not have your freedom. I must ever take care to remain above reproach no matter what I might want.” His tone was bitter, icy cold and angry.
“You're admitting, then, that you wanted to kiss me?” Kurt pushed up to his feet, ignoring the laughable idea that he had any freedom, ignoring the pain the movement caused. He moved to stand and lock eyes with Blaine. It astounded him how his new persona seemed to impart such boldness to him.
“Of course I did. But it doesn't matter. What I want is of no importance in the greater service of my country.” The words were strong, courageous, self-sacrificing - all attributes that were weakened by the unhappiness and lack of conviction behind them. Kurt decided to press forward.
Quite apart from his mission, Kurt very much wished to kiss Blaine himself.
“It does matter, though,” he persisted, willing the lump in his throat to recede before it caused his voice to break. His next words were too important for that to happen. They were part of what had fueled his anger these last days. “It matters to me. You can't just take my first kiss from me and then act as if it were a mistake.”
Blaine let out his breath in a rush, eyes going wide and dark with surprise. “What?”
“I'd never been kissed,” Kurt replied, very simply, very honestly. “You were my first.”
“Oh.” The Viscount moved to a bench at the side of the sparring circle and sat down heavily. “Florian, I didn't...”
“I quite liked it, and it seemed at the time that you did, too - until you ran off...” Kurt trailed off, thinking. “Whether or not you'd like to repeat it, I would at least like you to not think of it as a mistake, and please, stop treating me like a plague carrier.” He smiled, but weakly - his feelings were hurt almost as much as his arm. “Also, you took my candle when you left. That was unkind, I had to make my way back to my room in the dark. Very dangerous.”
Blaine looked up, apology in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For all of it. For the way it happened, for how I behaved afterward, for your arm. You wouldn't have gotten hurt if I hadn't forced your hand.”
“I wouldn't have gotten hurt if I'd stopped to think for a moment,” Kurt corrected, a rueful smile turning his lips up. “And that reminds me - I need that snow compress.” He cast his eyes about the room. “Do you have a clean cloth?”
“I have.” A chest near the bench yielded a stack of old, clean towels that the fighters used to clean up with after practicing. “Emma cannot abide the way it smells in here, but her determination to ensure that every inch of Dalton House is perfectly spotless wins out, so this is kept full.” Blaine tugged out one of the towels. “Let me divest myself of this armor and I'll help you.”
“I would appreciate that.” Kurt watched in awe as Blaine moved to the armor rack and began stripping pieces off.
“This won't take me long. Not like it would if I were in full armor.” Blaine smiled, his teeth flashing white in his sun-darkened face. “I'd have to find my squire again, it would take ages. All things considered, apart from the single misstep, your timing was excellent for this.”
...Part Two...
Media: Fic
Author: mothergoddamn
Beta: mothergoddamn
Rating: Rated R
Pairing: Klaine endgame, bumps along the way.
Genre: Romance, AU, Historical Fiction
Warnings: This is essentially a romance novel set in a violent time. There will be, throughout the story, the following: sexual liaisons, murder, torture, sexual blackmail, and political incorrectness.
Spoilers: While events and references from both seasons of Glee (which is not mine and never has been) may be adapted and worked into the story occasionally, it's otherwise fully AU.
Word Count: Story: 67,000+ This Chapter: 5900+
Summary: England, 1485: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. Allies of the House of York have come to the same conclusion and want to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon will be Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy.
Additional Notes: This is written in the vein of your typical historical romance novel with all the historical liberties taken that you'd expect. I do try to be as historically accurate as is feasible, though. There are some historical and some original characters that interact with the characters we know. If you haven't read any of this before, you can start HERE to read it on LJ or HERE to start it on AO3.
Kurt allowed Blaine to avoid him for seven long, agonizing days.
The Viscount took meals alone in his chambers and spent all of his time either barricaded in his library or out in the sparring yard with his Marshal. He took very great care to ensure that he was never accessible to Kurt, who carried on with Amelia's singing lessons and resumed their midnight chats under a cloud of discontent that, unfortunately for him, did not escape Amelia's notice.
They were sitting back to back in the window seat of Dalton's music library quietly reading by lamplight when she must have decided that she couldn't stand it any longer. “You've been in a dreadful mood for the last four days, Florian,” she had announced, closing her book and tipping her head back onto his shoulder. “And Blaine is avoiding you.”
“Is he? I'd not noticed.” Kurt concentrated on the songbook he held, both because he actually wanted to learn the song in front of him and because he wanted her to leave off from discussing the topic.
He didn't know why he'd even thought he'd had a chance at the latter. “Yes, you have. Just today when he went through the dining hall on the way out to the sparring yard and he didn't even look at you, I saw your face. Your jaw gets tight and you turn red when you're angry, did you know?”
Yes, he knew. He pressed his lips together and kept reading, ignoring her.
