**** July/August 1895 ****

Chapter 18

"I now pronounce you man and wife," the minister said.

A resounding cheer came from the back of the church and Quinn smiled as Blaine leaned in to kiss her. His stomach fluttered as he caught the whiff of orange blossoms in her hair, teasing him with memory. Trying to smile back, he searched the faces of their guests for his aunt, but instead found his best man, Sam Evans, who nearly suffocated him with a fierce hug.

"Smile, Blaine," Sam muttered into his ear. "It's your wedding day."

Blaine tugged the corners of his mouth as high as they could go without making him look like he'd escaped from the sanitarium and patted his friend on the back, thankful for the reminder that he still had a role to play.

The afternoon sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass windows painted the aisle in a myriad of colors that reflected off the muted silk of Quinn's gown: a work of art that Kurt had created with his own two hands. There was no denying its beauty, the exquisite embroidery, or the tiny details that made it one-of-a-kind. Everyone had marveled at it, Blaine included, and every lady in attendance had begged Mrs. Fabray for the name of the dressmaker.

"Now, I can't give all my secrets away," she told a woman Blaine was certain had once bragged to his own mother that she had all of her clothes custom made in England.

The irony that Judith Fabray was now suddenly keen on Kurt's skill as a dressmaker did escaped neither Blaine's nor Quinn's attention.

"Look at her," Quinn whispered. "She practically spat in Kurt's face in his shop yesterday, and now she's bragging about him like he's her oldest and dearest friend."

"Well, you do look quite lovely," Blaine said honestly. "The orange blossoms were a nice touch."

"Kurt's idea," Quinn said with a bright smile. "He thought it would remind you of where we met."

Blaine smiled, but he wasn't thinking of Quinn. His mind was driven to a stronger memory, one that was imprinted on his heart and perfumed with the scent of orange blossoms in the dark. It was bright eyes the color of the sea and miles of fair skin laid out before him on a bed; it was poetry and prose, timeless and forever.

"Kurt is..." Blaine began, but once he started to speak found he could not finish the sentence. The words he wanted to say could not be uttered aloud, and anything less would be a falsehood worthy of treason against his heart.

"We should speak to my father about investing in his business," Quinn said, paying Blaine's aborted comment no mind. "I think Mr. Hummel would like to have his shop in a better part of town and a more... reliable clientele."

Biting his lip, Blaine nodded his agreement rather than risking another attempt to speak. He was fearful he might blurt out his feelings for Kurt in a moment of madness. So he remained unusually quiet for the remainder of the evening, until the reception was winding down and it became time for he and Quinn to make their way to their new home.

"I think I'm supposed to carry you," Blaine said, his voice quavering as he stared up at their front door.

"I suppose it is tradition," Quinn said, her voice equally as shaky.

Mindful of Quinn's dress, Blaine gently placed his left arm under one of her voluminous sleeves, the lace from her cuff tickling his neck as she looped her arm around his shoulders. Squatting carefully, he scooped her up, placing his other hand under her knees. She felt light as a feather despite the heavy silk covering her entire body, and yet the weight of his commitment settled about his shoulders as he crossed the threshold to his new life.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Anderson," he said to her, setting her on her feet again and smiling.

The house was dimly lit and quiet, the cool night air drifting in through the open windows, the sparse furnishings that Blaine had dared purchase without Quinn's approval looking ominous cast in shadow.

Her green eyes wide and disbelieving as she took in her surroundings, Quinn turned to stare almost blankly at her new husband. "It doesn't feel quite real yet," she said.

"I suppose it will take some getting used to," Blaine said. He shifted his weight back and forth, the scuff of his shoes on the rug in their entryway echoing through the empty house. "Did you want to get changed?"

Quinn looked practically horrified at the idea, and Blaine knew she probably mistook his own sudden discomfort for nerves. To the world they would look the very picture of a young couple about to consummate their marriage on their wedding night. The irony made Blaine giggle.

"What's so funny?" Quinn asked, looking scandalized.

Blaine guffawed, the whole situation seeming more and more ridiculous to him by the moment. He'd been in various states of undress and compromising position so many times that he'd lost count, and yet here he was, terrified to go to bed with his own wife.

"The look on your face," Blaine said between his now wheezing laughs.

