Blaine permits himself only a moment more of perturbation before he turns his mind from Kurt, childhood treats, and sets his focus back to his work. He redeploys his eyepiece and checks for new correspondence, sends a few messages, updates his schedule, and then settles into an (exceptionally comfortable) armchair to go over his log of the conversation in the airlock. That absorbs him for the next hour, and then he takes a scheduled break when his reminder gently pings in his ear.

He stretches, methodically working through a sequence that keeps him alert and flexible, and then he pours himself a glass of water. The snacks on the table tempt, and he is curious. His stomach and mind agree that food is needed, so he picks up a plate and places upon it one of the savory turnovers.

The way the buttery pastry shears into flakes beneath his fingertips is exactly right. The taste is… close. Theres too much of something—some spice or herb—than matches his memory. Blaine never knew how his grandmother made them. But its so close. The warm scent of the filling transports him back to her dining room and auburn hued sunlight, the table set formally for the family Equinox dinner. She always took a lot of time with preparations, of not only the food but also the decor: selecting the right linens and centerpiece to compliment the season and the meal. No two years were the same. Some though her eccentric, but her attention to those small embellishments delighted Blaine when he was a child.

Never mind. Hes an adult now, and its been seven years since he saw his birth family. It is both customary and appropriate that one leave behind their childhood at sixteen when they choose their trade. The Diplomatic Corps is his family now, and the Ambassador, the head of it. Its a good life, too. Blaine remains grateful that not only was he selected for the highly competitive government track, but also that he received his first choice of assignment—lucky that fortune favored him the day he caught June Dolloways attention at an Academy debate. She praised his talent and made him promises shes kept.

So his nostalgia is nothing, truly. The warmth of old memories shifts in his mind, pleasant enough to behold briefly, but a pointless thing upon which to dwell. He cant go back, and nor does he wish to.

That doesnt mean Blaine doesnt finish the plate of turnovers and sample two each of the sweet cookies. The lemon wafers are perfect. The cinnamon dusted butter cookies lacks the fine tenderness of his grandmothers and its too sweet. But Blaine resolves to make right his earlier lapse with Kurt. He shall find Kurt tonight at the dinner (it seems unreasonable to think Kurt wont be there) and apologize for his insincerity—and be sure to thank him properly.
Blaines brushing the crumbs from his hands when his data rig pings again with a priority message: Ambassador Dolloway wants everyone in a meeting in ten minutes.

.

"Im afraid the news isnt good," the Ambassador says, once everyone is seated in the lounge area of her quarters. The fruit bowl is gone from the table, and a small holo-projector now sits in its place. She also had Blaine change the exterior wall to opaque, so therell be no distractions. "Weve received updated intelligence from the Defense and Trade Ministry on the Charn intrusion. Intrusion theyre still calling it, but I believe this is becoming an invasion. See here?" She gestures at the miniature model of the Elyssian star systems hovering over the tabletop.

The worlds Elyssia has lost flare red; the ones in peril orange, and the ones nearest them, yellow. There are more red flares than Blaine understood to be the case. Elyssia had been reluctant to part with the information over distance communications. But now that they are here, they have access to Elyssias latest reports and can see the true nature of the threat. The pattern of attacks in striking. Its not simply the Charn opportunistically picking off a few systems that border their territory, but a growing wedge pushing into Elyssian space.

"Where are the Elyssian naval fleets?" Blaine asks.

Hunter gives a subvocal command and the three Elyssian fleets blossom bright blue. Theyre spread far apart, and stationed behind the threatened worlds. They cannot provide support to each other. "But the Charns main force is here," Hunter says, and their ten fleets, each of which Blaine knows is formed around a Charn Dreadnought, are positioned in adjacent systems, in a kind of wide ranging formation. Their strategy tends to be to leapfrog their forces: conquer, secure, move on to the next target—and theres always a rearguard.

"Weve got reports of orbital bombardment. As you can well imagine, the casualty reports are staggering. Elyssia lost two hospital ships in an ambush yesterday. They were trying to evacuate survivors," the Ambassador says. "I understand the current orders to the navy are to evacuate worlds under threat, and not to engage the Charn fleet, which would be suicidal."

Blaine stares at the little red flares in the model, tries to imagine the magnitude of the loss, and his stomach goes queasy with it. "So," Blaine says, "the Elyssian Council still believes they can negotiate a peace?"

