While Emmanuel and Blair were at the ballet, Christopher amused himself by talking to Sammy and Flemings. The three had little to talk about, and as Sammy and Flemings were especially courteous to him, it didn't feel much like a conversation. Instead, they began talking about the Duke and Blair.

"How long has it been?" Christopher asked, "since Blair came here, I meant."

"If I remember correctly, he came in September, so it will be four months, soon."

"He's a charming person, isn't he?"

"Yes," Flemings agreed, eyes crinkling from smiling. "He befriended the footman and maids, and occasionally still comes down and talks to them. His lordship, too, seems to be happier these days. His lordship went to London, and even the ballet, to my surprise. If I dare say, h has never went of his own will, to my recollection, in the years I've served him."

"Yes," Christopher said, and gave a small nod.

"Of course, my lord enjoys your presence a lot, too," Flemings quickly added. Sammy gave him a look that signaled for him to stop bringing up the subject. There was only silence, and Christopher laughed.

"Yes, I suppose the holidays will be much more lively this winter with Blair around. Now, if you shall excuse me, I think I'll rest in my room until the two return."

Christopher walked up the stairs, feeling his face grow warm. They knew, as much as he did, that the lies Angela spread was not true.

The events of that night were all too clear to Christopher, and whenever he remembered, he felt sick in the stomach, not because of what they had done, but because of what he had done afterwards.

His mother would have disowned him if she knew of the truth, and Angela wouldn't understand. He couldn't find it, those many years ago, to tell her she was wrong, that he had, in fact, been the one to initiate what occurred.

He went to the room he had stayed that many years ago, and then stopped once he entered the room—it was Blair's. He had forgotten, he was in the room next to his. He was about to walk out when he saw a manuscript by the desk.

***

The next morning Christopher woke up and then saw it was six, he had woken an hour earlier than he usually did. He was too accustomed to it; back at home his mother always believed in waking up an hour early to pray, praying again before bed. Even five minutes was deducted before supper, and then they had to give thanks to the Lord before eating for every three meals they had.

Last night Emmanuel and Blair had returned late, after dinner, which he had alone. And as guilty as he was, he couldn't bring himself to face Blair.

Christopher climbed out of bed and dressed himself, for Sammy hadn't arrived, but either way, he didn't like being dressed. He sat down, alone, before the dining table, and then pondered about yesterday.

As obtrusive as it was, he had read the manuscript. As obtrusive as it was, he had only wanted to befriend the boy and read his stories, but he discovered something he shouldn't. 'The Prince of Camellias'. There was no doubt the prince was the Duke and he was the other prince, while Blair was the peasant.

Christopher knew, from reading it how Blair held feelings for Emmanuel. He had thought it was impossible—at most, he had imagined him to be there for the Duke's money, and the Duke took care of him out of pity, or charity, or at worst, some indecent purpose.

However, after reading it, he had realized it. Their relationship was not as simple as he imagined, and the Duke had changed.

Christopher went downstairs, expecting no one but maybe some servants, but to his surprise, Emmanuel was also at the table, face as solemn as always. In fact, there seemed to be dark circles under his eyes, and upon seeing Christopher, he raised an eyebrow.

"Collins? Why are you up so early? Was the bed not to your liking?"

Christopher pulled on a smile, but his heart ached. Once, the Duke had called him by his name, and he had a different face, eyes relaxed and teeth showing as he laughed about.

Back then, everything was different. He hadn't learned about his dark history, and Angela, too, had been infatuated with him, and even his strict mother had welcomed the idea of him joining them for Christmas. That Christmas, however, never came.

"Is Blair not coming down?" Christopher had tried his best to be nonchalant about it, but Emmanuel quickly looked up.

"The ballet went on longer than expected, the poor boy can take his time sleeping."

Christopher swallowed. Something didn't sit right with him. "Does he often sleep into the day?"

"Collins, you can ask directly, and for the record, no, Blair and I do not have such a relationship."

Then why, Christopher thought, why do you say his name so? Why do you leave him out of our conversations like a protective mother hen, only to drag him back for a private date?

"Then tell me, what relationship do you have with him?"

He watched as the Duke picked up the newspaper Flemings had ironed for him, and tossed it open with a crisp rustle. He looked at Christopher, chin held up high. Like always, he managed to make Christopher's chest tighten. Once, he had thought it was admiration or desire for brotherly figure, for a man so wealthy and yet so humble, a man so educated and yet so reserved.

But then he had found out his feelings for him weren't quite so simple.

"What is Blair to you?"

Emmanuel lowered his eyelids, lashes obscuring his irises.

"Quote your sister, Miss Angela, I may be a sodomite, but I do have some restraint."

The words were so cold, so full of unvoiced hatred and anger. But Christopher knew this conversation would come, sooner or later—and he had been waiting for it.

"I've always regretted that time," Christopher began, hurriedly. "I tried to speak out against it, but mother and Angela were—"

"Were always controlling you?" Emmanuel smirked. "You're what, twenty-eight? Nine? Or thirty?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Yes, I remember, a year older than Angela. Yet she always controlled you, didn't you?"