"You're one to talk," Quinn bit back. "You're white as a sheet."

Blaine nearly doubled over with laughter. "Exactly... the pair of us," he said, his voice high-pitched and practically unintelligible. "Like a couple of scared house cats."

Quinn's scowl began to waver, her upper lip twitching slightly as she watched Blaine wipe at his watery eyes, until she was laughing almost as boisterously as he was. "We do make quite the pair," Quinn said. "Me in my silk and you in your top hat and tails, standing in our own parlor afraid to go to bed."

Still giggling, Blaine led his new bride upstairs. When they reached their shared bedroom, he ducked down into her eye line. "If you like, we'll hire you a lady's maid, but I'm afraid tonight, you'll have to make do with me."

"Are you sure you're capable?" Quinn said. There was a teasing quality to her voice as she blinked up at him.

"I'm sure I can manage."

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"I asked Kurt to show me how to lace a corset... and various other tasks," he stammered.

Quinn's skin flushed pink at the implication.

Sensing her discomfort, Blaine placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "I can loosen the stays and give you some privacy," he said.

She nodded silently and turned her back to him, allowing him to unbutton the back of her dress and untie the laces on her corset.

"I'll be right outside," he said and closed the door behind him.

He stood in the hallway breathing deeply, wondering what Kurt was doing. Swallowing heavily, he tried not to think about what he was going to need to do once Quinn was undressed.

Blaine's palms began to sweat as he listened to the muffled sounds coming through the door. It sounded like Quinn opened and closed every one of the trunks her parents had delivered that morning. He stood there so long, leaning up against the stenciled wallpaper and wondering how he would ever be able to consummate his marriage, that he began to grow restless. Taking out a cigarette and lighting it, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the bitter flavor of the tobacco dull his senses. The blood rushing through his ears sounded like a roaring fire, and he barely heard Quinn call out, "You can come in."

Quinn had taken her blonde hair out of its high, loose chignon and was reclining on the bed, the sheets clutched tightly to her neck. Trying his best to remain confident, Blaine stubbed out his cigarette and set about undressing. When he had climbed under the sheet next to Quinn, he turned toward her with a hesitant smile. When he leaned forward to kiss her, she recoiled.

"I'm sorry... I can't," Quinn said, pulling the sheet even more tightly to her chest. She would not look at Blaine, instead focusing on the edge of the bed.

Blaine furrowed his brow in concern. "Darling, what's wrong?" he asked, backing away from her, and sitting up. He watched her intently for a moment, wondering what it must be like for a young woman on her wedding night. "You know I won't force you."

"I know," Quinn said. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I thought I could, but I can't."

Blaine studied her face for a moment and noticed for the first time the tight set of her jaw, her lips pursed into a tight line. It had been there all day, but he had been so distracted by his own melancholy, he'd only just noticed it.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice a tentative whisper much like the quiet rustle of the bed sheet as he turned to face Quinn.

"It's all a lie," she said, a single tear spilling from her eye and rolling down her pink cheek.

Blaine's blood ran cold, his stomach tumbling in freefall. "W-what do you mean, darling?" He reached out a hand to try to comfort her, even as his own body rebelled.

"Don't call me that," she spat, pulling her arm away from his grasp.

Staring down at his hand where it lay in his own lap, Blaine tried to make his mouth form words, but it was as if he were suddenly mute. They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, the loud echo of the hall clock inside Blaine's head mocking him as it marked the seconds of his life slipping away and falling from his grasp like sand through a sieve.

When Quinn finally spoke, her voice was raspy but unwavering. "He has my book," she said. "The Emily Dickinson poems. You took it that day we picnicked before you left for Atlanta, remember?"

Blaine felt sick. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. Swallowing hard, it was all he could do to keep from releasing the contents of his stomach. He licked his lips. "Lots of people have books of poetry," he insisted, forcing a weak smile.

"You know, I thought you kept it because it reminded you of me," she said with a laugh. "God, what a fool I was."

"You're not a fool."

"And you went to Atlanta with him. He picked out my ring!" Her face grew more disgusted with every word. "He made my dress!"

"Quinn, you don't understand," Blaine said. His tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth, his feet numb and cold even though the room was perfectly warm.

