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[Fic] Nights of Hedonia (16/?)

Good grief, this part took me so long. /o\ I remain ever grateful for your patience with me!

For the GKM prompt:

Nights of Hedonia (16/?) Pairing: Kurt/Blaine, other minor* Rating: NC-17 Summary: Sci Fi AU. Blaine has attained a high rank at a young age in the Apathean Diplomatic Corps, thanks to his diligence and talent as well as the generous mentoring of renown Ambassador June Dolloway. However, a mission to negotiate with the pleasure loving Elyssians may threaten all he’s worked so hard for. Warnings: (overall) explicit sex, technological body modification, mild kink*

* see masterpost for more details

Previously: (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15)

[ AO3 ]

With his head clear, Blaine returns to his work with renewed focus. He begins to sketch out a broader communications strategy for introducing—or reintroducing—the Elyssians to Apathea as long lost family in need of support and assistance.

After the trip to the museum—which will provide not only information but various media opportunities—they'll make a presentation to be beamed back to Apathea. Wes will need advance preparation for a press conference, so he'll need time with it before a public viewing. May have suggestions for edits to make. Back home they'll also need proxies, both credible and diverse, ready to speak on the issue. Blaine doesn't know who yet, but he'll be surprised if the Ambassador doesn't have a list.

So Blaine makes his own list, of every question, doubt, and challenge he can imagine coming from not only the skeptical and curious public and media; but also from their hostile political opposition. He needs to provide Wes a starting place from which to prepare appropriate and tactical responses, depending on the tone and origin of the question. The frame of the moral argument must be consistent. They need elegance and clarity, easily digestible pieces that will assemble themselves naturally in the minds of the public.

It's a lot. He wishes he could talk it out with Wes and his staff in real time. This isn't his strongest area, drafting communications strategies for the domestic sensibility. He wonders if it would be appropriate to meet with Elliott and get his input.

Blaine's considering an inquiry to the Ambassador when the lights go out. Quietly he sits for a moment, listening. Hears nothing catastrophic. "Lights?" he says to the darkness.

The lights don't come up. Which leaves his only source of illumination the screen of the infotab. It's reporting an error, so the ship's network nodes must be down along with the lights. A power failure then. In the dim glow cast by the infotab, Blaine carefully picks his way from his workroom to his bed chamber. The walls have gone dull, blank, and completely opaque. He taps the wall near the door, and gets no response. Fortunately, the hum of the engines remains a constant vibration beneath his feet, so they're still at warp.

He's relieved to find the door has defaulted to an unlocked state; he finds a groove on the edge of it that fits his fingertips. It slides open easily. Once it's open, he touches his temple and activates the IR overlay for his rig and rolls up the infotab's screen to conserve its power.

The Ambassador is already in the lounge area, a brighter figure in the greenscale gloom. He gets her message on his rig for their delegation to convene here. Another, higher priority message overtakes the display; it's from Major Clarington, prompting code alpha emergency response protocols. Blaine declines the suggested action. It's too soon for that. He doesn't want to use metabolic boosters or get his sidearm unless there's an actual, clear danger to confront. Right now it's just dark and quiet. They're nowhere near the conflict zones.

"All right?" he asks the Ambassador.

"Perfectly fine," she says, sounding—if anything—vaguely bored by the disruption. Unflappable as ever. It's a comfort.

The others come in from the hall without difficulty. Nick and Trent wear thin protective vests and caps. Trent sets a pair of small lamps on the table that illuminate the room adequately. Blaine switches off his low light enhancement and blinks as the color comes back to his vision. He grimaces when he sees the Major, who wears his sidearm while the peace knot on his phase dagger is undone. Across his chest is strapped a satchel that Blaine knows will contain other weapons and gear. He's wearing a heavy armored jacket, cuisses, and greaves.

"Do you have reason to suspect an attack?" Blaine asks him, keeping his tone conversational. Careful not to challenge.

"Not yet," Hunter says. He puts opens the satchel, takes out an armored vest and cap, passes them to the Ambassador. "Ma'am," he says. "Please wear these."

She takes them but makes no move to put them on, nor does she ask for Blaine's assistance. "Let's not assume the worst, Major," she says. "We'll wait patiently until we know something more."

But Hunter ignores her. He passes the next vest to Blaine along with a sonic blaster and a belt with replacement energy packs on it. "I trust you remember your combat training," Hunter says to him. "Keep her safe," he says. "I'll be guarding the door. "Nick? With me." Blaine clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath. Exhales the tension in his muscles with it.

Sees Trent standing nervously. The light casts his face lurid detail and highlights his fear—no doubt well primed by Hunter's leap to heightened vigilance. It—weirdly—reminds Blaine of late nights at the Academy telling scary stories with his fellow students. But Trent blinks and forces a smile before hesitantly reaching up and taking off his armored cap. He smooths his hair back with a shaking hand and exhales in a long rush.

"Ma'am, are you concerned?" Blaine asks June quietly as he moves to sit opposite her and gestures for Trent to sit as well. Hearing it from her might help calm Trent's nerves.

"Caution is wise whenever something goes amiss in space," she says. "But no, not overly so."

The weight of the sonic blaster in Blaine's hand is more familiar than he'd like it to be. He does remember his training. He checks the weapon's battery pack is charged, verifies Hunter has left the safety engaged, dials it back to its lowest setting and sets it, the armored clothing, and the belt on the table.

Then comes the sound of voices in the hall. Hunter's voice is loud and challenging though his words are muffled. The tone is enough to pull Blaine's spine straight. A softer, placating response comes. Sounds like either Kurt or Sam. Blaine stands quickly. He wills Hunter to be polite even if he can't manage nice. Glances at the Ambassador, who raises an eyebrow and lifts her chin. Blaine goes to the door and opens it—

—to nearly collide with a rather harried looking Sam, who holds in his arms a stack of blankets. He has a lamp mounted on his forehead that casts a broad beam of light. Blaine steps aside to let him in. Behind him one of the girls who helps with breakfast has a covered tray. The metal lid rattles against its base. Her eyes are wide and unblinking and fixed on Hunter who is staring right back at her. His frigid expression is inhuman—and entirely inappropriate.

"Come in, please. Let me help you with that," Blaine says to the girl gently. He smiles and extends his arm between her and Hunter, brushing her shoulder to encourage her welcome. She doesn't let him take the tray, but she does step forward.

Nick nudges the Major's elbow. "I don't think she's got a bomb under there, Major." Nick says.

Inside their rooms, Sam unloads his blankets and several more portable lanterns. Then he addresses the Ambassador. "The ship's main generator is offline and the back ups aren't coming online as quickly as we'd like. Our engineers are working on it. But please don't worry, primary life support is fine, it's on a different line, but the temperature may take a downturn before it stabilizes. We're very sorry for the inconvenience."

The girl sets the tray on the table and uncovers it. It's a carafe of juice and a cold platter of fruit, bread, and cheese.