Amelia swung around and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I won't let you ignore me. Surely you know by now that you can't.”
“I apologized for the dress incident,” Kurt had replied as mildly as he could, licking his finger before he turned over a page. “That does not mean I won't arrange a repeat of it, Amelia. Perhaps with that blue and silver gown you're so very fond of.”
“I'm not afraid of you,” she'd retorted. “You're the one who said it was a shame to ruin my dress, you clotheshorse.”
“Absolutely earned yourself a second slushing,” he mumbled back. Amelia refused to back down.
“We've been here only a few days and God only knows how much longer we'll stay, Florian.” Her tone of voice was maddeningly reasonable. “It behooves you to get along with Blaine.”
Kurt picked up a bookmark and slotted it into place, snapping the book shut with an angry thump. “Amelia, you're only doing this out of some voyeuristic prurience. I will not be the pawn in whatever game it is that you're playing. And if you won't leave it alone, I'll just go back to bed, I'm tired anyway.” He'd slipped off of the window seat then, wishing he didn't have to tiptoe away to avoid rousing the household. Flouncing or stalking off would have been be so much more effective.
And faster. Amelia had kept pace with him easily as he tried to get back to his room. “It's not prurience. I love Blaine, and I care a great deal about you,” she'd insisted. “I'm trying to help. Why are you two so angry at each other? What could have happened in just a few days?”
He'd whirled on her, cheeks burning with fury, and spat out the words before continuing his slow, silent journey to his room. “He kissed me.”
He kissed me.
It was the first time he'd said it aloud, and somehow it solidified what had happened, taking away the edge of unreality that surrounded his memory of the event. He pressed his fingers against lips that seemed to still feel the softness and the pressure of Blaine's, felt the phantom traces of the embrace that had encircled him and made him feel somehow protected in the midst of a raging inferno.
It had certainly done nothing to help him remember that he needed to remain detached and mindful of his mission. It had, however, managed to completely burn away any lingering attraction he'd had to the unattainable Earl of Hudson. That was...somewhat helpful. To whatever degree that his fantasies were now fully concentrated on the man he was meant to destroy was able to be helpful, at least.
In the wake of his whispered confession, Amelia had stood stock still for only a moment before shaking off her surprise and chasing him down the corridor, pulling him to a stop. “He kissed you! When! Where?”
“On the lips,” Kurt had quipped, earning himself a stomp on the foot that he had to suppress a howl of pained rage over. “Fine! In the library. The second night. I couldn't sleep...”
“So you went looking for Blaine?”
“I went for a walk. And I found Blaine. He was asleep. I woke him up and...” He tilted up one shoulder in a shrug. “That was it.”
Amelia frowned. “Then why aren't you speaking?”
“I suppose he thought it was a mistake.” He'd kept his tone as light as he could, but she saw right through it and gave him a tight hug before retiring to her chambers without another word.
Three more days had passed, and now here he was, standing outside the door of the weapons training salle. He'd just seen David leave, so he was fairly certain Blaine was now alone. Alone, and expecting Kurt to be with Amelia for a lesson. He didn't know that Amelia had quite happily agreed to put off her lesson for a few hours to give Kurt time to confront him.
A plan that would only work if Kurt could muster up the courage to open the door and go inside before Blaine came out here and the opportunity was lost. Before he froze to death - spring was teasing its arrival, but it was still bitterly cold in late February, and he'd once again forgotten his cloak. His doublet was a thicker one for the weather, but still not heavy enough to simply stand around outside in. A shiver racked his bones and forced him to get a grip. Just open the door, Kurt.
Steeling his nerves, he curled his fingers around the door handle and pulled it open, sliding quickly inside and shutting it behind him. The hinges were well oiled and made no sound, and it was the work of an instant to quietly drop the heavy wooden bar down to secure it so that no one else could come in. Best of all, Blaine hadn't heard him - with the rhythmic thump of his heavy wooden practice sword on a thick post, he was making too much noise to hear Kurt approaching at all.
Kurt realized too late that this was a mistake. Blaine whirled in place to execute some complicated maneuver and Kurt was close - too close. The wooden sword collided with Kurt's upper arm, sending him tumbling down onto the hard packed dirt floor.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
Seven days. Seven days since he had kissed Florian and fled the room.
Blaine had run back to his chambers and barred the door behind him, where he'd then lain awake for hours trying to come to terms with what he'd done.
Edward Blaine Anderson did not act on impulse. He considered, he thought, he planned. Even his affair with Thad had been pre-meditated. He thought in a tactical manner at all times, which was why his frequent verbal gaffes in front of Florian mortified him so.
But kissing Florian went well beyond a verbal gaffe. A kiss changed everything. It forced Blaine to make a decision he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to make.