She continued on as if she hadn't even heard him. "He wrote you a love letter, and I was stupid enough to defend you to my father. What a cotton-headed fool I was, thinking it was some woman who had been taken in by your charms."

"Quinn, please, I– Wait, how did your father get my letter?"

"And all this time," she barreled on, "all this time... God, you must have both thought I was the silliest little thing you'd ever seen. I hope I amused you!"

Blaine was so disgusted with himself, he didn't even try to defend it. He knew Quinn had every right to be angry with him, to hate him to the ends of the earth and back if she chose, but he had to know: "Where is the letter?"

Quinn looked at him with such disgust, Blaine thought he might be sick right then and there.

"Please," he begged. "I need to know."

She sniffed, holding her head high. "Why does it matter?"

Resolving to tell her the truth, Blaine let out a ragged breath and said, "If it gets back to my grandfather that I've been in contact with Kurt, he'll disinherit me.... Us."

That caught Quinn's attention.

"Your mother burned it," she said flatly. "But not before I overheard her telling your father what she had found. Of course, I thought K was a woman, which Mother did nothing to refute. No, she reassured me it was perfectly normal for a man to seek a companion to teach him things before becoming married."

Blaine's breath left him in a rush, a small measure of relief washing over him as he tried to come up with something to say that could somehow fix things. Before he could speak, Quinn turned to face him, her sadness replaced by a steely, cold gaze Blaine had never before seen on her pretty face.

"I won't tell anyone. Nothing has to change," she said, pausing to breathe deeply. "But when we return from our honeymoon, we will have separate bedrooms."

"I should sleep downstairs," Blaine said, feeling sheepish as he began to pull back the sheet.

Quinn looked thoughtful for a moment. "No," she said firmly. "I won't give anyone reason to talk, not even our servants. We sleep here tonight."

Her tone discouraged any further discussion, so Blaine simply nodded as he watched her turn out the gas lamp beside the bed and curl away from him. He sat in stunned silence for a few moments before lowering himself onto the mattress and allowing himself a deep breath.

When Quinn's breathing had evened out and Blaine was certain she was asleep, he finally closed his eyes.

"I'll make it right," he whispered into the darkness, unsure to whom he was speaking.

At first being alone with Quinn was peculiar, and then it became overwhelmingly uncomfortable. In the week that it took them to cross the Atlantic, it became simply unsettling. To the outside world, the Andersons were the perfect young couple, everyone they encountered gushing over them as if they were a newborn baby. Blaine felt utterly on display, but Quinn seemed to take it all in stride. He admired her, really. Watching her play the role of the loving wife, completely enamored of her husband, he couldn't help but appreciate her restraint and her dedication to the charade.

But when they retired to their rooms for the evening, the silence consumed him. Quinn refused to speak unless spoken to, and Blaine couldn't figure out what to say that might begin to rebuild their friendship.

"The duck at dinner was a little too fatty, didn't you think?" he asked one night, hoping to ease them into a conversation.

"I quite enjoyed it," Quinn replied, the look on her face indicating she was disagreeing simply to be contrary.

"Quinn, please... can we talk?"

"Of course, dear," she replied, a false smile mocking Blaine as she took her hair down and began brushing it. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Anything," Blaine replied, suddenly realizing he didn't have a plan. "I just want us to... be friends again."

Quinn's eyes narrowed, her lips forming a tight, impenetrable line. "Friends?" she spat. "I'm your wife!"

Blaine swallowed tensely, unsure of what to say and unable to counter Quinn's claim. He sagged against the mantle, the fireplace beneath it a black abyss of nothingness in the absence of a fire's warmth. He wished he had the crackle of the flames to drown out his own thoughts. "You have every right to be angry," he said softly. "I'm not denying you that." He paused, choosing his words as carefully as he could. "But we're going to be married for a long while, and I'd hate for you to be miserable simply because I was a heartless wretch of a man."

Glancing up at Quinn, he could feel the dull burn of contrite tears begin to sting his eyes.

"I'm not sure I can forgive you," she said.

"I'm not asking you to," Blaine replied. "Only that you'll try to be happy."

Quinn looked thoughtful, and for a moment Blaine thought she might tell him to sleep outside that night, and for the duration of their lives.

"Fine," she said finally. "But I have some expectations of you... as a proper husband and gentleman."