"Are your engineers aware of a cause for the issue?" the Ambassador asks.

Sam shakes his head. "You know as much as I do, Ma'am. In the meantime, I've brought blankets, lamps, refreshments and—" he dips his shoulder to slide his arm free of a bag strap. "A few other essentials."

"That's all fine, thank you, Mr. Evans," the Ambassador says.

"Mr. Evans?" Blaine asks as he takes the bag from Sam, but he keeps his voice soft, since it feels like a more personally motivated query. "May I ask, where's Master Hummel?"

Sam's smile is apologetic. "The main kitchens have lost power too, which means there's a lot of food about to spoil. He's coordinating damage control. He's put me in charge here for now."

"I understand," Blaine says.

"We'll do our best to get you all a hot dinner tonight," Sam adds. "In the meantime, I'll just be across the hall, so if you need anything to assist either your work or your comfort, let me know." He turns to leave, but then turns back again. "And, Ambassador, if you or your staff are doubting your safety aboard The Galactic Diamond, I'd be happy to arrange for the Captain to come address your concerns personally as soon as she's able."

"That won't be necessary," the Ambassador replies. "My men are following protocol, they'll stand down."

Sam nods in acknowledgment and leaves.

"Do you still have that bottle of wine, Trent?" Blaine asks, wry. "Maybe we'll need it this afternoon."

Trent laughs, but the Ambassador shakes her head. "Just tell the others to come back in, Blaine. We'll stay together until the power returns. This isn't an excuse to set down our work. We'll settle here and continue to do what we're here to do, all right?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

The Major and Nick come back in, and at the Ambassador's prompting, they remove their weapons and armored clothing. Blaine helps Hunter pack it all back into his satchel. But Hunter doesn't sit with the rest of them, he stands near the door, stone faced and not at all reassuring in his presence.

Blaine looks at him and wonders just how much of his brain has been replaced with circuitry. The cold efficiency of the military hasn't bothered Blaine much until now, but here, more than any other mission Blaine's been on, the most alien being on the ship is technically one of his own people. Fortunately the Major doesn't return Blaine's scrutiny.

Blaine settles and returns his attention to their work. Not communications strategies this afternoon, but the Charn themselves. The Ambassador wants to discuss what a hypothetical mediation between the Charn and Elyssia, brokered by Apathea, might look like. Nick looks mildly confused, Trent concerned, but Major Clarington's interest seems piqued. He leaves off his position by the door, removes his jacket, and sits with them. Blaine does his best to consider the scenario seriously. The Ambassador likes to pose these kinds of thought experiments to provoke insight and new perspectives.

And Blaine's job is, as always, to provide advice and assistance. He listens attentively as the Ambassador asks Hunter to outline Apathea's history with the Charn. The Major gives the broad brush strokes of Apathea's war with the Charn, how it began—without warning or provocation—and how it ended, with dogged determination, cunning intelligence, high risks, and the largest stellar naval fleet the Apathean economy could construct.

"Admiral Dolloway was your great uncle, Ambassador, wasn't he?" Major Clarington says.

"It's hardly a secret, Major," she replies dismissively. It's common knowledge among both her staff and the public: the man who planned and led the last battle of the war, the one that destroyed the Charn capital ship and its entire assault group, is her ancestor. The Ambassador's family has a distinguished history of significant public service, but she disdains any whiff of status associated with her name. Her work stands on its own merits.

And yet, Blaine looks at Hunter and considers his reminder alongside the Ambassador's hypothetical mediation. Surely she's not considering— No. But there's the matter of the hand written note to the Councilor this morning. Blaine turns his attention to the Ambassador. "Ma'am?" he asks.

"Mr. Anderson," she says without looking at him, "Would you please find Mr. Evans and ask him to bring us more water?"

Blaine blinks once and then stands smoothly. He inclines his head politely and says, "Of course."

It's a relief when the exterior walls finally brighten, flicker, and resolve the streaming starscape outside. Blaine exhales slowly and stares at it as his sense of space expands, like there's more air to breathe. The Ambassador excuses everyone until dinner, from which Blaine then excuses himself.

After the others leave to dine, Blaine showers for his date with Kurt. The Ambassador's earlier dismissal of his attempted questioning still rankles. Once he returned to the meeting he limited himself to only responding to what was directed at him and asked nothing more of his own. Perhaps it's simply that the questions he would ask are not ones the Ambassador wishes to address with the others present. Which makes Blaine wonder why have the conversation at all? So he allows himself to entertain—less hypothetically—the notion of attempted diplomacy with the Charn. Is it even possible to arrange some kind of meeting? Or perhaps it's simply the attempt that's relevant: a tacit threat of Apathean involvement in the conflict. Even though it could only be a desperate bluff at this point.

The work to be done is not quick, but then, neither are the Charn, and his work day is over. Blaine shakes off the impending frustration creeping beneath his skin and instead turns his thoughts to Kurt, who will be by soon.

Blaine dresses with his customary care, and tries to find a way to add a flourish to his outfit, but his wardrobe is practical clothing and he has few accessories. He makes the best of a pair of casual maroon trousers that are tailored more narrowly than those of his uniform and a light gray cardigan over a crisp white shirt. He leaves the top two buttons unfastened.

He styles his hair more loosely while thinking about Kurt putting his hands in it. Shaves neatly, and even the familiar passage of the razor over his skin seems new. His anticipation grows, fine and sharp.

But when the bell to his quarters chimes, the door opens to reveal Tina waiting for him. She's wearing a ruffled green top that bares her shoulders and a floaty knee-length skirt with a black, white, and yellow geometric print. Her grin is bright and she presents him with a small bouquet of daisies.

"Hello, Tina," Blaine says. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm afraid I already have plans for the evening."

"Yes, I know. These are from Kurt," she says, putting the flowers into his hands. "He's very sorry he can't make it. He'll find you once he's finished work, but in the meantime, if you would still like to go out for the evening, I'm here to escort you," Tina says.

"Oh, I see," Blaine says and he smiles through his disappointment. "I'd like that. Let me find somewhere to put these." She follows him inside while he finds a decorative vase of an appropriate size. He hesitates to leave the flowers on the table in the living area. Excuses himself briefly to put them in his room on top of the dresser.

When he comes back out, he offers Tina his arm. They chat as they walk to the lift. Tina explains that Kurt's been drafted into engineering work tonight. Apparently there was a power surge and several older power exchanges on the ship blew. "Everyone says the ship didn't get the maintenance it needed the last time it was docked, and engineering is understaffed. Doesn't seem smart to me. I guess they need all hands in the shipyards or something. But trust me, he'd rather be with you tonight than rebuilding circuits or whatever it is they've got him doing."

"So is there anything Kurt doesn't know how to do?" Blaine inflects the question with humor, but he is curious about the diversity of Kurt's skills.

"His father was a mechanic," Tina says. "But he's always been busy like this, with some project or another. He likes working with his hands." The last is accompanied by a tilt of her head. "Which I understand you've discovered for yourself recently."