"Theyre prepared to offer several outer worlds along the border to the Charn in exchange for the cessation of aggression. But as you can see, that kind of deal is unlikely to placate whatever is driving the Charn to this invasion."

"It looks like genocide," Trent says softly.

"We should have an Apathean warship escorting us," Hunter says.

"No," the Ambassador says, "that would not only be rude to our hosts who have promised our safety—our journey to the Capitol wont be taking us anywhere near the front lines—but it would also alert the Charn to our interest and may provoke them prematurely. Further, as you well know, Major, even one of our warships would do more good at the front lines, than escorting the five of us, so it would be a slap in the face of our friends if we were to bring along one of our ships like some kind of ornament while we have not yet offered them substantive assistance in this fight."

"Are we friends?" Blaine asks. It isnt a word hes known the Ambassador to use lightly.

"Yes," the Ambassador says firmly, in the way that lets everyone know this is not a subject for debate. "My interest here is in finding a way to help our friends. At this point, I am only authorized to offer humanitarian aid, but, with this latest intelligence, I will strongly urge our government to reconsider the request for military aid. If Elyssia will accept it, and it is increasingly in their interest to do so."

"We havent gone to war in over a century," Nick says. "And never for the sake of someone else."

"Thats accurate," says the Ambassador. "But I didnt volunteer for this mission because it was going to be easy."

.

Several hours later, a dark skinned woman with a serene smile arrives to escort their delegation to the dinner reception. "Im Mercedes," she tells them. "I work with Kurt." She wears a modest fitted gray suit not dissimilar to Sams, and a string of cut crystals sparkles around her neck.

"Dont look so glum," the Ambassador whispers in Blaines ear as they make their way down the hall. "Tonight, at least, is for friendship and celebration. Well get to the hard things tomorrow."

"Yes, Maam."

"But I still expect detailed analysis of those latest reports from you in the morning."

"Youll have them," Blaine says. Hes learned to operate well on little enough sleep.

.

The reception is— Its certainly not the obscene excess of which Nick has told tales, but it is far less somber than Blaine expects given the recent news. He has to remind himself that the knowledge he has is not widespread yet. Most of the people in the room wont know how bad it truly is.

Easy laughter ripples through the space. There are three floors in the reception hall with the upper floors open to the bottom most in a broad oval with wide glass staircases sweeping down and a transparent dome above showing the black of space. The glass of the staircases must be an illusion; but they appear precarious enough, Blaine keeps to the ground with the Ambassador, who is letting people come to her. Motes of light, like glitter caught in a sunbeam, float and swirl through the air and provide dispersed illumination. Blaine tries discreetly to capture one in his hand, but finds it has no substance. A projection of some kind?

The Ambassador has turned on her charm, warmth, and smiles to meet everyone who greets her. She listens attentively as Trent translates for her, and Blaine knows shell remember the substance of every interaction. Meanwhile, between encounters, Blaine offers tidbits of relevant information as needed, tailored to whomever approaches. He reminds her of any intricacies of the current politics, so she knows how to best greet a person, what tact to take, enough details about their trade or profession or political leanings to continue a conversation and build rapport. Theres no negotiation tonight. No talk of war or resources, just getting to know one another.

Blaine takes what opportunities he can to look for Kurt in the crowd around and above him. The Elyssian are a colorful crowd in fine clothes of so many textures and patterns in so many daring styles, its disorienting. There are a few, however, dressed in plain and modest gray. Its not a uniform as far as Blaine can discern. He wonders at the significance.

While they all wait for dinner to be called, wait staff weave among the gathering offering a drink thats pink and sparkling and served in tall flared glasses. It smells of roses and has a mild bittersweet taste that seems to grow sweeter as it lingers on the tongue. Blaine gets reassurance that it contains no alcohol. "Not tonight, anyway," says the girl holding the tray, and then she winks at him. He doesnt see Kurt.

Eventually though, the energy calms, people move from group to group with less frequency, and settle into conversation. The Ambassador finds a seat on a curved sofa where she sits with a couple who work in the government archives. Trent translates less as the Ambassador seems inclined to speak for herself, which is not that much of a risk in an informal setting. The topic at hand is recent history, and the Ambassador is curious. Blaine stands beside her and listens distractedly as he continues his survey of the room.