"I'll be the picture of decorum," Blaine reassured her.

"Yes, you will," Quinn stated with a curt nod.

Blaine reached out to take her tiny, delicate hand in his own. "You must believe me, Quinn; I'd never do anything to harm your reputation."

"I believe you," Quinn. said softly. Her eyes fell to their joined hands, and Blaine felt the gentlest squeeze from her fingertips before she released his grip. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath before she continued. "You've been quite the actor up until this point, and I expect you to continue the ruse in the role of my husband. No one must ever know that we're not madly in love."

Blaine felt a spark of hope blink brightly in his mind. "I think I can oblige."

"We'll see," Quinn said, looking skeptical that Blaine would agree to any stipulations she might set forth. "In exchange, we shall both be allowed to do as we wish so long as it doesn't affect our standing in society."

"What about...?" Blaine trailed off, unable to say the words for fear that Quinn might change her mind.

"Kurt," she stated plainly. "As I said, we are both free to conduct our affairs as we see fit. I won't question the company you keep, and you shan't question mine."

"As long as we're discreet," Blaine added, finally able to see her point of view. She just wanted a life where she would be free to make her own choices. He could give her that. "And children?"

"Perhaps one day," she said. "But for now... we sleep in separate beds."

"On one condition," Blaine said.

Quinn's eyes darted up to meet his, a question looming large on her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Blaine held up a finger to silence her, a gentle smile on his face.

"Can we be friends again? I was so enjoying your company before we quarreled."

A smile dared to emerge from Quinn's scowl as her eyes softened; she bit her lower lip trying to stifle her laughter. Giddy with delight at being able to reconcile, Blaine wrapped his arms around her in a firm hug, lifting her from the ground and twirling them both on the spot.

"Put me down," she protested. "I haven't said yes yet." Her words came out staccato and breathy through her laughter.

Blaine set her on her own feet again and took her hands in his. "Quinn, I truly am sorry I wasn't forthcoming with you about Kurt. If I could go back and change it all, I would. I never meant to hurt you."

"I know," she said. "We can't choose who we love."

Something in her melancholy expression told him there was something more behind her words, but a sudden knock at the door prevented him from inquiring further.

"Come in," Blaine called, allowing the maid entrance to turn down the bed and draw their curtains.

When the maid left, Blaine busied himself with the evening paper while Quinn retreated to their en-suite bathroom to soak in the tub. Blaine must have dozed off because when she reemerged, he caught the scent of orange blossom and awoke expecting to find Kurt instead of Quinn. His resulting disappointment forced all other thoughts from his mind.

That night he found himself unable to sleep without dreaming of pale skin, moonlit and luminous beneath him, he awoke after only an hour, aroused and sweaty. Thankful Quinn was sound asleep, he dressed quietly and made his way downstairs for a drink.

It was late, but there were still a few people lingering in the American Bar, a place named because it served what it called American-style cocktails. Not that it mattered to Blaine, who drank his whiskey straight, but he appreciated the small reminder of home nonetheless.

The head barman, Frank Wells, greeted Blaine with a warm smile and a double shot of Scotch before he even sat down at the bar.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," he said. "Trouble with the missus already?"

His tone was light and his laugh jovial, but the words hit a little too close to home for Blaine's liking. He downed the Scotch in one gulp and slammed the glass on the bar with a dull thud. "Another Scotch, please, Mr. Wells."

"Whatever you say, sir," the barman replied, pouring him another double. "And, if you don't mind my saying so, it will all work itself out. You'll see."

"Mr. Wells, you have no idea, but thank you just the same." Blaine downed his second drink, and gestured for more.

As he poured, Frank said, "Perhaps you should sip this one."

Blaine nodded and folded his arms across the edge of the bar, leaning forward until he was at eye level with his drink. "I promise I'll take my time with it," he said, watching the dull glow of the electric lights dance across the rusty amber of the liquor. His reflection was distorted in the curve of the glassware, giving him a deformed, wicked look. He didn't mind so much, deciding it better reflected how he felt on the inside than what he projected to the outside world.

Outwardly, he was the perfect gentleman with a young and beautiful wife, at the precipice of a great life. Inwardly, his own self-loathing made him feel like a fraud and the worst kind of imposter, set to throw it all away for a love that would never be accepted.