"Oh," Blaine says; his face flushes with heat and his insides go uncomfortably tight at the boldness of her inference. Strange, too, to realize that a few days ago, her meaning would have eluded him. "I, uh...?"

"It's okay, Kurt told me about you two," Tina says, "in the context of asking me to refrain from any future meddling. You could have told me, Blaine. I'm happy for you."

"Thank you."

"And just so you know, in case I gave you the wrong impression the other day, Kurt's a wonderful person. He'll be good to you," she says, and Blaine doesn't doubt it.

She takes him to a restaurant aft on the upper decks. It's an elongated crescent shape with its broad exterior curve bowing out into the symmetrical distortion of stars strung out behind them. The floor appears to be some mottled gray stone, polished to a mirror like shine, but it's soft beneath Blaine's boots. A gleaming black piano rests in the center of the room, and a woman in a sheer silver gown plays—nothing Blaine recognizes, but it's an airy, light piece that ripples through the space. The maitre'd leads them to a table near the center with nothing between them and the view, and it's like being seated in an oversized cosmic kaleidoscope.

"This is quite a venue," Blaine says, holding Tina's chair for her.

Tina beams up at him. "I hoped you'd enjoy it." She sits with an artful sweep of her skirt and a show of straightening her shoulders. Her smile is amused. "You're so old fashioned, Blaine. It's charming."

"Are you telling me good manners are out of fashion here?" Blaine teases and sits opposite her while the maitre'd fills their water goblets with sparkling water.

"Not at all," she says, "Just different. Would you like wine?"

"No, thank you," Blaine says.

Tina grimaces. "I don't know how well I can impress you if you won't try my family's wine."

"Am I being rude?" he asks, "by declining?"

"No," she says. "I understand not everyone likes to partake. Do you make wine back home?"

"Not much," he says. "Alcohol was banned except for ceremonial purposes long before I was born."

"Hmm," she says. "So you'll have no appreciattion for the artistry of it, then."

"On this matter, I'll admit that I'm lacking in sophistication."

She laughs. "Well, you can learn a lot about wine without getting drunk," she says. "Perhaps I could arrange a tasting for your delegation when we get to the Capitol? I promise to enhance your sophistication."

"I'll be sure to suggest it to the Ambassador," Blaine says.

Tina's smile is bright. "That would be amazing, Blaine. Thank you."

Then follows a quiet lull, wherein a waiter pours for Tina a glass of wine and brings Blaine a pinkish orange fruit juice. "So," Blaine says, looking about the room at the other diners, the high curve of the ceiling, and out toward the beautifully distorted starfield. "This ship, she's unusual for a warship, isn't she?"

Tina cocks her head. "A warship?"

"I mean, she's very comfortable. Even our commercial ships aren't this luxurious," Blaine says.

"She's primarily a government liner that operates in the inner worlds, and we aren't a martial society," Tina says, and Blaine doesn't miss the defensive note in her voice. "I don't know why you'd expect her to be some kind of battleship."

"I'm not criticizing," he reassures. "But I was thinking about what you said, about her not getting the maintenance she requires. Could she fight, do you think?"

"I have no idea."

"I'm just wondering, what would happen if— Never mind. It's a hypothetical, and it's work related and maybe not the most appropriate topic of dinner conversation?"

Tina exhales a laugh. Her shoulders relax and she takes her napkin from the table. "At the end of the day, I'm not a starship designer or a military strategist. I could tell you anything you'd like to know about music or wine or sex or many other arts, but I don't know very much about war."

"But you are politically minded," Blaine says.

"I am."

"What would you do, then, if you were calling the shots."

"Ah, I see your hypothetical is actually quite fantastical." She grins.

"I'm just curious," Blaine says. "You're a well informed citizen outside a lot of the current process, but you have some strong opinions and thoughts, and I'd value hearing your perspective."

She looks at him curiously. "May I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Is this a conversation you'd be having with Kurt, if you were with him tonight?"

"Oh, um, maybe? I don't know."

"This is your time off. I'd hoped we'd get to know each other better tonight, Blaine, as friends."

"Ah," Blaine says, glances down. "I have been rude then."

A server brings them a platter of assorted bite-sized savories to share. The aroma of some unfamiliar herb combination makes Blaine's mouth water. He waits for Tina to choose her own before he spears a plump, filled dumpling with his fork. It's fresh and fragrant.

"You haven't," she says. "I'm not uninterested, but, I don't know. Normally I'd be wanting to pick your mind, but this week has been a hard one, and tonight, I'd like to leave some of the seriousness behind us for a little while. I'd love to learn more about you. All I know is your job, that you like music, and you're spending a lot of time with Kurt."

It's more than most people know about him. His professional life is most of what he's accustomed to talking about.

"So, I don't know. Tell me what it was like growing up for you?"

He glances down at his fork, attends to selecting another dumpling with a different shape and a different, spicier filling. "There's not much to tell," he says. "My childhood was very orderly. My family home is near the city, my mother works at the Office of Environment and Sustainable Technology and my father is an exogeologist with the Colonial Office. I studied hard and was accepted into the government service track at sixteen and graduated from the Academy with honors. I've had a good career working with Ambassador Dolloway since then."

"Model citizen, huh?" Tina says. "I'm sure there's more to tell. I can't believe you're really that boring."

Blaine shrugs, but laughs.

"And this is why we drink wine sometimes, Blaine," she teases, "to lower our inhibitions and lubricate our conversations."

"What about you. Tell me about growing up on Lima."

She grins. "All right, I'll show you how this is done." Tina takes a sip of her wine and tells him tales of growing up on a vineyard—she tells him not only about grape varieties and soil and altitude and sunshine, but of the hot dry days leading up to harvest, the long days of work during—"There are so many things we prefer not to automate," she says, "It's art as much as science and craft, and my father always says, art requires human instinct and intuition."—and the long parties after. She easily transports Blaine's imagination to the fragrant summer nights, the weariness and happiness, the satisfaction of a job well done, the music and ease of good friends.

She tells him about helping her parents process the grapes, the fine attention and important details. It's all far more complex than Blaine expects, and she makes it fascinating. And then she tells hims about chasing birds off the ripening fruit as a small child. "Of course we do have automated systems to discourage the birds safely and humanely, but somehow, when I was four, I thought it was my job. So it was me and our dog Millie. We were very serious about our duties."

"I bet you were adorable," Blaine says.

"Oh, we were," Tina says, but sadness shades her smile.

It's a lot to lose, Blaine understands. "You've actually... changed my mind tonight," he says. "May I try it?" he asks, gesturing at her glass.

"Oh!" She smiles in delight. "Would you like your own glass or just a sip from mine?"

"A glass would be fine, but just a little bit."

The waiter brings him a glass and pours a couple centimeters worth of wine for him. He finds it both more sour and acidic than he expected, but it lingers with a complex rich fruitiness that's not unapealing Tina prompts him to describe the flavors, and he does his best. It's fun, and he doesn't feel intoxicated, though the warmth of the wine going down blooms pleasantly in his body.

