The doctor came and examined Charles, still weak and emaciated in his bed, head dropping to his shoulder, and eyes dull.

Blair looked at him, so different from the first time he came to the Duke, and he had looked like art, a strong angel or clever demon. Now he was a mortal, fallen prey to poison and time. His dark tendrils curled about his neck and brow, and he breathed heavily.

"How is he, Doctor?" Blair whispered.

There in the small room was Flemings and the Doctor, and in their presence, Blair stood too, shoulders sloped down.

The doctor removed his fingers from Charles's wrist and nodded briskly.

"He's still weak, but the poison shouldn't be a problem any longer." Blair blinked, too wary too be happy just yet. "He is still frail, it seems like he still hasn't an appetite. Try to get him to eat as much as you can, and rest in bed as much as he can. Sleeping too much can have adverse effects, so do have him walk about briefly twice a day or so."

The doctor turned back to his leather case at the bedside and began to rummage about.

"Take some vials if he can't sleep, and what liquids he can if he can't take solids."

Flemings nodded as Blair peeked at Charles again, who had closed his eyes, bags visible, the hollows in his cheeks prominent.

Flemings started to walk the doctor down, and soon the two were left alone.

It was day, and Charles had just woke up yesterday, and after crying, he sat in his bed in silence. Blair didn't dare say anything, but stayed next to him like a faithful old dog.

The next morning the two set out to the garden, Charles wobbly, and despite his silent proposals to grab his cane, Blair held him by the arm. For the first time, the Duke didn't have a say, and was forced to follow Blair.

In the garden they stood, Charles looking up at the May sun, and Blair looking at his sharp profile and tired eyes, and despite everything, he was still beautiful.

"Your garden is always blooming," Blair said. Charles did not reply, but that did not deter him. "When I first saw you, I thought you were like a fallen angel. All I could see was your beauty."

"And am I beautiful, even now, on the brink of death?"

"You are ever more beautiful, because I know you now."

The Duke snorted. "As expected of a writer, you have such colorful prose. Such pretentious flattery."

"I've told you that first day, I'm not interested in brown-nosing people." Blair smiled at the memory. "You are ever the cynic."

Charles only looked from the sky to the flowers. He pulled away from Blair, and Blair watched him carefully as he brought his long fingers to a camellia, and akin to brushing soft stroke or softly molding a statue, traced the petals and their every nook and cranny.

"Why, Blair, am I beautiful?"

Blair didn't need to think.

"Because you smile when you read my stories. You remember what things people love, from chocolates to breakfasts. You care for your staff. You do not refuse to see your old friends, and you still remember what they like, too, from piano to wines. You cannot throw people out into a blizzard, and despite all their brashness, treat them as a guest.

"You play such melancholic songs, and you teach me, too, with such patience. You console me, assure me, when I'm afraid, although you must have been scared yourself. Again and again, you care for me. Even after the awful things I do, when I return, you're here. You are alive. It's the biggest thing you can do for me; it means everything to me."

Charles's hand stayed at the camellia, and then he turned to Blair.

"And I love you, so you are beautiful."

"Don't." Charles's hand was limp as it fell against his side. "Again and again you do this. If you want to have my heart, you have it. Crush it beneath your feet, I've been waiting for it. Crush it, so I can move on."

"No. I love you."

Charles walked away.

His shoes clacked against the cobblestone path as he made his way back into the house. He clutched his chest, and swallowed back his sobs. He didn't dare believe in it; Blair, like everyone, had hurt him. And yet still those words ran inside him like a curse, every words pronounced, even the very tone memorized like a chant.

Blair looked back at the flowers. He could not bring himself to follow—not now, when all he had were words. He had to do something to allow the Duke to understand, for once and for all, his love was real.

Slowly, he circled the garden, the sun setting, and the cool air brushing his face. Time had passed, but the garden seemed to be frozen in time, only occasionally veiled by snow or scattered with rays of sunlight.

Again and again.

Again and again.

Again and again....

That night Charles had dinner alone in his room, and Flemings asked Blair to eat his dinner in the dining room, per the duke's wishes. Blair couldn't go against it, and as he ate, memories of Christmas and all those sorrowful days returned.

The girls in paintings were all on the brink of death, too, and only now did he realize—and he was all too late.

Once midnight hit and the clock sounded, he made his way up the staircase. He counted each and every painting, from crying maidens to ones floating in the riverbank. One had a dagger through her chest, another leaned on her hands in sleep. Dressed in white, red, gold, and green, they were scattered through the house like Charles's companions in another world.

How lonely, Blair realized. For many years, they were his only friends, reflections of himself and yet oracles of his future. But he couldn't let that happen anymore. Death was not suited for the Duke.

He went to Charles's room, opening the door softly, and stepping into the room softly lit by one lantern, a glass dome over a candle.