Kurt would laugh at him for wallowing so, but he couldn't stop himself for indulging in it all the same.

He sat up straighter, and reached for his glass, sipping as he had promised the barman, when a pair of drably dressed men sat down a few stools away. The first, a tall gangly thing with greasy brown hair and a well-lived-in checked suit, had a voice that carried. Blaine couldn't help but eavesdrop on his conversation with a red-haired companion, whose raspy voice was harder to make out but still audible.

"It happened right here," greasy hair said. "They had lunch with rent boys in broad daylight and spent their nights in adjoining rooms doing God knows what."

"Do you really think Lord Douglas was involved?" raspy voice asked.

"I have it on good authority that he was," replied greasy hair. "A friend of mine knew Mr. Wilde personally."

Blaine felt solid as a statue for a few moments, unable to breathe. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he waited for their conversation to continue, but the men were ordering their drinks. When Mr. Wells left them alone again, they changed topics altogether, leaving Blaine a sweating ball of tightly wound nerves.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling slowly as he felt the soothing effects of the tobacco wash over him. Downing the last of his Scotch, he pulled out a few coins and left them on the bar, pinching his cigarette between his teeth as he headed for the lobby.

The night clerk behind the desk looked half asleep and all of 16 years old, leaning on the desk and propping his head up with his fist as he twirled a key between his fingers. When the clerk saw Blaine approach, he jumped to his feet and righted his posture, looking about him in a panic.

"I don't think anyone saw you," Blaine whispered conspiratorially.

The young man laughed nervously. "May I help you, sir?"

"I was simply looking for some paper to write a letter, and perhaps a pen or pencil."

"Of course," the clerk replied, reaching beneath the desk and pulling out a few sheets of paper and an envelope and handing them to Blaine. "There should be a pen and some ink at the table over there." He pointed across the room to an area near the fireplace, where an inkwell and two pens were visible on the small table between two oversized stuffed chairs.

"Thank you," Blaine said, slipping the young man a shilling.

He crossed to the fireplace, and put his cigarette out in a brass ashtray before taking a seat. Bending over the table, he picked up a pen and began to scratch out a hasty note to Kurt.

My dear K,

London is just as you would imagine, but dreadfully hot. We are staying at the Savoy, which is just as lavish as the Ponce, but all the more mysterious for the goings on. Upon hearing this was the very site of much of Mr. Wilde's scandalous behavior, I am struck with the need to see you, owing in part to my quarrel with Quinn — I will explain upon my return. But mostly because I realize that nothing in my life has meaning without you in it.

I know we must be more careful, but we must also endure. Of that I am certain.

My love, I think of you every moment I am awake, and dream of you when I sleep. Would that I could, I would whisk you away to some dark continent where no one could find us, and we would live out our days as penniless Bohemian artists.

But we must live our lives both in sun and in shadow, as players in a drama who must never reveal their true identities. Woe, the burden we must carry — but for you I shall carry it to hell and back.

My love and undying devotion,
B

Releasing his death grip on the pen, Blaine stretched his aching fingers. He hadn't realized how quickly he had written, nor how fast the words had come. Looking down at the page, his words looked ragged and almost frantic, the work of a madman. Perhaps they were.

Folding the letter carefully, he placed it in the envelope and addressed it to Kurt, discreetly pressing a kiss to the seal before leaving it with the night clerk to go in the morning post.

Suddenly exhausted, and a little tipsy, he took the lift up to their suite and collapsed on the bed still fully dressed.

By the time they got to Paris two weeks later, Blaine and Quinn had formed a bond of sorts that transcended their fledgling marriage. They would never have the kind of romantic love poets wrote sonnets about, but they could enjoy a certain level of companionship.

Quinn was enthralled by the Eiffel Tower, constructed for the 1889 World's Fair, and left to stand watch over the city as long as it dared.

"It's such a wonder of the modern world," she said, craning her neck to see as much of the structure as she could.

"Would you like to go up?" Blaine asked, basking in the delighted smile he received from his young bride.

"Oh, yes, please," she said, gripping his arm tightly and bouncing on her toes.

Blaine liked her like this, all wide-eyed delight and childlike wonder. It made the long weeks away from Kurt enjoyable in a way he thought was impossible.

