Kurt found Blaine exactly where he expected him to be. He approached the rose bush casually, making sure to make noise as he came up so as not to startle the Prince, who was kneeling before it and cutting a few of the longer stems, the flowers fully bloomed.

“I assume you are here to scold me for being outdoors.”

Kurt knelt next to Blaine, facing the roses. He took a deep breath.

“No, my lord,” he said. “I wanted to thank you.”

He could feel Blaine’s eyes on him, but he resisted the urge to turn and check. He needed to say this, needed Blaine to understand just how grateful he was.

“I don’t believe I told you how I know Lord Smythe.”

“No,” Blaine said quietly, a sad little hitch in his voice. “You didn’t.”

Kurt nodded and took a deep breath.

“I met Lord Smythe in Lima’s tavern the night before my father set out for Westerville,” he began. “I was fetching my brother Finn home for my father, who intended to announce his intent to train Finn to take over his stall at the markets. Lord Smythe was there with the regiment.

“Two of the local men began to harass me. They…they often took delight in haranguing me for my…differences. Lord Smythe intervened, and paid me compliments. He admired my clothing and told me that his clothier was looking for an apprentice, and that he would recommend me.

“I received a letter from him the next day. I couldn’t bear to read it—I know his reputation, and I was afraid of what the letter would contain. Unfortunately, one of his soldiers came to demand an answer to the letter the very next day, while I was out, and my stepmother had to send him away. She insisted I read the letter that night…and I did.”

“What did it say?” Blaine prompted quietly, speaking as though to a startled animal, his voice low and peaceful.

“It requested—demanded my presence for supper with Lord Smythe to ‘discuss my integration.’ He told me to respond at my earliest convenience, but he came to my home the next day himself to demand an answer.”

Kurt huffed out a heavy breath, tears pricking his eyes. He steeled himself to relive the next part.

“Kurt, you—“

“Let me finish,” Kurt pleaded, aware that if he did not say it now he never would. “Sebastian came to my home and…and propositioned me. He made no pretense about needing an apprentice clothier. He…he insisted that I…I come with him and…and be his whore—“ (here Kurt started crying, his voice shaking) “—and he said…the most foul things and—he grabbed me and held me there against my will, and—“

He paused, breathing deeply and trying to control his tears. To his undying gratitude, Blaine allowed him the moment uninterrupted.

“He offered me everything I could want in return,” he continued when he had wiped his tears. “I would be court minstrel when he took over, and no one would have to know of my true purpose in his entourage.  My family would be safe, and I would be doing what I always dreamed of doing—until Lord Smythe had need of me.”

Blaine inhaled sharply, and Kurt chuckled ruefully.

“I turned him down. He gave me until the end of the month to reconsider. To either go to him willingly, or else…or else I am afraid that he would take me by force or harm my family in retaliation. And I wanted to thank you for…for making sure that I won’t have to make that choice.”

Kurt turned to face Blaine, smiling gratefully. Blaine was wide-eyed, his mouth open as he stared at Kurt.

“You’re the only one with more power,” he said. “And now that you’re fixing things, now that things are changing…Sebastian has no excuse for his coup. If I am here, he cannot touch me or my family, because I am unavailable—he wouldn’t dare contest you, not now. So thank you, for…for summoning me here. And for finally taking your place. I know you aren’t doing it for me, but you should know that I am not the only one you’ll be sparing from Sebastian’s malice.”

Kurt turned to face forward again, restraining himself from spilling more tears and letting out a laugh of pure relief. He found himself facing the bloomed roses, their petals fanned out gracefully.

“These really are beautiful.”

Blaine hummed beside him. “Thank you.”

“I hear…they were your mother’s.”

Blaine’s scars contorted with his faint smile.

“They were. A gift from my father.”

Kurt leaned forward, inspecting the blooms. They were so deep a red that they almost looked black in the shadows of the leaves.

“I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Kurt admitted. “They’re so dark.”

“There’s a reason for it,” Blaine said, his voice quick and almost too quiet, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Did you know that the color of a rose can change its meaning when presented to someone?”

“I didn’t,” Kurt said carefully, hoping Blaine would continue speaking. He had a soothing voice when it wasn’t growling or shouting.

“Normal red roses are for passion, or courage, with a single one being a declaration of love,” Blaine explained. “Yellow roses are for friendship or joy. White expresses purity, and pink gives thanks. If you can find a lavender rose, it signifies enchantment with someone, and a hope for true love to blossom. And how many you give can mean something else. If you receive thirteen roses, you have a secret admirer. Eleven roses signify the deepest love and devotion. Six indicates a request for love. Two roses declare the intent to marry. One rose with its thorns removed means someone has fallen in love with you at first sight. There are other meanings, depending on the color, or number, or age of the rose. Much can be said with these simple flowers.”