Although Charles's ears perked up, aware of the footsteps falling softly on the carpet beside him, he did not open his eyes. To him, there was nothing to be discussed anymore.

But Blair opened his mouth.

"I will leave again, Charles."

His heart fell, but he wouldn't allow himself to show any emotions. He was too trained, too used to this.

"Of course," he muttered simply. He refrained from opening his eyelids nor saying anything else.

"But I will be back, if you allow it," Blair said.

The Duke finally dared to looked at him, and then turned to Blair. His eyes were still dim, but slowly, his pupils focused on Blair. He inhaled deeply.

"If I allow it? Why would I? There's nothing between us two, especially if you still insist on refusing to publishing the story."

"There's no need anymore, Charles." Blair bent down, and his knees fell to the plush carpet. His hands reached out, and clasped Charles's. Charles looked down in horror, but could not bring himself to slap his hand away. They were so soft, so much like Cynthia's. His heart pulled.

"Why?"

"Because you'll never be alone again."

Charles looked at him in wonder. "Don't tell me those silly things of love and trust."

"Then I won't." He narrowed his eyes.

"Then leave, and never return."

"I will return, Charles. But I need time."

Then suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to contain it anymore.

"Why—why must you leave?"

Blair's eyes softened, shoulders relaxing at the sight of the usual Duke again.

"I've come to accept everything about myself, and you." Blair bit his lips before he continued. "Society won't dictate the way I'll live, or we will live. I am not afraid."

Charles looked down at their hands.

"What do you know? You've never been through it, the appalling stares and the loathsome laughter. The sickening baseless rumors about what you never did, the way people gawk at you as though you were a criminal, the way—"

He choked, and then shook his head. He tried to pull back his hand, but could not.

"You're right, I don't know, but I don't want you to go through it alone."

"You don't know anything!" Charles glared at him, but his voice was pained, not sharp. He gasped for air. "I don't want you to know."

For the second time, Blair understood what was love.

He brought down his head, and his brow pressed against their hands. He listened to his heartbeat. It beat so heavily; why? Was he afraid, or was he looking forward to the future where he can finally declare everything to the Duke, and he could no longer refuse it? Blair smiled.

"I'll return."

"Don't," Charles said, but he didn't understand whether or not that was what he truly wanted. "There are rumors you are a manwhore. That you sell yourself. They say things about you, things that will ruin you and all your chance of writing. Please, don't return."

"People will talk. Life will continue. Days will pass, weeks, months, and years, but I know I'll never forgive myself if I leave you."

"You're only twenty-something. You have so much in front of you, you have everything! Your stories, those stories I love, and Morris Davis, Laurence, all the people who will stand by you."

Charles dipped his head low and his words were trembling, and he was shaking at the very thought of Blair entangled with him, with no way out anymore.

But Blair knew. It was the right choice, and he understood it now.

"I'll return, Charles. I'll return."

***

The next day Blair packed his stuff again, and all the staff surrounded him as usual, but this time they were beaming and bright.

"You'll return, won't you?" Ethan asked. And Blair didn't even have to think.

"Yes."

Ethan raced forward and hugged him. Slowly, Alicia and Josephine followed.

"You must! I'll be holding you to your word!"

"We'll never talk nor write to you if you break your promise!"

They pulled apart and chattered in the front hall. Even Flemings had came to see him off, but unlike the first time, his face was serene. He reached out for a handshake.

"Mister Millais, thank you for returning."

Blair held his hand. He looked at him, in wonder. Did Flemings know about them, and was he not against them? He always seemed to be there to patch up whatever fights they had, from when Christopher Collins came, to when Morris Davis's telegram arrived, Christmas, and now. His eyes seemed so wise, and his hand calloused with experience.

"Thank you, Flemings," he whispered. "You were all that the Duke had, but now it's no longer you, by yourself."

Without warning, Blair stepped forward, and closing his eyes shut, embraced the man. He swallowed, and inhaled deeply.

Then he pulled apart, and saw. There, on the stairwell, was a familiar shadow.

"Charles."

Slowly, everyone stopped, and looked up.

Charles took a step, and then another.

He held on to the bannister, a shawl pulled over his thin frame, eyes deep set and brooding. His lips were pulled back, as thought keeping his mouth closed. He glanced down at Blair, and Blair felt his breath stop in his chest.

"Charles." Blair took a shaky step forward. He would leave, and once again, the Duke would be alone, and when alone, who knew what he would do? Blair tightened his fists. Promises and words were cheap, and Blair had already lost his trust once. What could he ever do to ensure the Duke would believe in him and wait?

He tilted his head up, and parted his lips.

The light from the open door streamed in, covering one in light, while the other was bathed in darkness.

They were always like this, one with so many people by his side, one always betrayed and alone.

But somehow, through their differences, their hearts had connected. Not once, but several times.

Yes, Blair thought. There would be no words and promises; all that he could do was believe. Not Charles, but him.

He would believe in Charles.