So they spent their days sightseeing and shopping and their nights indulging in French theatre and music, entranced by the Bohemian lifestyle that was so prevalent there.

What was more, the fairies and Greek lovers seemed to be everywhere, causing an ache in Blaine's chest that would not subside. He wrote to Kurt several times, but none of it helped. He knew the cure, and it was several thousand miles away back in New York. He would have to make do.

Every afternoon, he and Quinn took a long walk, simply to soak up all the Parisian atmosphere they could in the short weeks they were in the city. At first Blaine was taken by the centuries-old buildings and the rapid lilt of French as it sang past his ears. But then he saw him: a long-limbed young man, who wore his hair like Kurt's and smiled at Blaine with a flirtatious gleam in his eyes whenever Blaine, with Quinn on his arm, would pass by the café where he worked.

At first Blaine thought perhaps he was imagining the knowing glances and the sly winks, attributing it to an overactive imagination and his desire to see Kurt. But one afternoon when Quinn had stayed back at the hotel thanks to an unfortunate bout of nausea, the young man called out to him in English, not even a trace of the thick French accent present in his voice.

"Monsieur, how is it you walk by here every afternoon and never stop by my café? Does the prospect of French pastry and good wine not intrigue you, sir?"

Laughing nervously, Blaine stepped closer to the man so they weren't shouting at each other. "I'm always intrigued by the prospect of good wine," he replied.

"And good company?" the man asked with a wink.

Blaine felt his breath catch in his throat. There was no mistaking it this time; he was definitely flirting. "I... well, yes... that is, I–"

"Relax," the man said, saving Blaine from his stammering. "I was only hoping you'd help me pass the time until the café closes. My French is good, but it's always nice to speak English. Reminds me of home."

He held out a chair for Blaine at an empty table.

"And where is home?" Blaine asked as he took the offered seat.

"Ohio," the man replied. "And you?"

"New York."

"I thought so. You looked like the society type." He held out a hand for Blaine to shake. "Sebastian Smythe. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Blaine Anderson," he replied, taking Sebastian's hand. "So, what's good here?"

Sebastian leaned, letting his hand linger over Blaine's longer than was completely respectable. "Me," he said.

Yanking his hand away, Blaine tried to cover his shock with laughter. "Does that go well with red wine?"

"If you want it to, yes."

"Mr. Smythe, I'm a married man."

"Oh, I'm keenly aware of your situation, Blaine. I saw you with the little missus." He leaned in and whispered, "I'd wager there was some nonsensical clause in your trust that wouldn't allow you to inherit unless you took a wife?"

Blaine's mouth fell open in disbelief. "How...?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Lucky guess."

"I'm not really looking for anything else," Blaine said.

"No one ever is," Sebastian said. "How about I get you that red wine, and we just see what happens?"

"Nothing is going to happen," Blaine affirmed.

"We'll see," Sebastian called over his shoulder as he set off to retrieve Blaine's wine.

It wasn't until Sebastian walked away that Blaine realized his heart was racing in a way that he'd not expected. In spite of himself, Blaine was intrigued by Sebastian's crass and forward behavior. What on earth would possess a man to be so completely carefree with his predilections that he would risk propositioning a man who might turn him over to the authorities? But then again, Sebastian had guessed correctly with Blaine; he was of the same sort. He couldn't help but be relieved to find someone with whom he could talk about his current predicament.

When Sebastian returned with the wine, he was much more reserved than he had been initially. Perhaps Blaine had misjudged his intentions.

Blaine sat in subdued silence and drank his wine, the full-bodied flavor practically dancing on his tongue. After only two glasses, he felt light-headed and relaxed, as if he were floating and weighted all at once. He watched as Sebastian waited on other tables, always with a smile for Blaine, his long legs taking him effortlessly from the kitchen to the interior of the café and the outdoor tables where Blaine sat.

By the time his wine had run dry, the sun was sitting low behind the stone facades of the surrounding buildings, and the shadows had begun to overtake the light. Realizing he should probably head back to check on Quinn, Blaine craned his neck to find Sebastian. Quinn had been prone to nausea since they left London, and it was becoming more frequent. Blaine urged her to see a doctor, but she wanted to wait until they were back in New York and could see her personal physician.

When he spotted the waiter lingering in the doorway to the café, Blaine was met with a bright smile and hazel eyes that glimmered in the haze of twilight.

