Once upon a time…

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Blaine is lost in dreams of a life he doesn't lead. Dancing in the arms of a well-dressed man, the eyes of the entire kingdom on them. “Oh, what a handsome couple,” they seem to say, and for once Blaine feels that it's true. His partner is tall, and strong, and looking at Blaine with love in his eyes.

It's a beautiful dream.

And then he feels it, the telltale sign that the sun has risen above the horizon. Birdsong, chortled into his ear and punctuated with gentle nips to the curling locks of his hair. Blaine is awake in an instant, and his mood sours just as quickly. He tries not to take it out on his friends – they're only trying to help, after all. And he hasn't forgotten the punishment that would await him, were he to stay abed the way he truly wants.

Just once, he'd love to finish a dream. They always seem to end before he gets to happily ever after.

He stretches and murmurs his greetings. The canaries can't talk back, but their melodious little voices do seem to carry some meaning, borne out in the gleam of their bright, intelligent eyes. They tell him of the beautiful day beginning just beyond his open window and chide him for the frown tugging his lips down in the corners.

“Oh, you'd be frowning, too, if your dreams had been interrupted.”

Blaine hops out of bed and takes in the sunrise, pink and orange and reflecting prettily off of the castle windows. Its tall towers seem to glow, like a beacon in the distance. He sighs happily. This, at least, they cannot take away. A moment of beauty.

He feels the light pressure of feet, alighting onto his shoulder. His favorite, though he knows he shouldn't have one, a tiny yellow thing he's named Pavarotti. The bird nuzzles his head against Blaine's neck and chirps quizzically.

“What was I dreaming about?” Blaine sighs again, wistfully this time. “Oh, love, I suppose.”

Pavarotti sings a charming little tune in sympathy. Blaine hums it back, and, soon enough, they're singing a duet about dreams and wishes into the fresh morning air. The others join in, flitting around the room in perfect time, like a waltz at a grand ball. A chorus of bluebirds lights on the windowsill, and the house mice poke their sleepy heads through the holes in the wall to add their little voices in harmony.

The song winds down. Blaine strokes Pavarotti softly beneath his beak. Pavarotti coos his appreciation.

“I suppose you know what it's like to be caged, don't you?” murmurs Blaine. “What I wouldn't give for wings to fly away.”

The church bell chimes in the distance.

“What a killjoy, huh Pavarotti?” mutters Blaine. Pavarotti chirps his agreement and nips affectionately at Blaine's ear. He joins the others – neatening Blaine's bed, laying out his clothes for the day, helping to draw his bath. Blaine is very grateful for the help, knowing that the creatures do it not out of a sense of duty, or pity, but because they truly care for him. Completing his daily chores to his stepmother's exacting standards would be nearly impossible without them.

He hums as he prepares for his day, determined to meet today's challenges with a smile on his face. He refuses to let the cruelty of his stepfamily turn him into someone he isn't.

Blaine stops and looks in the mirror briefly before heading downstairs. His clothes are clean and wrinkle-free, but there are patches at the elbows and knees, and loose threads at the wrists. There isn't anything he can do about that now – or ever, until the cloth is worn beyond repair. His stepmother is unlikely to waste her precious money on fabric unless it's to fashion Hunter yet another waistcoat that will be worn once and abandoned to the back of his closet.

Blaine's hair, at least, is neat and glossy, tamed with his homemade pomade. He won't allow his stepmother to take this piece of his dignity, at least.

He throws a smile at his reflection, then heads down to the kitchen, his friends trailing behind.

Mr. Puss is sleeping when he arrives, of course. If it were up to Blaine, he'd let the lazy cat be, but he has his orders. He fills Mr. Puss' bowl with food and murmurs an unnecessary warning to his friends.

“Stay back. He's quicker than he looks.”

The mice scurry away, out to the barn where the other animals are just starting to awaken, the birds flapping after them – all save Pavarotti, who perches stubbornly on Blaine's shoulder. Blaine strokes a finger down his back, between his wings.

“Well, if you're sure,” he says. Pavarotti chirps in confirmation. He says he isn't afraid, but Blaine knows better. He remembers just how terrorized the poor bird was when Blaine freed him from the ornate golden cage in Sugar's room. Blaine had taken a beating for daring to do it, but he couldn't bear to see the poor thing tormented by Hunter's beast of a pet. “You're very brave,” he says admiringly. Pavarotti butts his head against Blaine's ear.

Mr. Puss looks so deceptively sweet and peaceful in sleep. Blaine nudges him gently with his foot.

“Time to get up,” he sings softly.

Mr. Puss wakes with a hiss, swiping his claws at Blaine's shoe. The leather is thick enough to protect him, but Pavarotti shifts uneasily.

“Hey, now, none of that,” scolds Blaine. “I've left you food in your bowl, you have nothing to complain about. Let's see if we can't all get along today, shall we?”

He knows better than to attempt to pet the old tom cat – he's got enough scars on his hand to remind him, should he forget. Mr. Puss sniffs disdainfully and saunters over to his food bowl, tail flicking irritably.

“I guess that's a no, then.”

Blaine makes quick work of the rest of the feedings. He dallies only to scratch Sammy behind his floppy golden ears and accept his thank you kisses. He takes a circuit around the barnyard as the animals happily munch, making sure everyone gets their fair share, then returns to the kitchen to start breakfast. Pavarotti and the other canaries help him get the trays ready while Mr. Puss lurks and generally makes a nuisance of himself.

Blaine is just pouring the tea when those dratted bells start going off.

“Blaine!” He hears, traveling all the way from behind closed doors three flights above him.

“Hold on,” he mutters. “I'm coming, no need to yell.”

The jangling only increases. “Blaaaaaaine!”

He sighs. He'd love to crawl back into bed, revisit that lovely dream and the lovely feeling that accompanied it, but he can't. All he can do is keep his head up and wish.

A dream is a wish your heart makes…

Someday, he'll fly away.