As much as Blair wanted to convince himself the first day had been a fluke, the next few days were only worse. Emmanuel and Christopher talked about things Blair couldn't understand and after dinner as the two men played chess or cards and he simply retreated to his room. His manuscripts had all been revised again and again, and he had not the heart to begin anything new, not even continue his novel.

The next day, Christopher and the rest went to the piano room, and there he began to play. He play waltzes, Mozart's requiems, and Beethoven's sonatas.

Blair watched in curiosity, and he was stunned. Christopher was indeed on a different plane when he played, fingers flying furiously quickly, and eyes away without needing to look at the keys. He was like a mechanical doll in tune with the piano.

"How was it?" he asked when he finished, turning to the two. Blair clapped, stiffly, and Emmanuel smiled and stood up.

"Brilliant, as always. Your piano talent is unmatched."

"No, not at all. If only if I'm as talented as you in chess."

"Why? I can't make money off chess, but you can always make money off the piano." Emmanuel chuckled, making Blair's open mouth close in anger.

"Don't be a cynic, winning is good, it gives experience, if not wealth." Blair watched the two in envy. He didn't have any skills to compare, and even his writing had felt worthless with Christopher's apathetic response.

At night Christopher asked Emmanuel if they wanted to continue a game in his room, with wine.

"Only a moderate amount," Christopher promised. "I haven't drunk in so long, and your wines are as good as I remember."

Blair remembered what had happened last time when they drank, and Emmanuel's regret. Surely he wouldn't do it again, and was aware of the risk? Blair's ears perked up, eager to hear Emmanuel's reply.

"Sure," he said, casually, and Blair's head whipped up and looked at him. He didn't look back, and instead rose from his chair. "I remember you don't like sherry or brandy. How does Madeira sound?"

"Perfect, I haven't had one in such a long time. It's devastating, really, to be living with your mother at this time."

"I can imagine."

"Mister Millais, would you like to join?"

Blair stared in shock, for he hadn't expected Christopher, of all people, to invite him. What did it mean—was he inviting him to something indecent, or was it truly only a game? Blair looked at Emmanuel, and his cold eyes stared back.

"The boy isn't good at taking alcohol," he said. The boy? It had been so long since he had been called boy, instead of Blair, that he felt himself become cold. Why?

It was as though he wanted him to refuse. Blair looked down at his lap, feeling further from the two in the moment. They were born with silver spoons in their mouth, knew of wine, of chess, piano, and so many other things. They were different from Blair, and they knew of love—between men.

His face flushed, and he quickly shook his head. "I—I have some writing I must finish, but thank you for the offer."

"I see, maybe some other day, then," Christopher said, without any more urging, "good night, Mister Millais." The two left the room, Emmanuel leading, without any hesitation or a look back.

Blair was restless that night, typing fervently on his typewriter, and scratching his head whenever he was out of ideas, which was most of the time.

How had they said that so boldly in front of him? They wouldn't really do anything with him in the house, would they? The way Emmanuel spoke of him sounded as though he no longer had feelings for Christopher, certainly he wasn't only pretending, was he? It would be imprudent, and very uncivil.

Why did he care so much, anyway? It wasn't as though Blair was interested in those acts himself, he simply cared for the Duke as a friend!

Yet later that night, Blair decided to go downstairs for a glass of water, and upon retreating to his room, walked by the guest room in which Christopher was staying, and as shamed as he was, tried to eavesdrop. He heard faint laughter and they two talking from the door—what did that mean? Were the two drunk? He returned to his room, but repeated the action multiple times that night.

To his chagrin, Emmanuel seemed to have no plan to retiring to his room, and certainly that could only mean one thing.

The sky, once dark, began to grow grey, until it finally lightened into a silvery blue. Emmanuel finally left around six in the morning. Blair didn't dare look out into the hall, but could tell from the opening of the door, their good nights, and then the footsteps down the hall.

Blair thought what a crass liar he was, face flaming, and finally retreated into his nightclothes, and drove under the cover. However, he was unable to rest, and turned about in his bed for two hours until he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

In the dream, he dreamt of Emmanuel, and Christopher. Emmanuel was dressed like the night he went to Blair's room with only a half buttoned shirt, and drank, only in the dream it was Christopher, and they spoke in some foreign tongue Blair could not understand. In a room of crimson curtains and bordeaux wine, and their lips, too, were so awfully bright as the two threw back their head and laughed, and that was the only language Blair could understand.

He didn't need to understand what they were saying to know they were happy. 

The next day Flemings came to wake Blair up. He woke up sweating, and breathed heavily.

"What's the matter, sir?" Flemings asked, and another set of fancy clothes was laid out. Blair blinked several times to forget the image in his mind. He was more than alarmed at his dream, and he felt as though his shame was there for the world to see. 

"I'm not feeling well," Blair said plaintively, unable to look at Flemings. "I don't think I will be able to come down for breakfast."

"Why, you haven't caught a chill, have you?" Flemings asked. He shook his head quickly, but as petty as it was on his side, he refused to leave his bed. He couldn't bare the two, after his dream, and thus Flemings brought him breakfast to his bed.

