Duke of Camellias

THIRTY-EIGHT

Two days passed, and Blair was always next to the Duke's bedside. Flemings had prepared a chair for him, but Blair preferred the floor. He sat there, head against Charles's hand, and there he watched him. Occasionally he ate on the chair, or napped, head on the bed, but he never left.

Charles only ever furrowed his brows and rolled his eyes about beneath his eyelids, and they fluttered, occasionally, but never opened.

Blair's throat had ran dry and his eyes had grown tire of tears, so now he simply watched Charles. He thought of that night he said he loved Blair, and wondered if the feelings were still there; if he still had the right to profess his feelings for him when he woke up.

In the middle of the night of the third day since Blair's arrival, Charles finally stirred. He woke up, groggily surveyed his surrounding, and tried to sit up, but felt a weight on his arm.

He looked down, to see a mess of a familiar chestnut color, like a Welsh pony's coat.

Charles slowly pulled out his hand from underneath, and then touched a finger to the hair. It was soft, so soft. He combed through it, and realized how soothing it was, like having a loyal dog sleeping next to his bed. He rested his hand on the soft down, then suddenly groaned.

There was unbearable pain in his head, like something had hit him repeatedly, and only now was it returning. Then he remembered, the morphine, and falling, and Flemings's fingers in his mouth, and the two maids whacking his back and Ethan's cries. His staff were such busybodies, he thought.

His groaning, although not particularly loud, roused Blair from his nap, and he opened his still stinging eyes to realize the hand was gone. In a hurry, he sat up; and met with Charles's eyes.

His nostalgic hazel eyes.

Charles clammed up once he saw the boy, but Blair didn't waste a moment, and cried out before wrapping his arms around the Duke's neck.

"Charles!"

It had felt like an eternity since he heard that name, directed to him, of all things.

He closed his eyes, Blair's familiar smell, of ink and the unique smell his jacket always had, and gripped his hands onto his back. He couldn't hold it in anymore—they had only been apart for barely more than a month, but he had felt so awfully lonely. The last week they were together, they had kept their distance, and there had been such tension. He had kept from holding him when he came close, and he had thought Blair disliked him—feared him.

But the hug proved otherwise.

"Charles—I'm so sorry!" Blair pressed his eyes onto his shoulders, and his tears soaked through the crisp nightshirt. Charles inhaled sharply, and then pulled Blair tighter. He rose on his knees, and sobbed into the crook of his shoulders, the bone against his chin. There was pain, but it was warm and familiar.

"Blair—" Charles croaked out, voice like an aging instrument. "Why are you here?"

"I heard from Ethan—Flemings sent him to where I was," Blair said.

Charles didn't know how to feel, what to say, so he slapped away Blair's hand. "And you returned? For what? Don't tell me you think we'd go back to before like everything?"

It was what hurt Blair the most. He shook his head.

"It's my fault. I know I hurt you—"

"Oh, wonderful. I thought you didn't know." Charles laughed, turning away and shaking his head sarcastically.

"No, Charles, I don't hate you!" Blair grabbed his shoulders, but when Charles faced him, his face was blank.

"You don't hate me, and you don't love me. You are here because you feel responsible."