"And every wine is different?" Blaine asks. It's hard to imagine, infinite variations on a single beverage.

"Oh, yes," she says. "There's so much to explore and learn, if you're interested," she says.

"I don't know if I'll have time to pursue any serious study," Blaine says regretfully, and he examines the light hitting the warm gold of the remaining wine in his glass, tips the bowl of the glass toward his nose to see if he can find the notes of peaches and honeysuckle Tina assures him are there. But his regret leads him back to Kurt and how they're missing the night together. He wonders how Kurt's doing, if he's had a dinner break or if he's working straight through mealtime. Should he have sent a message before he left with Tina? To thank him for the flowers? But the lack of a message from Kurt may imply a wish to avoid interruptions so that he may accomplish his work efficiently. Blaine will wait.

"Then just enjoy it while you can," Tina says. She lifts her glass toward him in a toast. He meets it, clinks his glass against hers and drains the last of the wine from his goblet.

"So," he says as he sets his empty glass back on the table. "Will we be attending the concert after dinner tonight? Or has there been a change of plans?"

"I'd love to take you," Tina says. "Kurt reserved two seats."

The Auditorium, rather than the stage Blaine expects, is a space into which one ascends via a spiraling staircase into a broad illuminated dome above them. The gallery circles the entry in concentric rings on a gentle incline. Tina leads him to a pair of the reclining seats. They're wide and deep with broad arms that double as tables. Blaine sees a few couples sharing a single such chair, some wider couches accommodate larger groups, and seeing others embraced, his whole body pangs for Kurt. Blaine goes to lower himself into his seat beside Tina and flinches at how the surface yields beneath his hand. It's fluid, but viscous. Some kind of gel. And it's warm beneath the sueded surface.

Tina watches him, amused. "It won't bite," she tells him as he pushes against it with his palm to see if it ripples. It doesn't. "They're deigned to both resonate with the music and conform to your body."

"Sounds comfortable," Blaine says, and they settle into their seats. Blaine wonders if he were here with Kurt if they would be sharing a chair together. A waiter brings them drinks. Tina has wine, this time a deep ruby red one. Blaine just asks for water. The lights dim, and the music starts, accompanied by an elaborate three-dimensional light show beneath the dome above them. Abstract patterns that spiral and writhe with the sound, unfurling like ribbons, filling the empty air around them. Mesmerizing.

There are erotic elements to the music as well. Or elements Blaine's finds erotic: his body's response is undeniable. And other parts that tighten poignant emotion in his throat just because they're beautiful. It's ancient music from Earth, written for a chorale to sing in a cathedral in worshipful exultation. The layers of voices interleave in complex harmonies, some soar in such clarity and intensity, tears prick in Blaine's eyes. It's as if the music is striking his body like an instrument. He feels the voices within him, pulsing and vibrating and thrilling along his nerves until he's breathless and enthralled.

The warm cradle of his seat makes him feel like the edges of his body erode away into nothing and he's just a consciousness suspended within the music, and the music within him.

The quiet after the concert is like a sensory inversion, a palpable muffled pressure in Blaine's head. He and Tina walk in silence and Blaine blinks in the relatively brighter light of the corridor, trying to reorient his disheveled mind. "I heard the ship may need to divert to the closest station." Tina says, breaking the silence. "Which could delay our arrival at the Capitol, but I'm sure you'll get some official memo or update to your schedule."

Blaine makes a noise of affirmation.

"Did you enjoy it?" Tina asks. "The music?"

"It was..." He tries to find the right word for what it was. Settles on, "extraordinary."

"I'm so glad!" Tina says. "And now we have options," she says. "We could go to the spa or to the Dance or see if Sam and Mercedes are in. Or—? What would you like to do?"

"Actually, I think I'd just like to head back now," Blaine says, his head is still swimming, muzzy and light. It could be the music, or it could be sleepiness. "I could use an early night."

"Oh, I bet. Spending your nights with Kurt hasn't been very restful, huh?" She winks.

Blaine blushes, looks at the toes of his boots as they walk.

"Hey," Tina says, "Why do you look so embarrassed?"

"I suppose I am embarrassed."

Tina frowns at him, confused. "I don't understand why. Kurt's not someone to be embarrassed about."

"No, I'm not embarassed by him."

"Then...?"

How does he explain simply? "In my culture, my conduct with Kurt would be considered—at best—irresponsible."

"Irresponsible?" Tina stares at him. "That's absurd."

"I'm increasingly inclined to agree, but my situation is what it is. Some things are hard to shake off."

"So... if you've been celibate until now, then Kurt's your first experience with sex and intimacy?"

Blaine nods.

"Blaine, if this is your first affair, if you ever want someone other than Kurt to talk to about it, I want you to know you can talk to me, okay?"

"That's kind, thank you," Blaine says. "And I hope you can appreciate that my position requires that I be discreet about such private matters."

"And you should know, you're lucky to be with Kurt. He understands how much it matters to be with someone who will take care with you through your debut."

"Debut?"

"Your first sexual relationship."

"That sounds rather formal," he says. Kurt hasn't given him any indication of such. But he wonders.

She shrugs. "It can be for some people, I guess? But not always. Everyone's different."

He wants to ask how it was for her, but it's such a personal question, he can't quite bring it to his tongue. Besides, they're close to his quarters. So he nods, and says, "I understand."

"I had a lovely time tonight, Blaine, thank you," Tina says as they come to a stop by the door.

"As did I," he says, and he's unsure what protocol—or good manners—requires, but he leans in to kiss her cheek, and that brightens Tina's smile beautifully. "Good night," he says.

Blaine's trying—and failing—to sleep. Tina said Kurt would come find him when he could, but the night is moving toward the next day's morning, and Blaine knows he does, in fact, need the sleep. His mind, left idle, skitters irretrievably toward memory and anticipation and curious daydreams. Beneath his covers, but over the fabric of his pajamas, Blaine cups one hand over the semi-hard swell of his penis. He's trying to recall the precise feel of Kurt's penis in his hand, the texture and heat and weight of it. He's considering masturbating. The thought alone is enough to flood his body with aching want. But it's not quite enough to banish his reflexive hesitation.

That's when his infotab dings with a message. It must be Kurt, Blaine scrambles for it, where it rests on his nighttable, nearly bumping it to roll off onto the floor in his haste. "Are you awake?" Kurt's message says.

"Yes," Blaine replies with shaking fingers and unsteady breath.

"May I come in?" Kurt asks.

"Oh," Blaine says to the room. He didn't expect Kurt to come here, but rather to suggest a place to meet. Blaine doesn't question it though; he slides out of bed, moves quickly out to the main lounge area and to the door. He scarcely breathes, not wanting to make any noise to wake the Ambassador. He feels like an errant child, misbehaving, to let Kurt in now, like this. When he's dressed down for bed. It would be a scandal were he seen. That doesn't stop him. The danger thrills him, and he opens the door for Kurt.

