Duke of Camellias

TWENTY-FOUR

The morning, Blair woke up in a daze.

Emmanuel had walked him to his room after that, and simply parted with a "Have a good-night, Blair. I enjoyed the present a lot."

Blair didn't know which one he referred to.

The kiss seemed surreal—too surreal to believe. After the kiss he had grown extremely warm. The whole night, his chest was tight, and he could not bring himself to focus on anything.

They had kissed. Emmanuel had kissed him, but they were men. But then again, Christopher was a man, and the two had done such things. Had Emmanuel saw him that way, too?

It had been his first kiss, if he didn't count the time a girl named Sophia kissed him when he was twelve. She must've been nine, and Blair was shocked at the girl's courage, but it had not counted. Not for him. That kiss had not made him feel hot or restless.

Did he love Emmanuel, in that way?

Love. The word was strange. Blair had wrote a number of romances, and always thought he would settle down with a nice girl and have a family. It was what everyone did, wasn't it? To love a man was wrong.

It was a sin.

Blair had not thought of rejecting the notion although he knew it was going to happen. No, truth was, that night after the ballet, when he held his sleeve, he had wanted something. Was it that?

If so, what Emmanuel said that night while drunk was right. Blair was being confusing, and truth was, he was confused himself. He had always thought of Emmanuel as beautiful, but he always thought it was only natural, akin to admiring a portrait or statue. He didn't think that he had such—such lustful thoughts.

When Flemings came with a jug of water, and poured it into his basin, he splashed his face with hot water before getting dressed, once more in a simpler outfit, for the holidays had passed.

When he went down, all had seemed normal again, for the servants had cleaned up the front hall, and Emmanuel was down for breakfast again, tea and newspaper at hand. At the sight of him, Blair casted his eyes downward, and ate quickly.

"New Years' is coming," Emmanuel remarked without a 'good morning'. "If you wish to leave and go back home, you may, for most of the help are going." Blair looked up quickly, and finished his biscuit before answered.

"No, thank you, I don't have anyone to go home to."

He could see Eleanora's grave, but he didn't want to see Morris again. He had been running away from what he told him—it must be a mistake. The Duke was cold, but not cruel. He did not despise his family to that point.

"Very well, then." Emmanuel read his newspaper without care, but Blair smiled. The peace might be ephemeral, but it was all he wished for in the moment.

The following days were the same, and Emmanuel even proposed teaching Blair to paint. Blair understood he still didn't want to speak about his past, and accepted. For a week or so, he dabbled with charcoal on paper.

As heinous as his drawings were, always lopsided or taking up too much space, so that he squeezed apples into the corner, or flowers were cut off at the top of the paper, Emmanuel only chuckled and continued to teach him patiently.

"Look," he would say, "start with a circle, just here and there, as placements. See, sketch softly, like this. Hold the charcoal close to the top, and use your wrist."

Blair followed his instructions diligently, for he always had a passion for learning, but never got a chance to learn because his mother worked alone and died when he was young. He taught himself reading from books and an older friend from the factory.