Duke of Camellias

THIRTY-SEVEN

Despite the gravity of the conversation from a few night ago, soon Blair and Laurence were at peace again, and Blair had gotten used to his dingy but somewhat entertaining flat. It was mid-April, and he had been with Laurence for a month, and left the Duke's place for nearly two months.

He was amusing himself by flipping through dog-eared books of folklore and mysteries when he heard three sharp knocks at the door. He stood up, not knowing whether to open the door or not, as he was just a guest.

"Laurence!" he shouted. He was in the bedroom, napping, as he couldn't sleep well on the chair.

"Wait, wait!" Laurence hastily pulled on a wrinkled shirt and ran to the door, before opening it.

To both men's surprise, a familiar young boy's face greeted them. He looked down at Laurence's bare chest and yelped, before turning around. Laurence realized his mistake and started buttoning, but Blair pushed him out of the way.

"Ethan!" he shouted. "Have you gotten sacked!"

"Heavens, no!" Ethan turned back: "I couldn't find you so I had to go to Mister Davis's place and he gave me this address—"

"What's wrong?" Laurence asked.

"Oh, yes, you have to come with me, Blair! The Duke's dying!"

"What!" Blair pushed the door wide open and jumped out. "How in the world!"

"He's poisoned himself," Ethan said, on the verge of tears. "Flemings had me fetch you, you must come with me, quick! I beg of you!"

Without another word, Blair rushed in to grab his jacket, forgetting his luggage and running out the door. "Laurence, I'm so sorry!"

"Wait!" Laurence couldn't stop himself, he leapt out and caught his wrist.

Blair, would hadn't given any thought to his actions, turned around and watched his with a frown.

"Laurence! The Duke is dying! What are you doing?" He writhed and writhed, but Laurence was strong. He stared at him, mouth agape.

"The Duke and you have no more relation!"

At that, Blair stopped. He stared at Laurence as though he were the stranger, the one he couldn't recognize. He shook his head, not in answer, but in pondering. As though he were asking Laurence, "What in the world are you saying?" Laurence grew cold.

"Blair, don't you understand? The Duke has let you down, again and again! He's not the saint you think he is—he's ruined his family and killed his own father!"

"You're the one who doesn't understand," Blair whispered. "I always knew. Demon or angel, the Duke was always true to himself. He hasn't done anything wrong."

"He doesn't love you! You don't love him!" Laurence pleaded. "He did everything on purpose, to have you realize you cannot be with him! Imagine the scandal!"

"You told me," Blair said, relaxing his arm, "that there's no fault in loving."

Laurence choked back in his words. There was no wrong; he over Blair himself. Upon living with him and realizing how kind and full of hope he was, he had realized love for the first time, realized why he always felt strange when he saw Blair laughing with the Duke, or the Duke leaning in too close to him.

"I—" He stopped, unable to continue. "There isn't. There isn't fault in loving."

His fingers loosened, and then finally his hand drew back. Blair smiled, a sorrowful parting smile.

"I will write to you when he recovers!" he said, but knew it was possible that he wouldn't recover at all. "Goodbye, Laurence, thank you for everything. I mean it."