"Hi," Kurt says quietly. His gaze is weighted with fatigue and affection. He's dressed simply, snug velvety black trousers, soft shoes, and a loose knit white sweater with a wide v-neck. Blaine can tell he's not wearing anything beneath it. Atop his head is a brimmed cloth cap set back on his crown that makes his face look younger. He's so beautiful, every time more than Blaine remembers.

"Hi," Blaine replies, and Kurt comes to him. Kurt's hands are on Blaine's face immediately, and he kisses Blaine with fierce desperation, inhaling through the kiss, without breaking the seal of their lips. There's too much clothing between them. Blaine's hot. Kurt's even hotter.

"Missed you," Kurt says breathlessly, against Blaine's cheek. "All day." He drops his hands to Blaine's shoulders, smooths down his arms to his elbows. "I'm sorry it's so late, but I wanted see you. I just showered and came straight here."

"I'm glad you came. I wanted to see you too." He takes Kurt's hands in his and tugs him in. "Can you stay a little while?"

"I'd love to," Kurt says, and Blaine leads him to his bedroom. Here is maybe not the best place for this. Though the liklihood of something requiring his professional presence at the current hour is slim. Not impossible though. But the Ambassador would never come in to his room unannounced. He thinks he can keep this discreet. And anyway, he should enjoy this while he can.

After making sure his door is locked, Blaine sits on the bed, but Kurt remains standing, having taken his hands back to himself to undress. He's lifting his sweater to unfasten his pants, and he's asked Blaine to just wait and watch. Blaine sees the fatigue in the way Kurt moves, loose and heavy, lacking his usual precision. His smile is sweet but tired, and his face is drawn. He drops his cap on the floor with his trousers, runs a hand through his rumpled hair. The corner of his mouth kinks in enjoyment of Blaine's attention on him as he pulls his sweater over his head. Then he's gorgeously nude and crawling into Blaine's arms, all smooth, warm skin and hot kisses as he straddles Blaine's lap and pulls at the buttons of Blaine's pajamas.

Kurt hums into a kiss and speaks against Blaine's mouth. "I had such plans for you tonight," he mumbles ruefully.

"Anything you want to do is fine," Blaine replies. Kurt's ardor and the pliancy of his body is so enticing, whatever Kurt wants now, Blaine wants it too. Moreso as Kurt pushes Blaine's pajamas open and down his arms, and presses him to his back to pull his pajama bottoms off while Blaine scoots toward the center of the mattress. Soon enough, they're bare skin to bare skin, open mouth to open mouth, and Kurt's knee is pressing between his thighs. His cock nudges the join of Blaine's hip, and Blaine's cockhead catches and rubs against Kurt's belly. The way their bodies come together so easily, with such simple desire, by instinct and Earth's ancient design. Of course they're both human. Blaine could never doubt it.

But Kurt breaks the kiss to stifle a yawn against Blaine's shoulder. "Ugh, but I'm so bloody tired," he mumbles as he drags his lips over Blaine's collarbones and the tension in his body wanes as his weight settles against Blaine more solidly and he stills. "You feel so good."

Kurt starts moving again, lazily and with haphazard rhythm. Hums sleepily against Blaine's skin as his kisses slow to lethargic nuzzles. "Don't let me doze off on you," he says. "I didn't come here to sleep."

Blaine strokes up and down his spine, soothing, encouraging. "I won't," he says, presses a kiss to Kurt's hair, and then he adds—he hopes—flirtatiously, "How would you like me to keep you awake?"

Kurt huffs a laugh through his nose, but his eyes stay closed. "You've a clever boy. I'm sure you can think of something."

"I can think of a few things," Blaine says, and carefully he rolls Kurt to his back and extracts his arm from beneath his shoulders. He props himself above Kurt and watches his hand on Kurt's chest, brushes his fingertips across Kurt's pink nipples and feels how they contract beneath his touch, watches Kurt's skin pimple and his eyelids shiver. His lips part and he sighs his pleasure. Blaine warms with more than arousal—more than affection. It's some deeper sense of gratification at Kurt's trust, at the way he's responding to Blaine's touch. "But if there's something you would especially enjoy, you'll need to tell me," Blaine says. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

Kurt slumps into the bedding with an approving smile and cracks one eye open. He reaches up and touches Blaine's lips with his fingertips. "How about you show me what was on your mind this morning then, hmm?"

#klaine fic #klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #gkm fill #nights of hedonia

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hedoniafic · 9 years

Text

Nights of Hedonia (15/?)

Finally! I'm so sorry for the long wait, everyone. I remain grateful for your readership & your patience. <3

For the GKM prompt:

Nights of Hedonia (15/?) Pairing: Kurt/Blaine, other minor* Rating: NC-17 Summary: Sci Fi AU. Blaine has attained a high rank at a young age in the Apathean Diplomatic Corps, thanks to his diligence and talent as well as the generous mentoring of renown Ambassador June Dolloway. However, a mission to negotiate with the pleasure loving Elyssians may threaten all he’s worked so hard for. Warnings: (overall) explicit sex, technological body modification, mild kink*

* see masterpost for more details

Previously: (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14)

[ AO3 ]

15.

On the sofa opposite the Ambassador, Blaine settles and refills his coffee. Waking to a sunrise—even a simulation—has refreshed him in a way sleep rarely does. Mornings in space are indistinguishable from evenings, midday from midnight. He turns his gaze out to the stars, smeared by the ship's warp field into spectral streaks, but he rejects asking the Ambassador if he may change the view to something more day-like and stimulating. She prefers the calm of space to illusions of elsewhere.

So Blaine turns his mind to the immediate task: working with the Ambassador on drafting editorial pieces and press releases to send to their media department back home on Apathea. The Defense office has a preliminary strategy proposal for sending a limited force in support of the Elyssian planetary evacuations. Public opinion remains an impediment to the First Minister's decision to authorize any greater military intervention.

"Did you see the internal polling results Wes sent in with the reports this morning?" the Ambassador asks. Wes is the Diplomatic Office's Director of Communications.

"I did," Blaine says, and he brings the document to focus on his AR display. "I'm reluctant to critique the polling methods, it's not my forte, but..." Blaine presses his lips together. "I think we could get better numbers with different questions."

The Ambassador's lips curve minutely. "I'm listening."

"Wes's questions are very dry. Factual and Hypothetical. If we rework some of them—make an appeal to emotion and morality as well, then I believe we could get numbers more like we need to, ah, encourage the First Minister to authorize the Defense Office's proposal."

"Tell me what you're thinking, Blaine."

Blaine retracts his eye piece to give the Ambassador his full attention and direct gaze. "No one at home wants a war of choice with the Charn, and that's what it looks like we're asking for right now." Blaine says. "Why would anyone choose that? It's not enough to ask citizens if they believe Apathea's interests will eventually come under threat if we don't intervene. The time frame is too abstract to convey a sense of either urgency or inevitability. Even if the argument is true, it's not persuasive."