To choose between his duty to his country and his own desires. He could well be ruined if they were caught together, and at such a delicate time, that was unwise. Lord Crawford had made it abundantly clear that he and no other could manage what was needed amongst the ranks of the lesser nobles. No one else would be accepted. Blaine had the familial connections, the intelligence, and the friendship needed amongst the most well armed of the lesser nobles.
To risk all of that, to risk career and the future of England for his own wants and needs - it would be catastrophic.
But he wanted, and wanted badly. He felt both sixteen and twenty at once, understanding clearly his responsibilities and yet wanting nothing of them if it meant denying himself the one thing he truly desired.
How could he have let this happen?
He knew, with sinking heart, that he would have to put the campaign ahead of himself, would have to subjugate his own selfish wanting. The good of England and the advancement of the Tudors was most important. Blaine knew this was the right thing to do, and yet it still felt like a knife through his heart. The sixteen year old boy that still resided within him was shouting that it was unfair, unfair, unfair, but what could he do?
It would be difficult - he could not send Florian away, and there was no telling how long he and Amelia would need to remain under Blaine's roof. He would have to go through every day seeing that lovely face, hearing that unreal voice, how would he ever keep his resolve?
Blaine sat up in bed and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around them and resting his troubled, weary head there. He would have to just do his level best to avoid the man as much as possible. It was the last thing he truly wanted, but there was nothing else for it.
Perhaps once this war was over, once everything was resolved...perhaps then he could indulge himself. He remained sleepless the rest of the night trying to convince himself of that.
He caught glimpses of Florian over the next few days. Just long enough to see his mouth go into a tight angry line. To see his body stiffen at the blatant rejection and ignoring. To wish he could run after the singer and tell him he was sorry, so sorry, but this was the best thing to do. For now. He wanted to beg forgiveness and understanding, but Blaine was sure that any contact at all would be a mistake he would absolutely not be able to come back from.
He threw himself into his work, every waking moment spent with David or Wes working on strategy. Communications went out daily to his friends and peers, striving to arrange a large gathering of nobles to begin the process of preparing for war. If he wasn't taking meals in his own rooms or at work in his study, he was in the salle and sparring yard working with David to refine his weapons technique.
During those days, Blaine did not even really see Amelia, which made him unhappy but was also something of a relief. He could see her growing increasingly frustrated with both himself and Florian. It would be only a matter of time before she confronted Florian and demanded to know what was going on, and then she would do her level best to confront Blaine.
On the seventh day, he escaped her in the nick of time as he vanished out to the salle with David to practice movement. He was getting better at controlling his urge to give in totally to instinct, much to his and David's satisfaction. Now that he knew for certain that he would be facing a battlefield, he needed to be sure he could concentrate and keep a cool head.
After two hours, David gave up. “Blaine, I've got to go. I need to confer with Wes on the next round of correspondence.”
“That's fine. I'll work with the pells. I've been meaning to for a few days now.”
David frowned and looked hard at Blaine, seeing the emotional walls that he'd put up and that his eyes were opaque, giving away nothing. “Are you going to tell me what's going on that you're working yourself into exhaustion every day and night?”
“No.” Blaine had his squire strip off his chestplate and then dismissed him, leaving him standing in a light mail shirt, shinguards, gauntlets, and his worn practice clothing. He yanked his helmet off and racked it, since he wouldn't need it for solo work. “It's nothing.”
David debated pressing the matter, but one look at Blaine as he picked up his weighted wooden pells sword changed his mind. He had no wish to have his head caved in for being a meddling fool. With a salute, he turned on his heel and departed the salle, leaving Blaine to face the stout wooden post that served as a drill target.
Now completely alone, he applied himself with focused determination to his drills, the thwack of wood on wood in a prescribed rhythm almost hypnotic, almost even soothing. Already sweating from his workout with David, now sweat dripped from his curls into his eyes, stinging and blinding him. He wiped away at it with his sleeved arm, wishing he'd thought to bind his hair back when he took his helmet off.
One more maneuver, then he'd stop and get some water and would tie his hair back. He wanted to practice a spin technique that would allow him to target two opponents at once. Stepping back, he raised his sword once more and attacked the pells, pulling away and spinning to face his imaginary second foe.
Too late, Blaine saw surprised blue-green eyes just before his heavily weighted wooden sword smashed into Florian's right arm and forced him to the ground, keening in agony.
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~
“Florian!” Blaine's voice was aghast as he tossed his weapon aside, landing on his knees at Kurt's side as the wooden blade clattered to the floor. “I didn't know you were there! What are you doing in here? Don't you know not to get so close to someone who's at weapons practice?”
Kurt struggled to sit up. His arm somehow managed to be numb and on fire all at once. It wasn't broken, though, he could tell. That was a relief. “I would have if I had exercised common sense,” he admitted, blinking back tears of pain. “It really should have occurred to me that it would be a poor notion to walk up behind someone with a weapon in their hand. A failing on my part.”