Christopher looked down, ashamed, and yet he couldn't stop.

"I was in the wrong. I should've said something—I could've stopped them. I am to blame for it all, not Angela or mother. I was just—just so—"

He stopped. He curled his hands into fists.

Emmanuel kept his gaze on the newspaper. "I understand, you are you, and I am I. I don't blame you, you wanted to live in society, and I never did, anyways."

"But the rumors! They said you forced me, and that wasn't true."

"Who knows, it might've been true. Neither of us remembered that night clearly. Your mother is right after all, alcohol is a sin, much like sodomy."

"Stop!"

Christopher stood up, chair falling to the ground, and looked at Emmanuel.

"Stop," he pleaded, crying.

That was a lie, too; that both men were drunk. They had hardly gotten to the point of being tipsy, and Christopher—he had initiated it.

He knew Emmanuel had fired one of his footman for a similar reason, but he thought he had been able to break the walls so firmly rooted in his heart. He had wanted to know the man more. He had been attracted to his small, sibylline smiles, the faraway look he occasionally had when people chatted about frivolous things, the mature air he gave off.

That night he was in Emmanuel's room, and they might've been chatting, or playing chess, or cards. He couldn't quite remember anymore. Somewhere among the line he had grown fascinated by his long lashes, and the light fell over his face, giving his usually pallid face a hint of color.

Without thinking, he had reached out for his face and leaned over.

"You know what happened that night wasn't a mistake," Christopher whispered.

The two men both looked down, Emmanuel's legs crossed, leaning back on his chair, and Christopher standing there, hands on the table. A tear dropped from his chin, and then another.

"Well, for me, it was."

The words were more than he could bear to hear, although he had always known.

From their meeting in London, from how Emmanuel chose the clothing for Blair, something he never did for him. He thought of the face when he saw him, the way he called his name—no, the way he didn't call his name.

Christopher smiled through it, and nodded.

"I was wrong to have invited myself over."

Emmanuel didn't respond. Christopher clenched his jaw.

"I'll leave, but Emmanuel, before I go, I just want to say—it wasn't a mistake for me."

Without another moment, Christopher turned on his heels, and left the dining hall, racing up the staircase. His face finally crumpled, and he finally sobbed as he we walked down the hall to his room. He gathered everything into his trunk but the gift he had meant to give to Emmanuel for Christmas. His hands trembled as he held an envelope clenched between his forefinger and thumb.

With a sharp movement, he stuffed it into his pocket, deciding against it. He hoisted up his trunk and left for the hallway.

There stood Blair, eyes wide like a doe, woken up by the loud steps. He looked up and down at Christopher dressed up, coat buttoned, trunk in hand.

"Christopher? Is something the matter?"

Christopher stopped, and he grimaced.

Before him stood the man Emmanuel loved—and yet he could not hate him. He thought of the story he wrote, and then realized.

Each one of his stories must have meant more to him—more than just 'sad'. They had meant something indescribable.

"I'm—I'm sorry." Christopher looked down, unable to meet his eye. Blair was younger than him, and yet he was everything Christopher couldn't be. He had the strength to stand by Emmanuel's side, he had the heart to love Emmanuel, and the courage to wait for him. He wrote such stories one couldn't easily see through, and despite everything, smiled.

"It's fine, Christopher. You've done nothing to apologize for." He still said his name so gently, without the slightest hint of malice.

"You don't know of the things I did," he whispered.

"I might not, but you're not a bad man. I know, because you still came to see Emmanuel after all this time."

"It's been eight years." Christopher's teeth chattered. "It's been eight Christmases, and although I remember every winter, I can never make myself to go and apologize until now. And it was because I saw him—saw him with you."

Upon saying it, he realized it.

All he had wanted was to take away Emmanuel's happiness; make sure he still had a place in his heart.

"But time has passed," he said, and he was unsure what he was taking about, or who he was telling this to. Was it him, Blair, or Emmanuel? "He has moved on, hasn't he? He never needed my apology, but I had always wanted his forgiveness for myself."

Blair took a step closer.

"But you came, despite everything, you sister, your mother, and society."

"It's too late, it's too late." Christopher looked back at Blair, and smiled. "I read your story, 'The Prince of Camellias'."

Blair couldn't help the shock that showed on his face. "It's only a silly story, it doesn't mean anything—"

"I know the ending: the prince fell in love with the Storyteller."

"No, you're wrong." Blair suddenly said. "I've finished writing it, and I've come to realize it. The prince loved both, for they were the only ones who had ever mattered to him. You see, to be hurt by one, you must have loved them, too."

Christopher's shoulders fell.

"Yes, you're right. You're right, Blair."

"So please—"

"Goodbye," he said, blinking back tears. "Give him my regards, Blair, and please, never make the mistake I made. Never hurt him."

With that, he ran down the stairs. Time could never reverse, and wounds can heal, but things will never be forgotten, even if forgiven. They will stay there, a scar on the skin, or a crack in the marble—once in existence, they can never disappear.