The next morning, Kurt woke feeling apprehensive. In the moment the night before, he had found the strength to be unafraid of his stand in front of the Prince, but over the course of the night, tossing and turning and slipping in and out of fitful sleep, Kurt started to question his choice to be so forward. He could have easily apologized and demurred, but instead he stood his ground and basically yelled at his Prince.

He couldn’t help but wonder just how the hell he’d gotten away with that, or if maybe he hadn’t and the worst was still coming.

He washed quickly in the basin of water he’d fetched for himself the night before and dressed absently. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, or if anything had been really decided after Santana’s visit the day before.

He wandered down the hall to the kitchens, passing by Emma with a quick hello as he slipped into the other room. Santana and Brittany were the only ones there, sitting abnormally close and laughing quietly as they whispered to each other. Kurt felt he was intruding on something.

“Why, hello there, Kurt,” Santana said, smirking at him. “I heard you caused quite a stir with our dear Prince last night.”

“Were they cooking?” Brittany asked. Kurt cocked his head at Santana, wondering how fast gossip travelled in the castle.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Santana said, obviously ignoring Brittany’s question. “Mike had to tell me how you’ve been doing, and it’s not like he could ignore you flubbing an attempt to manipulate the ruler of the kingdom and then telling him to his face that he was an idiot.”

“I didn’t actually call him an idiot—“

“Oh, don’t worry about getting into trouble with me. I’m impressed.”

Kurt stared. “Impressed?”

“Sure am.” Santana picked at her food, sitting back and eyeing Kurt like she was seeing him for the first time. “Blaine’s had something up his ass for seven years now, and no one’s had the balls to mention it because they know he’ll explode. But you go right ahead and call him on all of his shit after only a couple of days. I’ll admit, I didn’t think you even had balls…but I guess I was wrong.”

“I’m not sure if I should thank you,” Kurt said, sitting down across the table from them.

“Oh, you should,” she replied. “I don’t admit that often. So would you like to know what happened after you left?”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Apparently Mike found the Prince stinking drunk in the dining hall, and—“

“Enough, Santana.”

Mike walked in, carrying two plates, one of which he set in front of Kurt.

“I told you that in confidence,” Mike said. “It’s no one’s business but the Prince’s.”

“Oh, please, you know we all find out everything sooner or later,” Santana replied smoothly. “Secrets can’t hide in this castle.”

“It’s true,” Brittany said unexpectedly, startling Kurt a bit. “I think it’s because there are spiders in all the best hiding spots.”

“So anyway,” Santana said, again ignoring the other girl, “you’ll both be interested to know what orders I got this morning. And you don’t have to get your undergarments in a twist, Mike, because they concern all of us.”

“What are they?” Mike asked.

“Well, I’m to take Hummel here down to the storerooms to see if there’s any fabric that hasn’t been either sold or thrown away. And later you’re taking him to the Prince’s chambers to measure him. Apparently the Prince wants a new outfit. So I’ll be coming to get your from your rooms in a little bit.”

“So wait, you spoke to the Prince after last night?” Kurt asked, watching as Santana stood and started to walk to the door, Brittany close behind. “Did he say anything about it? Am I in any trouble?”

“Well, I’d tell you, but Mike here didn’t seem to want me to tell you the story, so you’ll have to wait to find out.”

Kurt turned and glared at Mike as soon as she was out of sight.

“Don’t look at me like that, Kurt,” Mike said. “Santana’s just being…Santana.”

“And you’re being difficult,” Kurt spat back. “You don’t have to tell me everything that happened after last night, but I would appreciate something. Is the Prince all right?”

Mike blinked. “You want to know if he’s all right?”

“Well, Santana was saying that he was drunk.”

“You’re telling me you’re concerned with his well-being?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you say that like a question?”

“Because I’m confused!” Kurt burst out. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

Mike stared at Kurt hard. Kurt squirmed, baffled at Mike’s behavior.