"I agree."

"Our problem is the public image of Elyssia as a distant, decadent society that has little to offer us. They appear weak and ripe for the Charn conquest. Many would, behind closed doors, say Elyssia has brought this upon themselves. Better them than us, some would say. Wouldn't they?"

"But only behind closed doors," the Ambassador acknowledges, and her eyes narrow. She lifts her chin and studies Blaine.

"Exactly, " he says, "and that won't be part of the public conversation, because our people would be too ashamed to make such an argument out loud and on the record. We think better of ourselves than that."

The Ambassador nods.

"So the argument shouldn't be primarily about logic and logistics, no matter how good a case we have there. The opposition will spin that however works best for them. But I remember what you said the first day, about the Elyssians being our friends. We make a case—even if only in implication—that to not help would be immoral. A sin of omission."

"We make an appeal to friendship then?"

"Not exactly," Blaine says, and more slowly he continues, for it's a risk to say the words out loud. The Ambassador may scoff. Blaine speaks anyway: "More than that, we make an appeal to our common humanity."

The Ambassador blinks calmly, unfazed. It's as if she expected it.

Blaine takes that as tacit encouragement. "That's why you took this mission, isn't it?" he asks, and it's bold enough she may think him impertinent.

But she inclines her head in agreement once more. "I have long believed this. But there remains a need to convince our public of the truth of it."

"That's why we're going to the museum to see the Colombia and its computers, isn't it?"

"That was meant to be a surprise," she says, somewhat wry now. "I didn't want any chatter among you boys in advance of seeing it. You'll understand the sensitivity of the issue, I trust. But I'm curious, how did you come to this knowledge, Blaine?"

"Kurt... um." Blaine casts his gaze down for a moment, catches himself. "That is, Master Hummel told me about it, he was surprised I didn't know. He said they have records from the Colombia, details about the Aurelia and the other ships."

"Isabelle assures me they do. The preserved records are very complete, she tells me. It may not be enough on its own for those back home, and we haven't had the opportunity to evaluate them ourselves yet."

"What about genetics?" Blaine asks. "Not just us, but the plants, the food, the animals. And culture? We share all this ancient music, literature, and art. The girl from Lima I've befriended? Tina Cohen-Chang? She could be the twin of my great aunt Cecilia when she was young. She could be my distant cousin for all I know. Ambassador, we're all from Earth."

"Yes."

"Then that's the narrative we use to persuade the people back home. It's a compelling story, and it's true. Apathea and Elyssia, we're more than friends, we're family. We have a responsibility."

"People will be skeptical. You're asking for a large leap of faith. And there are many in government who do not wish for this to become accepted knowledge. Stories are one thing, truth is another."

"But if it is true, then why not acknowledge it?"

"You know why. The threat to Apathean society is considered significant. Many fear chaos."

"So you're telling me that others know and keep it a secret?"

"Others strongly suspect. I'm not alone in this view. But the credible presentation to the public remains an obstacle."

"But it's all so obvious," Blaine says. "Who could deny it?"

"You assume too much good faith, Blaine. The usual suspects will resist, and you know they don't care about the truth. You said yourself, it's not about the facts, but the emotion. It's only obvious to you now that you're here. What about before we came, before you met Tina and Kurt and the others? Would you have believed it, if you'd been sitting at home in the evening and saw it being reported and debated on the political shows? Would your parents?"

It's a valid point. "Probably not," Blaine concedes. "I would assume it was sensationalism to distract from a more immediate and serious topic of the day."

"Quite," the Ambassador says. "So what persuaded you that Master Hummel spoke the truth?"

Even with the discussion of emotion and faith, an explanation involving shared intimacy in the afterglow is the wrong answer to give. Blaine says instead, "You told me of Elyssian honesty, and he has no reason to lie."

The Ambassador huffs a soft chuckle. "Major Clarington may differ."

"Major Clarington worries too much."

"It's his job to worry too much."

Blaine shakes his head, but he smiles too. He thinks he understands why now: why Hunter and why Nick. If they can be persuaded on this trip, then many more may be as well.

"What convinced you, Blaine?" the Ambassador asks. "Not a piece of information or a pattern of logic, those are clear enough and easily demonstrated, but something convinced you beyond reason: you haven't seen the Colombia's records or a gene sequence of a familiar looking flower here. Whatever convinced your heart, that's what we need to be able to share with the others."

Blaine nods, but he doesn't offer any answer. How does he explain his own heart to another? It's a sufficient mystery to himself.

"Well," the Ambassador says, setting her cup and saucer on the table and leaning back in her seat. She straightens her skirt over her knees. "Think about it. Your instincts are good here, but we need to find a way to lay the groundwork, we can't lob information this significant out there until we have a better idea of how it'll land. We can't even give all of it to Wes yet, as good as he is, this is—as they once would say—a bombshell."

"I'll do my best," Blaine says.

The Ambassador nods. "I know you will. Now, please, call Master Hummel and tell him we're ready for breakfast."

Shortly, Kurt comes in, and he strikes Blaine as even more beautiful than when Blaine left him this morning. It's like a blow to his belly to knock the air from his lungs—and all the clarity of language from his mind. Kurt is— Blaine has neither the mental breath nor the vocabulary for what Kurt is to him, for what they are to each other. It seems as if a tether is between them now, more than the simple compulsion of desire, but a sense of belonging. When Blaine looks at Kurt, he feels as if he's looking at part of himself. He's not sure how to make sense of that. They've only known each other for days.

More than that, Blaine knows he's blushing; he can feel the heat in his cheeks, and he struggles to keep his gaze from returning to Kurt, from lingering, from slipping down the length of him, to enjoy the line of his legs, his slim hips and trim waist, the hard planes of his chest. Blaine looks at Kurt's mouth, and he is powerless not to remember how it's been on his body. Viscerally, Blaine recalls the sweetness of Kurt's lips upon his skin, the enveloping hot slide around him, the wrench of ecstasy.

He catches Kurt looking back, a warm glance of interest. Blaine sees the answering color on his cheeks, and sees how well Kurt is filling out his trousers—would swear Kurt's partially erect from the way the swollen shape of his cock is so distinct behind the thin white of his trousers. And that makes Blaine's imagination and memory collide in a way that makes his stomach clench and his head swim. He's definitely growing aroused himself.

Blaine tries to concentrate on sipping his coffee, but his gaze keeps tracking to Kurt's groin, and each time Blaine's attention gets snagged there. He wonders what it would be like to put his mouth on Kurt there. The idea of it comes so vividly in his imagination, opening his mouth and pressing himself down over the thick column of Kurt's penis.

How would it taste? How would it feel? What would Kurt say to him?