“You're hurt.” Blaine was clearly distressed and didn't know what to do. “I'm afraid to touch you, I don't want to hurt you more.”
“It's not broken, and besides, I've had worse from a horse.” Kurt shrugged and immediately regretted it as fire shot through the injured limb. “Not much worse, I confess, but worse. It's going to be fine. I just need a snow compress.”
“I'm sorry.”
Kurt mustered a smile. “Don't be. It's my fault for being so determined to corner you and talk to you that I didn't think.”
“You wanted to - oh.” Blaine's expression shuttered immediately. “Well, then, you've been doubly thoughtless. Surely you're aware we've nothing to discuss.”
“That's not true,” Kurt protested, reaching to grab Blaine as the Viscount made to stand up. His hand landed on the other man's wrist and he held tight. “You kissed me, Blaine. You also seem to think it was a mistake.”
“I didn't mean for it to happen.” Blaine looked away, tugging to get his hand free, but it was a weak effort. “You're a guest in my home.”
“You obviously failed to notice my complete lack of pushing you away,” Kurt snapped. “Were your approach unwelcome, I would not have risked life and limb to come speak to you in here. You're being ridiculous.”
Blaine succeeded in yanking his arm away, standing to pace the room in agitation. He pulled off his gauntlet and ran a hand through his sweaty tangle of curls. “What do you want from me, Florian?”
“I'm not sure,” Kurt replied slowly, trying to consider the best way to express himself. Once again, he cursed Jesse St. James for casting him into this so entirely uncharted territory without any sort of direction or assistance. Not knowing what else to do, Kurt opted for an embarrassingly straightforward approach.
“No. That's not entirely true. I want you to kiss me again.”
The look on Blaine's face was a mingling of confusion, anger, and what Kurt fervently hoped was desire. “Are you at all aware of the social and religious implications of such an event?”
“Yes,” Kurt replied, his stomach knotting up as he considered again what St. James had told him and what he had to do. “It doesn't matter.”
“You're a music teacher, of course it wouldn't to you,” Blaine sneered. “I, however, am of greater political importance. I do not have your freedom. I must ever take care to remain above reproach no matter what I might want.” His tone was bitter, icy cold and angry.
“You're admitting, then, that you wanted to kiss me?” Kurt pushed up to his feet, ignoring the laughable idea that he had any freedom, ignoring the pain the movement caused. He moved to stand and lock eyes with Blaine. It astounded him how his new persona seemed to impart such boldness to him.
“Of course I did. But it doesn't matter. What I want is of no importance in the greater service of my country.” The words were strong, courageous, self-sacrificing - all attributes that were weakened by the unhappiness and lack of conviction behind them. Kurt decided to press forward.
Quite apart from his mission, Kurt very much wished to kiss Blaine himself.
“It does matter, though,” he persisted, willing the lump in his throat to recede before it caused his voice to break. His next words were too important for that to happen. They were part of what had fueled his anger these last days. “It matters to me. You can't just take my first kiss from me and then act as if it were a mistake.”
Blaine let out his breath in a rush, eyes going wide and dark with surprise. “What?”
“I'd never been kissed,” Kurt replied, very simply, very honestly. “You were my first.”
“Oh.” The Viscount moved to a bench at the side of the sparring circle and sat down heavily. “Florian, I didn't...”
“I quite liked it, and it seemed at the time that you did, too - until you ran off...” Kurt trailed off, thinking. “Whether or not you'd like to repeat it, I would at least like you to not think of it as a mistake, and please, stop treating me like a plague carrier.” He smiled, but weakly - his feelings were hurt almost as much as his arm. “Also, you took my candle when you left. That was unkind, I had to make my way back to my room in the dark. Very dangerous.”
Blaine looked up, apology in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For all of it. For the way it happened, for how I behaved afterward, for your arm. You wouldn't have gotten hurt if I hadn't forced your hand.”
“I wouldn't have gotten hurt if I'd stopped to think for a moment,” Kurt corrected, a rueful smile turning his lips up. “And that reminds me - I need that snow compress.” He cast his eyes about the room. “Do you have a clean cloth?”
“I have.” A chest near the bench yielded a stack of old, clean towels that the fighters used to clean up with after practicing. “Emma cannot abide the way it smells in here, but her determination to ensure that every inch of Dalton House is perfectly spotless wins out, so this is kept full.” Blaine tugged out one of the towels. “Let me divest myself of this armor and I'll help you.”
“I would appreciate that.” Kurt watched in awe as Blaine moved to the armor rack and began stripping pieces off.
“This won't take me long. Not like it would if I were in full armor.” Blaine smiled, his teeth flashing white in his sun-darkened face. “I'd have to find my squire again, it would take ages. All things considered, apart from the single misstep, your timing was excellent for this.”
...Part Two...