When the two began their breakfast, Flemings came over and whispered to Emmanuel, "I think the poor boy's got a case of loneliness. Do give him a visit if you have time, sir."

Christopher was engrossed in reading the news, and Emmanuel sighed. He knew his actions the last few days weren't respectable, but it was the best thing to do for both of them. He had accidentally got the boy too involved, and that night as they drank, he realized Blair was too curious about him and Christopher.

He bit his lips. There was no saying Blair would be able to leave after he finished the story, if it were to continue like this. Yet similarly, what if he didn't continue the story? It was going to be a problem either way.

Flemings continued to look at him, pleading. Even the old man thought him cruel. He heaved a sigh.

"Fine, I'll hurry upstairs and ask him what's the matter."

"Thank you, your lordship. I'm sure he would be glad."

Emmanuel resisted glaring at him, and then excusing himself to Christopher, left his seat. He climbed up the stairs, pushing his hair back in defeat. He reached the room Blair was in, and wavered on how to face when before he finally knocked sharply at the door.

"I'm fine, Flemings. I just need some sleep," Blair muttered, sure it was Flemings again. Without replying, Emmanuel bluntly opened the door.

"It's me, Blair."

Blair, who was sitting on the covers of the bed, still in his long nightshirt, looked up in shock from the book he was reading.

"What—Emmanuel?" He immediately frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"It's my house. I heard you weren't coming down for breakfast and came to check on you."

"I'm fine," the boy replied curtly, and turned back to his book, flipping the page although he hadn't finished reading it. Emmanuel stood there, looking at him, then finally pulled a chair to the bed and sat before him.

"What?" Blair glanced at him.

"Are you perhaps mad?"

"I'm not."

A smile came across Emmanuel's lips, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel guilty about his actions for the last few days.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Blair finally looked up from his book, and briefly met his eyes before facing the window to his right.

"Nothing is wrong."

"You're a bad liar, you know." Emmanuel leaned back on his chair. "I understand my actions might've bewildered you, but I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

Blair turned to him sharply. "Wrong idea?"

His face flushed. He had never thought of anything of the sort—he had only wanted to be a friend, someone the Duke could trust with his story. A writer. His writer.

Besides, if he ever got the wrong idea, it was because of the Duke, who occasionally rested his head against him, drank with him in the middle of the night, or told him to hold him! Or a few weeks ago, when he said he had wanted to enjoy the holidays with him.

"I never had a single thought about it!"

Emmanuel sighed.

"I don't dislike you, Blair, but one day we will be going our separate directions."

"I know!" Blair turned to him, and before he could stop himself, began to shout. "I always knew! You were the one who suggested silly things such as going to the opera or ballet—for all I care, you can go with Christopher Collins!"

"Calm down," Emmanuel said. "I have no feelings for the man."

"It sure didn't seem that way last night," Blair retorted.

Emmanuel raised an eyebrow. "Were you spying on us?"

Blair froze. The heat rose to his face and ears. "No—I just heard your laughter because it was so loud."

"We were only playing cards."

"I don't care what you were doing with him." Blair tossed his book onto the bed, making a face. He stood up and went to change, pulling on the trousers Flemings had laid out for him.

Emmanuel couldn't help but smirk. He walked up to Blair, and standing behind him, and put a hand on his waist. He felt Blair suck his breath and hold it, suddenly still.

"What did you think we were doing?"

Emmanuel smiled, the sly smile of a fox's, and then leaned forward. A finger was on Blair's leg, and then he tensed up. Slowly, the duke dragged his finger up his thighs, the cotton fabric of his grey pants so thin he felt the touch clearly.

Emmanuel brought his face next to Blair's, his lips next to his scarlet ears, and then whispered, "Something like this?" His hot breath tickled Blair's ear.

Blair could feel the warm air against his neck. He elbowed the man, rather suddenly, then turned and stepped back.

"Get away from me!"

"You sure are wet behind the ears." Emmanuel laughed, unable to keep it in. "You would never get anywhere like that." Blair grimaced, his whole face pink.

"How—how dare you! I'm not getting anywhere, and I don't want to!" Without changing his shirt, or even wearing the waistcoat laid out, he ran out of the room, footsteps thudding in the hallway.

Emmanuel held his ribcage where the boy had hit him, and smiled.

Of course he would be hated, he thought to himself. He was nothing but a man who only ever thought of using others for his own pleasures. And he had realized, ever since that day in the carriage, he had changed.

Once he only cared for his camellias, and only what would come after finishing his story, but he had, during the time, thought of something else.

He had thought of not finishing the story. Yes, he had thought of absolving his own will.

Slowly, Emmanuel looked outside the windows at the grey skies.

Yes, he had thought about falling in love, and living with Blair. Forever avoiding finishing the horrid story, facing the truth, and accepting his fate.

But that couldn't be.

Just one December, he pleaded to no one in particular. Just give me one more December. And in January, he'll face it all. He will tell Blair everything, and he will disappear, as he planned all these years.