"Mr. Anderson?" Kurt asks, and Blaine blinks back to reality and looks up. His cheeks burn, and Kurt's smile is both affectionate and something else—knowing. Kurt twitches an eyebrow up as his own gaze ticks down to Blaine's mouth and he angles his hips toward Blaine as if offering a better view. But his voice betrays nothing. He stands poised with a platter balanced on one hand. "Would you like eggs this morning?"

The Ambassador clears her throat. Blaine sits up straight, swallows the phantom flavor of his curiosity, and says, "Yes, please."

Kurt finishes serving their meal, and prepares to leave. Blaine tries to keep his attention on his food, the bright green flecks of some fresh herb within the gold of the scrambled eggs, the tickle of fresh pepper in his nose, the way the pat of butter melts under his knife upon the fresh toasted bread. Blaine doesn't even risk a look up at Kurt as he maneuvers the dining cart toward the door.

But then the Ambassador speaks. "Master Hummel," she addresses Kurt directly. It startles Blaine, for she hasn't done that before. "I wonder if you could do me a service?" she asks.

Blaine worries it's going to be something about him, and he dares to look back up. Kurt's attentive and professional as he turns, clasping his hands behind his back. "I'm happy to assist you, Ambassador," he replies.

"I have a letter for the Councilor that I'd like hand delivered directly to her, without delay."

Blaine is relieved, but only a personal level. A handwritten letter? Whose attention is she trying to avoid—or whose is she trying to attract? Kurt's not among the usual pages and couriers used on the ship for such things.

"It will be my pleasure," Kurt says. "I'll take it to her now."

"Please do. One moment." The Ambassador stands and then goes to her study. She returns with a square envelope. Blaine recognizes a biometric seal on it. She hands it to Kurt. "Thank you."

Kurt bows, slides Blaine a glance and a promising smile, and then he departs.

Once Kurt's gone the Ambassador sits, smooths her napkin back over her lap, and speaks to Blaine without looking at him. "You must be more discreet. And so, for your sake, must your friend. Please save us both the embarrassment and speak to him for me. I don't need to see that at breakfast. No one does."

"Ma'am, yes," Blaine says, and a chill prickles across his skin, for she's not gently teasing him. It's no mild admonishment, but a reminder and a warning.

After breakfast, Blaine goes to his room to work. This morning, Major Clarington is touring the ship's engineering room and weapons systems with Nick. Trent has accompanied the Ambassador to a casual one-on-one meeting with Isabelle, and Blaine is surplus to her immediate requirements. So he tasks himself with revising the correspondence and documents to send to Wes as per the morning's conversations with the Ambassador. But between the marks of punctuation, Blaine's mind is a jumble of sense memory.

The taste of sugar on Kurt's lips the first time they kissed.

The frictionless glide of Kurt's semen between his thighs this morning.

Kurt's soft spoken, "I want you." from last night—

—and Blaine's desperate, fumbling return, "Please, have me.".

Over and over again, Blaine turns his attention back to communication strategies. He wants to add a more informal note to Wes at the beginning, describing his own experience of friendship and unexpected kinship here. The Elyssian people are warm, generous, and honest: worthy of not only Apathea's assistance, but also their alliance. They have much to learn from each other. Elyssian technology is striking and innovative, their culture rich and complementary.

He writes and rewrites it to be personal without being revealing, and to avoid mention of any sensitive or controversial conclusions. He tries to map logic to his feelings, to find a way to share his insight and intuition. It's what the Ambassador asked of him.

And in the pauses between thoughts, he thinks of Kurt. he feels the ghost of their lovemaking still lingering hot beneath his skin. The potential of their next allotment of private time together gathers bright in his mind: all the things they may do again, and all the new things he hasn't yet dreamed of.

A girl brings his lunch directly to the door of his private quarters. The food is cold, light, and simple. Blaine thanks her. He rereads his morning's work while he eats. He checks the infotab for any messages from Kurt, and finds he has one waiting. It's an hour old and brief:

"I'd like to spoil you this evening. Tina tells me you have a passion for music. We'll dine first, then go to the auditorium for the evening show. It's relaxing. I'm confident you'll enjoy it with me, and we'll have ample opportunity to enjoy each other after. I'll meet you at your quarters once the day's work is done."

It's enough for Blaine's blood to surge hot and low. And he chastises himself for the persistent and immediate physicality of his response, for it seems his body would be content to skip both food and music tonight and simply slake its carnal desires with Kurt's body. But Blaine, no matter how powerful his physical urges, will learn to manage this. He will be discreet, and he will conduct himself with decorum and grace. He will enjoy all of the time he has with Kurt, and all of the activities that time may entail.

That doesn't stop Blaine from indulging the pleasurable rush of anticipation of being with Kurt again. He considers how best to word his reply to Kurt; he wishes to flirt, to both signal and promise his interest in exploring more intimate pleasures with Kurt tonight, but he must also be mindful of the Ambassador's warning to him. Even in private correspondence, he cannot afford to be careless. "Then I shall apply myself diligently to my work this afternoon so that the time may pass swiftly," Blaine writes. "I've longed to return to your embrace since the moment I left you this morning." It reads to him like a note he may write were he courting Kurt, a too formal expression of his desire, though the sentiment is sincere. He hopes Kurt will find it endearing.

Blaine goes to the gym after lunch. It's been an easy habit to adopt, and the predictable routine of it helps him reorient and refresh himself for the afternoon. On his way back to his quarters, he gets an alert from Nick. With a frown, Blaine accepts the communication. "I need to talk to you in private," Nick says.

"I'll come to your rooms," Blaine replies.

Nick meets him at the door with a sour expression. Blaine goes in and sits at the table where they ate dinner and played cards last night. "How may I help?" Blaine asks, and he remembers to smile.

"I'm not the one who needs help," Nick says, He sits opposite Blaine and leans his elbows on the table. "What are you up to, Blaine? The major was grilling me this morning about what I knew about you and your recent behavioral aberrations."

"Behavioral aberrations?" Blaine raises an eyebrow and maintains his smile, careful to keep it natural, not too fixed.

"His words," Nick says. "Not mine."

"It's nothing to worry about," Blaine says. "I'm sorry he's bothered you—"

"No, it's not nothing. You don't understand. He thinks you're helping the Ambassador with something clandestine. She's been protecting you, and he's suspicious. And, honestly, Blaine, he's getting very intense about it. "

"I'm not going to discuss what I do in my personal time with Major Clarington, or, for that matter, with you," Blaine says, and he moves to stand. "Perhaps the major needs his rig adjusted. This is a peaceful mission of friendship. The Elyssia are not our enemies."

But Nick speaks quickly, "Hunter showed me your medical data log from last night."

Blaine sits back down. It's not a surprise, but he had hoped it would go unnoticed. "And?"

Nick rubs both hands over his face and speaks from behind them. "I... I think I know what you're doing. But I didn't want to tell him in case I was wrong—or in case I was right."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Blaine asks neutrally. He won't show any concern, doesn't want to give Nick anything to work with—or to take back to Hunter.

"I saw you walking with her in the Garden yesterday. I don't remember her name."