“What do these roses mean?” Kurt asked, carefully leaning in to smell the heady scent. It was strong, stronger than other roses he had encountered. He turned to look at Blaine. “These aren’t a normal red.”

Blaine’s reaction was strange. His smile was small and sad, but his eyes were hopeful. His body was tense, though, as though he were afraid.

“These roses primarily signify an unconscious beauty, one that isn’t seen forthright,” he said finally. “But there’s much more to them than that. They profess deep longing and desire, a love that is passionate beyond words. They express a feeling that can’t be spoken for its intensity. They are given to break down barriers and deepen a love even if it is considered too early for such feelings. And they are uncompromising in their declaration—one should only give a dark red rose when their love is so fervent that it cannot be denied.”

Kurt’s eyes pricked with tears again, for he felt deeply Blaine’s sincerity and ardency and his emotions were already so close to the surface.

“On the other hand,” Blaine continued, “they can be given to a love lost. And in that, they express that though two cannot be together, the love never dies. The day my mother passed, she cut a single rose and laid it on my father’s pillow. She knew she was dying, you see, and she wanted him to know that her love would remain with him when she could not.”

Kurt was genuinely surprised and moved to see tears in Blaine’s eyes as well. His own fell, expressing what he knew Blaine would not; what Blaine would hide behind his armor and his scars.

And if Blaine would not express it, Kurt would have to do it for him.

Blaine wore his hood again at dinner that night. The day had been spent in a state of far too much vulnerability, and while Mike and Kurt had seen him without it, Wes and David had not, and Blaine didn’t want to risk their suspicions or excitement. He wasn’t ready to bare himself yet, no matter how much progress had been made toward revealing himself.

That was the inevitable conclusion. He hadn’t planned to set his return to court in motion when he ordered the music room renewed. He had only wished to please Kurt, to see him happy, and he hadn’t anticipated that Kurt would misconstrue his actions. He had steeled himself to explain, to tell Kurt that he was only fixing the one room, but then Kurt had told the story of his connection to Sebastian.

Blaine had never been so close to seeing red.

He had imagined that Kurt and Sebastian had been lovers, or acquaintances. And he was well aware of his cousin’s perverse treatment of his tenants. But he had never guessed that the bastard would treat Kurt in such a manner—would frighten and blackmail someone into his pleasures rather than seducing them.

And now he understood.

He had imagined Sebastian would be firm, perhaps even a ruthless ruler—he wasn’t a moral man, or a gentle one—but he had never truly believed him to be cruel or blatantly despotic.

He had never truly believed that he would make a better ruler himself. Until now.

Until Kurt. Kurt, who was a victim and not a willing participant in Sebastian’s unscrupulous behavior. And suddenly all of Blaine’s imaginings of Kurt and Sebastian pressed together, naked and sweating and groaning, turned sour, filled with images of Kurt struggling and begging to be freed. Kurt…whom he could protect.

“My lord, if I may?”

Blaine turned to look at Kurt, dressed in all black but for his feather pin, gracefully perched on his stool in the corner, as always. Perhaps I’ll provide him with a more comfortable seat—

“I have written a song,” Kurt continued. “Would my lord permit me to sing it?”

Blaine studied Kurt carefully for a moment. He was obviously a bit nervous—his voice was higher than usual, breathier. He was fidgeting slightly under Blaine’s gaze, stroking the wood of his lute unconsciously, tension in his shoulders and an anxious smile on his face. Blaine smiled fondly, fighting to hold back a laugh. He is certainly adorable…

“Very well,” Blaine said, nodding, pleased that he kept his voice even. He settled back in his chair as Kurt relaxed and began to pluck out notes, his beautiful mouth curving around high, clear notes.

O bird, black bird that sings by night,

Thou learnst with broken wing to fly;

And thru thy life’s despair entire,

Abides for space to rise.

Blaine suddenly felt as though his breathe were stolen from him. Kurt was staring directly at him as he sang, his face full of—of too much.

O bird, black bird that sings by night,

Thou seen with eyes of sunken hue;

And thru thy life’s despair entire,

Abides to flee from gilded mew.

Kurt was singing about him. He was singing to him and about him and Blaine could see nothing but the beautiful man before him, his white fingers, his pink mouth, his eyes like the fires of the Northern sky, like harlequin opals, like stars exploding.

Fly, o bird, to darkness’ light;

Abide for space to rise.

The last note of the lute rang out, unexpectedly sweet after such a plaintive melody. Blaine had never been more thankful for his hood, for he could not be entirely certain of just how besotted he appeared.

“My lord?”