Without saying a word, Sebastian leaned down and pressed a small piece of paper into Blaine's hand. As he reached into his pocket to pay, Sebastian whispered, "It's on me," and walked away.

Blaine gaped after him for a moment until he remembered the paper in his hand. He looked down at it, and could make out a few hastily scribbled words.

Tomorrow is my day off. Meet me.

Below that was an address in a part of Paris Blaine had not yet been. Glancing around as if he'd been caught at something, Blaine shoved the note into his pocket and rose from his table so quickly, he nearly knocked over his chair. He practically ran back to the hotel.

Quinn was asleep when he got there, so he took out the paper and read it again. The words had not changed, nor had their meaning been obscured. This man — Sebastian; even his name was overstated — wanted Blaine to meet him, and he was most definitely interested in more than just wine and conversation.

Giving the note one last glance, he crumpled it up and threw it in the fireplace, where it hit the grate and rolled into the ash of a long since extinguished fire. He knew any companionship he might find with Sebastian would only be obscured by the love he felt for Kurt. No matter how lonely he'd gotten on his honeymoon, anything but his true love would pale in comparison. He went to sleep that night with a weight on his heart, and a seed of doubt in his mind, but he slept soundly and awoke reassured that he had made the right decision.

He dressed and shaved, whistling a tune that made him smile at his reflection. In a little over a week, they'd be returning home, and he could see Kurt.

When he came out of the bathroom, the curtains were still drawn and Quinn was lying on her side, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but Blaine could tell she was no longer sleeping.

"Darling, are you alright?" he asked, laying a hand across her wan cheek. She didn't feel feverish, but with her color so drained, she looked positively sickly.

"Just another upset stomach," she replied, her eyes fluttering open to meet Blaine's. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Can I get you anything? Have some tea sent up?"

"Tea would be lovely," Quinn said, attempting a smile that more closely resembled a grimace. "And perhaps some dry toast?"

"Whatever you would like," Blaine said, petting her loose blonde curls and kissing her forehead. "I think I may go for a walk."

"That sounds lovely," Quinn said. "I wish I could join you."

"When you feel better," he said. "We'll stroll all throughout Paris arm in arm."

She attempted another small smile and curled even more tightly into the sheets, leaving Blaine to stand watch over her as she closed her eyes once more.

He grabbed his hat and made his way down to the lobby, stopping to ask that his wife be brought some tea before he set off for a morning stroll.

Something about the atmosphere in Paris made Blaine feel welcomed, and even before meeting Sebastian, he had noticed the prevalence of his sort. It seemed nearly utopian to him, a lifestyle to which he could only aspire now that he was married and saddled with the obligation of starting a family.

He wandered for what felt like hours, alone with his thoughts and the warm morning sunshine; he didn't even think of returning to the hotel until his stomach began to protest the idea of passing over lunch so soon after ignoring breakfast.

"Quinn," he called out into the overly warm room as he entered. "Are you well enough for lunch?"

As he walked around the bed, he could see the red hot embers of a recently lit fire, which explained the sweltering temperature in the room. Quinn was seated at the desk, her back to Blaine as the repetitive scratch of a pen broke the brief silence.

"Oh, you're up," Blaine said, approaching her and laying his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Mmhmm," Quinn said, not glancing up from whatever she was writing, but he could see two envelopes on the desk as she moved her arm to cover them. "I just wanted to write a quick letter to Mother. I won't be long."

"It's so hot in here," Blaine said.

Quinn shrugged but didn't look up. "I was cold."

Even though she couldn't see him, Blaine nodded. He sensed there was something else Quinn wasn't telling him, but he didn't want to cause an argument. "I'll meet you downstairs?" he hedged.

"Ten minutes," she replied without looking up.

In the two months they were gone, it seemed nothing about New York had changed, and yet somehow everything had. The air seemed heavier, the streets dirtier, the weight of obligation suffocating.

Not to mention, Quinn had been sick for the entire week they'd spent crossing the Atlantic, and Blaine was beginning to worry even more about her health. He couldn't understand why she couldn't shake the illness that had overtaken her, and she had begun to look more tired with each passing day. She complained of her corsets being too tight and her shoes too small. He wondered if the rich food they had eaten in Paris had been too much for her or if she had perhaps caught some sort of sickness.