“He’s fine,” Mike said finally. “As I’m sure you guessed, he was rather upset last night, but he seems to have recovered himself enough to ask for you today. I can’t say honestly that I know if he’ll reprimand you further, but he’s not planning to take any action against you.”

Kurt nodded, toying with the food on his plate. His stomach roiled, and his hunger suddenly dissipated.

“I’m going to my rooms,” he announced, standing swiftly and slipping out before Mike could protest.

When he got to his rooms, he slammed the door behind him, running his fingers through his hair nervously. Had he really upset the Prince that much? He hadn’t meant to harm him in any way, he had just wanted to let the Prince know that he had support if he were to resume his place, and that it was the best option. But apparently the Prince was hurt enough that he had become totally inebriated and now Mike was suspicious of his motives.

He felt he needed to make an apology to the Prince. 

“Come on, Princess,” Santana drawled, his door slamming open without preamble. “Let’s go brave the dusty depths of the stores in the basement to see if there’s anything pretty enough for a Prince.”

Kurt stood from where he was seated on the bed and fidgeted slightly.

“What?” Santana said, eyebrow immediately raised.

“I won’t be needing to go to the stores today,” Kurt said, gesturing weakly to the bed beside him. “I believe this should do?”

Santana walked up and crossed her arms, cocking a hip as she stared down at the fabric Kurt had lain out.

“Is this yours?”

“Unless someone’s been sneaking things into my room at night, then yes,” Kurt replied dryly.

“Don’t get smart with me, lady,” she spat, and Kurt found himself not caring nearly as much as he had when people had called him that in his hometown. “Are you telling me that you’re going to make the Prince something out of your own stuff?”

“Yes?”

“You bought these materials yourself?”

“Yes!”

“You must really be hoping to buy your way into an apology,” she said frankly.

“That’s not it, Santana,” Kurt replied quickly. “I mean…I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t part of it, but I really do just…”

“Just what?” She eyed him with a shrewd, calculating look on her face.

“I want to…help him out, a little,” he admitted. “Show him that…that he isn’t totally abandoned yet.”

“You think you can single-handedly make Blaine grow a pair and rule his kingdom again?”

“No!” Kurt blurted. “No, not by myself. But maybe I can…nudge him a little. Make him see that I’m just one of many who would.”

“Are you? One of many? Or do the people really just not give a shit? Because I haven’t heard a damn word when I go into town.”

Kurt stared at her. “People know you’re the chamberlain, right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you really think they’re going to talk to you?”

Santana grimaced. “Point.”

“My father heard plenty,” Kurt said. “And yes, a lot of people are convinced the Prince is cursed, or something’s wrong with him, but I cannot name a single person not in the pay of Lord Smythe that wants him to take over rather than the Prince.”

“So it’s a case of picking the lesser of two evils,” Santana said, and Kurt sighed deeply.

“I wish I could say that weren’t true,” he replied softly. “But can you really expect anything else?”

Santana stared him down, again looking like she was trying to read him. After a moment, she smirked, her eyes warming a bit.

“You know, you’re not that dumb,” she said. “Come on, grab your things and then you can put His Highness in some clothes that don’t make him look like he’s a five year old playing dress up.”

He had never heard the title used so wryly before. 

Mike could tell Blaine was feeling insecure. It was in the way he kept forgetting that he had his hood up and having to awkwardly drop his hands every time he tried to run his hand through his hair. It was in the way he paced. It was in the way he muttered to himself.

Kurt had gotten to him. Mike would never have guessed it, but it was true. Blaine never got drunk, but last night Mike had returned to the dining room to find Blaine had consumed the entire wineskin left from dinner. And he’d been crying.

Blaine hadn’t cried since Cooper’s death.