Blaine cleared his throat, turning away. He couldn’t think and look at Kurt at the same time, but as soon as he turned he realized he needed to do what he had been contemplating since he cut the roses that morning. He looked over at Mike, whose smile was knowing, but kind. He beckoned Mike forward.

“Delay him from returning to his room,” he whispered when Mike drew close. “And when he returns, let him return alone.”

Mike bowed his head in agreement and stepped back. Blaine stood and left the room. 

Kurt didn’t understand.

He had spent all day writing that song, the words flowing out of him without cease. He had cleaned it up, set it to the tune that was floating through his mind, and practiced it until he knew it better than any song he’d heard his entire life. It was his song…Blaine’s song. He had never felt that he understood the Prince more.

And he had been so sure the Prince would like it.

He turned to Mike, and the dismay must have shown clearly on his face, for Mike offered him a gentle smile.

“Don’t worry, Kurt,” he said softly. “He wasn’t displeased.”

“Then why—“ Kurt cut himself off and took a shaky breath.

“Kurt, when do you think the last time the Prince had a song written for him?”

Kurt blinked.

“I’m not—“

“Never,” Mike said bluntly. “He has never had a song written for him. Do you know how many songs Cooper had written for him? Or his mother? Or the King?”

Kurt didn’t know the answer to that either, but only because there were so many. He let out a gust of breath, looking down at his lute like it was suddenly magical. He had just given Blaine something that he had probably wanted his entire life. Mike nodded when he saw Kurt realize.

“And your song…Kurt.”

Kurt looked back up at Mike, who was crying, smiling as his eyes filled with tears.

“I hope you realize just how overwhelmed Blaine must be right now,” he said. “Give him some time to process this.”

Kurt nodded, looking back down at his lute. He had wanted to give Blaine this gift, had wanted to affect him and let him know what Kurt thought of him. And he had never felt more proud of something he had written. In fact, he’d never shared anything he’d really written before, because he’d never felt it was good enough. But he had thought of the Prince, thought of all the beauty that he kept caged away, and he had ended up with something he felt he could share with anyone.

He didn’t want to hide this song. Just like he didn’t want Blaine to hide himself anymore.

The enormity struck him entirely in that moment. He hadn’t meant for it to be this much—but it had, and there was no going back.

And what does it say about your feelings? asked a small, honest part of him. You wouldn’t have written this for just anyone, would you have?

 No. He wouldn’t have.

“I’m going to clean this up,” Mike said, and Kurt saw him settling down a couple of lit candles on the table. “Would you mind putting out the fireplace?”

Kurt set his lute down with a silent nod and crossed the room. As Mike shuffled around behind him, stacking the remnants of the Prince’s supper and cleaning up, he poked out the embers and buried them in ash automatically, concentrating more on making sure he kept the filth off of his outfit—ash smearing the black would be unsightly.

As soon as the fire was out, he stood and turned. Mike smiled at him and handed him a candle.

“I’m going to settle things in the Prince’s chambers,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Kurt replied, turning away.

He walked slowly through the halls, his thoughts whirling. He had never been more confused about his own mind. What exactly was he doing? He had written a song for his Prince, and it wasn’t in a spirit of friendship or distant admiration.

You know him, now, he thought. And Mike had told him—the Prince was a good man. Kurt knew now that this was true—but he wondered if Mike had known anything else; about his beauty, his bravery, his loneliness—

“Kurt.”

Kurt gasped, eyes snapping up and left hand clutching hard at the candle, which he had almost dropped in his surprise. A gentle arm stopped him from taking another step, its warm weight across his abdomen, a broad hand rested on his left hip. The Prince stood very close to his right, their shoulders touching. Kurt turned his head, and he found Blaine’s face, bared from the hood, only inches away.

“I wanted to thank you for your song.”

Blaine’s voice was low, almost a whisper, deeper than Kurt had ever heard it. His lips barely moved, but Kurt couldn’t draw his eyes away from the way they looked in the candlelight.

“You don’t know what it meant to me,” the Prince continued, “to hear you sing it.”

Kurt nodded, feeling as though every inhale was too little, as though Blaine were stealing the very breath from his lips.

“Please look at me.”

Kurt raised his eyes to Blaine’s. The candlelight shone off the gold of Blaine’s eyes, revealing flecks of green that Kurt had not seen before.

“Please allow me to show my thanks,” Blaine murmured, the words drifting from his mouth in soft puffs of air that reached Kurt’s own. They were so close, too close, and when Kurt nodded, a soft yes tumbling from him, Blaine very lightly pressed the tip of his nose to the side of Kurt’s own.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He stepped past Kurt, his hand drawing a line of fire across Kurt’s stomach and hip.

And then he was gone.

When Kurt arrived at his room, his body tingling, his lips aching, he noticed something on his pillow.

It was a single dark red rose, all its thorns removed.