He sees Hunter and Nick keeping close together and in conversation with Captain Dupont and another man in the same uniform. They appear relaxed. Blaine tips his head back to look up at the dome and the dance of the glittery motes of light. And thats when he sees Kurt, on the balcony two floors above him, wearing black in stark contrast with the colors of his fellows, and leaning on the balustrade looking directly back at Blaine. It sends a strange shiver up Blaines spine, and Blaine blinks and redirects his attention to the Ambassador, bending near to make sure he doesnt miss anything.

"Blaine," the Ambassador says, in the tone that means an instruction is coming.

"Yes, maam?"

"Youre beginning to hover," she says.

"Oh."

"Go mingle."

With a self-conscious laugh, Blaine goes.

He makes an effort at mingling. He checks in with Hunter and Nick, and makes some small talk with the Captain, says his hellos to a few of the people hes met tonight. But he remembers his intention to find Kurt to apologize and thank him. He approaches the glass stairs with some trepidation and plenty of determination. They do, despite the look of them, provide traction beneath his feet, and he goes up, only to see Kurt coming down the next flight toward him. It feels like gravity somehow, as if no matter what Blaine had intended tonight, he will end up speaking to Kurt. The element of compulsion is nearly enough to make Blaine turn and leave until he regains his composure. But Blaine acknowledges his sudden reluctance is no more rational than the bizarre sense of inevitability. Speaking with Kurt is part of his duty. And so he goes.

Standing at the base of the stairs, Kurt watches Blaine come to him. Hes tall and lean in a close-fitting black velvet suit over a shimmery lavender shirt. His upswept hair has caught some of the lights and gleams brightly. Their eyes meet, Kurt smiles, and Blaine steels himself to be unsettled. He picks up a fresh glass from a waiter as he approaches. Watches Kurts
smile curl up at the corner in satisfaction. Blaine shakes his head.

"Hello, Blaine," Kurt says. His voice is light, warm and familiar using just his first name. It doesnt sound like hes holding a grudge.

"You were watching me," Blaine says.

"I was," Kurt says. "I have to be sure youre enjoying yourselves. Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "I wanted to thank you for the… treats, and apologize for being less than forthright before about my discomfort."

Kurt waves off the apology. "That was my mistake," he says. "But if you enjoyed them, thats all the thanks I desire."

"All right," Blaine says. He expected this to be more difficult, and now hes left with no back up plan to continue the interaction. (And he does very much wish for it to continue.)

"Dinner isnt far away," Kurt says. "The menu Ive selected is based on the cuisine currently in fashion in the Capitol. I hope youll enjoy it."

"So long as its not live maggots," Blaine says and offers a grin. "The Hestari dont cater well to a human palate."

Kurts eyes widen. "Live maggots?"

"I understand theyre very nutritious, but we could never quite manage them live," Blaine says.

"I should hope not," Kurt says, grimacing in distaste. "You wont have that problem here. In deference to the Ambassador, we wont be serving animals tonight, living, dead, or otherwise, so youre safe from that."

"Thats very thoughtful," Blaine says. "Thank you."

"Believe it or not, Im usually good at my job," Kurt says. "I regret upsetting you earlier. It wasnt the best start."

"Our cultures are different enough," Blaine says.

"Perhaps," Kurt says. "But we read many of the same books as school children, dont we? Shakespeare and Sun Tzu and the other ancients."

"Do we?" Blaine asks, sincere in the question. Hes never heard of such a thing, had always assumed the similarities between the Apathean and Elyssia were surface—some kind of convergent evolution. But before he can better articulate his question, Kurt speaks again.

"Are you honestly surprised?" Kurt asks. "Did you think we were a backwater of some sort just because we—"

The chimes for dinner ring, a harmonic cascade that brings the room to silence.

"Please excuse me, Blaine. I must go attend to the kitchen staff," Kurt says, and then he reaches out and lays his hand warm upon Blaines forearm. "Would you like to continue our conversation after dinner? Id love to show you the Garden."

"I—" Blaine begins. He does a quick mental catalog of the work he needs to do tonight. Hell find a way to manage. "Yes, please," he says. "Id enjoy that."

"Wonderful," Kurt says, he bites into his widening smile and tilts his head. "I find I like it when you say yes. Ill look for you later, then?"

"Ill aim to be found," Blaine says. He takes a moment to simply watch Kurt go, and he wonders at how the disturbance deep in his belly manages to be something so pleasant.