As he’d dragged Blaine to his rooms, Blaine had started babbling. He’d clung to Mike’s shoulders and slurred on about being a disappointment, and being scared and tired. He’d cursed Cooper for dying, and then cursed himself. And then he’d gone on to wax as eloquent as his inebriation would allow about Kurt—his honesty, his bravery, his beauty, his temerity. He started off reviling the poor boy, raging on about how he knew nothing and presumed too much, but then Blaine had suddenly softened and called Kurt his angel, sent to give him a message. He’d then promptly passed out.

He’d mentioned his worry to Santana, which, if he had interrupted what he thought he had at breakfast that morning, was a bad idea, in retrospect.

Mike knew all along that Blaine was drawn to Kurt—Kurt affected him, made him think and act differently. Mike was certain it was some mixture of curiosity, attraction, and loneliness. But he was beginning to think that maybe he’d underestimated Kurt; maybe Kurt understood Blaine better than any of them.

He certainly knew the right buttons to push, even if they caused him trouble.

Mike had been certain Blaine would do what he normally did—hide. He’d expected Blaine to tend to his roses and stay in his rooms, or in the upper West Wing, in his father’s old office or in the gallery, wallowing in memories and refusing to eat, as he often did when he became particularly depressed. He’d even half-anticipated Kurt’s dismissal, because when Blaine could not hide behind his hood, he hid behind his temper, and he had been using both more than usual since he’d appointed his minstrel.

Instead, Santana had relayed orders for Kurt to start acting as clothier as well. It was the last thing Mike had expected. And when Mike had appeared at Blaine’s rooms just as Santana was going to fetch Kurt from his rooms, he’d found the Prince as he was now—a partially-controlled state of panic.

Mike hadn’t dared to intrude on his lord’s thoughts by inquiring what the hell he thought he was doing now. Maybe Kurt was right…

The door to the chambers boomed with a set of three heavy knocks.

“Enter,” Blaine called.

Santana opened the door and lead through Kurt, who was carrying a bundle of fabric and some supplies.

“Ah, Master Hummel,” Blaine said. Mike raised an eyebrow at the almost snide tone. “You found our stores sufficient?”

“I did not visit them, my lord,” Kurt said, bowing carefully, not raising his eyes to the Prince. “I had some suitable material in my own possession, and if it pleases my lord I would be glad to use it.”

Kurt settled his things down on the small round table that Blaine usually took his breakfast at, moving what Mike saw to be a pencil, a sheaf of parchment, needles, some spools of thread, and a length of straight fabric with notches at every inch off of a bundle of fabric.

Both Mike and the Prince moved closer to view the fabric, but only Blaine touched it. He lifted a corner of the cream-colored material and rubbed his thumb over its smoothness.

“Silk?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You would willingly give up silk as fine as this?”

“I had no particular plans for it, my lord,” Kurt replied, his tone carefully neutral. Mike had always been impressed with how levelly Kurt could comport himself in an uncertain situation. However, he had a tendency to become acerbic when things turned for the worse, and that Mike was wary of.

“Still, it is high quality. Quite expensive, I would wager. Not something a mere merchant’s son would see often.”

“It was the effort of several months’ savings,” Kurt admitted, “but that only convinces me that it must not go to waste. I am not entirely certain that it would look becoming on me, my lord, but it would match your coloring very well.”

“Well, you know best, don’t you?”

It was said so bitterly that Mike had to fight off a grimace. He eyed the Prince quickly before looking to Kurt’s reaction. Kurt hadn’t bothered to hide his own grimace.

“What, in your expert opinion, should we do with this material?”

Kurt flushed and Mike could see his eyes hardening against the sneer. Mike shook his head quickly, his pleas silent but desperate. If Kurt spoke back now, there was no telling what the result would be. Thankfully, instead of fighting against Mike, Kurt just nodded and took a deep, steadying breath.

“I have enough fabric for both doublet and breeches, my lord, if you would like,” Kurt said. “I have some soft wool for the lining, and there is certainly enough for full sleeves. And should my lord find it pleasing, I have some silk thread in several colors and can decorate the fabric with some stitching.”