He had been too worried to leave her side, not even to see Kurt, and when she still wasn't feeling better nearly a week after they returned, he decided he needed to intervene for her own good.

"That's it," he said, throwing down his newspaper when he saw her return from the bathroom after another bout of sickness. "You need to see a doctor."

Quinn's eyes flashed angrily, the green even more striking against the pale complexion that accompanied her illness. "I told you I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Quinn," Blaine insisted. "You're vomiting every day, and it's not getting better." He grabbed his hat from the hall table. "I'm going to go and fetch my father, and that's final."

For a moment, Quinn looked like she was about to protest, but then she clasped her hand over her mouth and ran out of the room. Blaine didn't waste another moment, racing out the door and heading in the direction of his father's office.

He was so focused on reaching his destination, that he barely noticed the gentleman he nearly knocked into the street.

As he was helping to right them both, he realized he recognized the man. "Oh my stars, Burt Hummel!" Blaine said. Even in a panic, he was delighted to see Kurt's father.

"Blaine!" he exclaimed, dusting off his trousers. "Good to see you again. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Before he could answer, a tiny brunette came rushing up, her face painted with concern. "Mr. Hummel, are you alright?" she said in a bright voice that was infused with a dramatic flair. Mrs. Hummel was at her side, along with the tallest man Blaine had ever seen.

"Yes, Rachel, I'm quite alright," Burt replied. "But thank you for your concern."

"Rachel?" Blaine asked. "Kurt's Rachel? You're even prettier in person."

Rachel's brown eyes went wide at the compliment. "Yes, well... I..." she stammered as her gaze fluttered toward the ground.

Burt interrupted, "Kurt and Rachel are no longer betrothed. We're actually on our way to celebrate her engagement to Mr. Hudson." He gestured to the tall man standing nearby who looked dumbfounded by the whole thing. "Blaine Anderson, this is Carole's son, Finn."

"Oh!" Blaine exclaimed. "Pleased to meet you!" He shook Finn's hand enthusiastically until it all sunk in. "Wait, so you... Kurt... they aren't...?"

"We're all quite happy about it, I assure you," Rachel challenged. "Kurt was the one to break it off. He said he didn't want to get married, and Mr. Hudson was there for me when I was in the depths of despair."

Blaine bit his lip, weighing what he wanted to say. Why hadn't Kurt told him about this? Did Rachel know about him? He glanced at Rachel; she was looking up at Finn adoringly. She didn't seem the least bit concerned with Blaine's presence, or anything apart from Finn, who was gazing down at her with the same adoration, combined with a charmingly crooked smile. They looked happy.

"Kurt just never mentioned it," Blaine said.

Burt's eyebrows shot up in a very Kurt-like expression. "I wasn't aware you and he had stayed in contact," he said.

"He made my wife's wedding dress," Blaine said.

"I'm sure Miss Fabray made a lovely bride," Mrs. Hummel said with a smile. And then suddenly her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Pardon me. I suppose she's Mrs. Anderson now."

"It's quite alright," Blaine said. "She was beautiful. As was Kurt's dress. I've actually engaged him as my personal tailor, and he's going to continue working on gowns for Quinn."

"Oh, how thoughtful of you to help him start his business," Rachel said. "I hope you're paying him enough to get him out of that dreadful shop. I warned him about that part of town; the worst sort of people frequent that area, and–"

"Darling, I'm sure Kurt's business matters are none of Mr. Anderson's affair," Finn said, putting a halt to her ramblings.

"Yes, of course," Rachel replied, beaming at him. "I do tend to get carried away."

Burt smirked as Carole looped her arm through his. "We really should be going," he said.

"As should I," Blaine said, shaking Burt's hand. Turning to Carole, he bowed. "Mrs. Hummel, good to see you again."

"Give my regards to Mrs. Anderson," she said.

"I shall," he said.

"It was lovely to meet you," Rachel said as Blaine and Finn shook hands.

"Best wishes to you both," Blaine said, tipping his hat.

He watched them walk down the street, Finn obviously slowing his stride to allow Rachel to keep up, and he wondered what Quinn's life might have been like if she'd been allowed to marry someone she loved as much as Rachel obviously loved Finn.