"Tina." Blaine provides calmly. "She's a representative from Lima, one of the worlds pending evacuation."

"Yeah, I've seen you talking with her a few times now. Are you..." Nick lowers his voice, and he appears sincerely concerned. "Are you and she—? Gods, Blaine, don't make me say it."

"Tina's a friend. Whatever you're thinking, you're mistaken."

Nick looks skeptical. "Okay, look, if you don't want to tell me, I understand completely. I know what's at stake for you. Just be careful, please? It's not worth it."

"I'm doing my job," Blaine says, and it comes out more defensive than he intends. "That involves meeting the Elyssians on their own terms. You should understand that better than most. Given your background and your presence on this mission, I don't understand your hostility."

"It's good that you don't," Nick says, and his lips pinch into a line of unexpected misery. "I wouldn't want you to."

"What happened to you?" Blaine asks, gently now. He frowns. This may be more than casual bigotry. But Nick hesitates to answer, and Blaine begins to understand. "I won't betray your confidence, Nick," he adds.

"I've never told anyone. There were some who knew at the time, but we kept each others' secrets. You kind of have to here, just to get through."

"I can understand that," Blaine says. "We can't afford to impose the moral standards of home too rigidly in the field, certainly not on the cultures we encounter—often not on ourselves either. Flexibility isn't a failure. It's smart."

With a short nod, Nick continues softly. "So when I was at the consulate here, I met an Elyssian girl. I won't give you the details, but I believed she loved me, and she broke my heart. I'll never be able to undo what she did to me. I courted her, and she didn't... get it. Not at all. She thought it was some kind of joke." Nick blinks back the shine from his eyes, but his voice doesn't break. "So please believe me when I say you should be careful."

"I appreciate your concern, Nick, and your trusting me. I'm sorry for what you experienced. But, please believe me when I say I'm confident that I'm not in any danger here."

Nick's smile is less than encouraging, but there's some humor in it. "I don't know that you're safe if Hunter suspects you're doing some intelligence work for the Ambassador behind his back but are being double finessed by the guy who serves us breakfast."

Blaine lets himself laugh. "Hunter's imagination is more creative than I'd expect."

"He thinks she doesn't trust him."

"That's his problem," Blaine says, and he stands up.

Nick stands with him, and he takes something from his pocket. "In case I'm not wrong and these would help you. Here." He offers it to Blaine.

The pattern etched into the stainless steel bottle is familiar: blockers.

Blaine hesitates to take them. His first instinct is to recoil. But letting Nick believe he's having a secret romance with Tina may be better than other options. So Blaine takes them. "Thank you," Blaine says.

"Be discreet," the Ambassador told him, which is made vastly more difficult if he's got Hunter breathing down his neck and Nick taking him aside for difficult confessions and unwanted advice. So Blaine summons up his courage and goes to see her immediately after he leaves Nick. He knocks on the door of her study.

"Come in, Blaine," she says. She always knows when it's him, can tell from the way he knocks.

He goes in. She's seated at a desk with its top set at an angle. Dozens of documents are open across its display. She sweeps her hand across the surface, and they cascade into a single neat pile. "What is it?" Her walls are set to a mottled dark green texture.

"I have a favor to ask of you," he says. "And some information."

"All right." she says, and turns her chair to face Blaine where he stands. "Information first."

"I had an interesting conversation with Nick. He tells me Major Clarington suspects I'm doing some kind of covert intelligence work for you, that you don't trust him, and that Master Hummel is—somehow—using me for his own intelligence gathering purposes."

She nods, her smile is small and enigmatic. "How interesting," she says. "And what favor do you wish to ask of me?"

"It's about my being discreet." Blaine asks.

"Yes?"

"I may need your help with that. The Major is keeping a close watch on all my logged data, and I don't have the clearance to change what's collected. But you do."

She's amused, clearly enjoying herself. "Well," she says archly. "We certainly don't want a scandal, do we?"

Blaine blushes and looks down at his boots. "No."

"Tell me what you need."

"Privacy," Blaine says, and he lifts his head, rests his fingers at his temple.

"You don't wish for it to log your... night time exercise?"

"No."

"Insomnia is such a difficult thing to manage. I'll see what I can do," she says. "Of course there's always medication you can take. If you prefer a simpler solution."

"Nick already gave me some."

"Good, that was thoughtful of him. Use it if you need it," she says and turns back to the desk. "I'll adjust the parameters on your medical monitor's reporting."

"Thank you," Blaine says. He turns to leave.

"Oh, and Blaine?" she calls over her shoulder.

Her tone—the lightness that's too light not to be artifice—roots Blaine to the spot. "Yes?" he asks.

"Please don't mistake my support for you as endorsement of your night time activities. All right?"

"I understand," Blaine says, though he's not entirely certain that he does.

It's abruptly too much to navigate. Blaine cannot simultaneously be Hunter's prey, Nick's unexpected confidant, and the Ambassador's obedient drudge. (Though the last thought he censures himself for. It's uncharitable and wrong, but as much as he does trust June—as much as she cares for him and he for her, as much mutual respect as there is—there are times she's like a stranger, and it's— No. He's not going to think that way. )

He returns to his private rooms, determinedly trying to banish the bitter twist of resentment from his chest, ignoring the deeper taint of fear, and the salty taste of unshed tears gathering in his throat. It's childish. He's an adult, but right now, he's so sick of smiling, of the pretense and politeness, of having to approach every day and every conversation like a tactical puzzle to analyze and solve. He's tired of having to measure and manage his words and affect like strategic resources.

Except when he's with Kurt. The thought alone brings a sense of relief so deep, Blaine fears his knees will buckle. He sits, and reminds himself: he's seeing Kurt again this evening, a respite which is only a few hours away.

And yet, as he anticipates it, he grows even more desperate for Kurt's company. Those hours between now and meeting Kurt draw into a gulf. Blaine stands again and paces from his sitting room to his bedroom, his arms wrapped around himself and his fingers pressing hard against his elbows. Tension still mounts inside him, for the things he wants now—the relief and release he experiences with Kurt are such a new thing, things he couldn't conceive of lacking until he had them. But their lack in this moment is like a void, and today it's set so starkly against the things he has to be, and a version of himself that increasingly feels false or incomplete.

But he loves his life; his career is his vocation. He's worked hard to get exactly where he is. He's just having a bad day, that's all. He's tired. And—June is right about one thing—he's not been getting enough sleep. He's been neglecting other things too.

Blaine pulls a firm square pillow from the bed and sets it on the floor. He lowers himself to sit cross-legged upon it. He gazes out at the distorted field of stars: this is where he is. Blaine breathes slowly and deeply: in, then out, then in, maintaining a sedate rhythm to soothe his nerves and his mind. His shoulders relax, his heart slows, and he closes his eyes. But it's nearly an hour before Blaine regains his sense of equilibrium.

(tbc.)

#klaine fic #klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #gkm fill #nights of hedonia

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