“Certainly,” Blaine replied quickly, tugging at his shirtsleeves in a way that Mike suspected he was fidgeting—it was hard to tell without seeing his face, which was still so expressive despite its…limitations. “I trust you’ll do what you think is best. After all, it is your job.”

Kurt’s eyes widened and he drew in breath sharply.

Mike waited for the retaliation.

“Of course, my lord,” Kurt said instead, his voice tight and his eyes suspiciously bright. “My best efforts will go into making this satisfactory for you. Might I be allowed to take some measurements?”

Blaine, who had been looking down at the fabric and idly examining it during the majority of the conversation, lifted his head toward Kurt.

“What will you need to measure?”

Mike shifted his attention between the two men. There was enormous potential for awkwardness here. Both men were attracted to their own sex, and Mike knew from experience how close to the body one had to get to measure for a good tailor. He knew Blaine was attracted to Kurt, though he would have been surprised if the feelings were returned at this juncture. And all conjecture of possible desire aside, Kurt would be close enough to possibly peer within Blaine’s hood—it was not a perfect hiding spot, however deep it was. He was risking Kurt seeing him anyway, having called him here when daylight was strongest. Blaine had so far circumvented any risk by keeping his head turned mostly away and keeping his back to the light, but that wouldn’t work if Kurt were too close.

Mike wondered briefly if maybe Blaine wanted Kurt to see him.

“I will need several measurements around your chest and arms,” Kurt replied, keeping himself neutral once more. It was probably easier without Blaine making ridiculously unsubtle attacks at him. “I will need a few lengths on your legs as well.”

“You will get your measurements at a later time,” Blaine said, and Mike’s suspicions were eased. Blaine had obviously foreseen the difficulties. “If you do not need any of these materials now, you may leave them and we will resume after supper tonight.”

Kurt bowed again as Blaine turned his back, turning and walking out in a manner too fast and agitated to fool Mike.

“You’re an asshole.”

Blaine and Mike both snapped their attention to Santana, who had been quiet the entire time.

“Did you just call me an—“

“—an asshole, yes,” she snapped. “What the hell was that? I thought you wanted him to make you some nice clothes so you stop looking like a vagrant, not so you could bully him.”

“Santana, it’s none of your business.”

“The hell it’s not!” Santana advanced on Blaine, arms crossed. “As chamberlain, Kurt is one of my charges, and I have to make sure this castle runs smoothly, and I can’t do that if you’re going to go around making the staff even more uncomfortable than just being around you already makes them.”

“So it is true—everyone talking behind my back—“

“Oh, grow up,” she said. “Of course everyone talks about you. You’re the Prince. Everyone will always be talking about you. It’s your choice what they end up discussing.”

“Santana, you’re—“

“And just so we’re clear,” she continued, raising her voice over Blaine’s, “Kurt may have been an idiot in how he went about telling you the truth, but the fact remains that the truth is what he told you. And it’s about time somebody did.”

“Enough!” Blaine roared, throwing back his hood. “I have had enough. Get out.”

“Run away all you want,” Santana sneered as she turned to walk away. “It’s worked out so well for you so far.”

Mike was impressed at the way the door slammed behind her on the way out. It was a heavy door.

“And you? Do you agree as well?”

Mike turned to Blaine calmly. Blaine had lost his temper, his face contorted with rage.

“My lord, you and I have already discussed my stance on the matter,” he said, keeping his voice as smooth as possible. “I do not agree with how Kurt and Santana have treated you. They have been disrespectful and tactless. But I agree with their assessment of the situation.”

Blaine laughed, the sound almost frightening in how cold it was.

“So again I am alone in this,” he said, his head thrown back and his arms thrown out in frustration as he paced the room. “I thought you of all people would understand—“

“—and for the past seven years, I have,” Mike said, interrupting his lord. Blaine looked at him in surprise, and Mike met his gaze evenly. He looked to him not as a lord, but a friend, and he hoped Blaine could see his sincerity.

“It’s been a long seven years, Blaine.”