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The ball seems like a success.
After a cacophony of disturbances, the break this month is well appreciated. Students from the varying houses rotate between picking at the lavish feast, sneaking off into dark corners to kiss, or dancing for all to see. Hubert has obliged to a dance or several, sweeping across the floor with someone always comically shorter than him. Even the professor has entertained him once in what was becoming his route, taking his hand her cool one and positioning them both in the center of the room, so Edelgard could look on, bemused.
Halfway through the night, Hubert retreats. From his place against the wood-paneled wall, he watches, as the hall pieces together with a faster musical arrangement, wafts of several roasts, and laughter sitting in the air. It’s oddly just as calming as it is unnerving, observing how everything simply works for this night alone. Hubert suspects months from now, it will be a very different story. Or rather, he knows it, given the fact that he will be the one to carry it out.
His story happens to change when Ferdinand Von Aegir settles beside him.
Hubert looks over once, tracing the design of Ferdinand’s mask with his gaze, before shifting again, arms coming to fold over his chest. The mask is flush against Ferdinand’s face, rather simple for someone with a large presence. It’s gold-embroidered, making a point to emphasize the usual color of Ferdinand’s eyes, and the splash of red across his cheeks. He’s close enough that Hubert can feel an unusual hum in the energy about him, loosened a little by the festivities. Hubert breaks their unnecessary silence when he says, “I fail to see the point in covering your face when your hair is that color.”
Ferdinand laughs, taking a delicate sip of whatever is in his glass, and shifting, so that he’s close enough to smell the rosemary essence Bernadetta insisted Hubert to use before their entrance. “And you are going to scare the rest of the children with that terrifying mask of yours,” he quips in return. Ferdinand points his finger at the mask in question, outlining the black, beak-like design. “Couldn’t you find something more appropriate? Or, dare I say, appealing?”
“I suppose you mean to your liking?”
“You say it as if I have bad taste.”
Hubert’s laugh is barely a laugh at all, but a sharp exhale caught in his throat. “Clearly, you have not seen the state of your overcoat.”
“It’s formal wear characteristic to our house.”
“I’m well aware. I’ve seen it before.”
Again, a persistent quiet. There is always a tension with Ferdinand that Hubert never can quite describe. It exists, wound tight, between them with every sharp word and look exchanged. Hubert simply attributes it to their slight differences in politics, their loyalties, and saints, even their physical palettes, with Ferdinand always walking around as if the sun was trapped in his hair.
Lately, that very tension was beginning to change. Hubert couldn’t tell why or how, but could feel something noticeably shift, occupying whatever space exists between them. They start to speak to each other differently, with Ferdinand revising Hubert’s battle plans and peering at his spells. Hubert, in return, began showing the slightest interest in Ferdinand’s goals as prime minister and allowed Ferdinand to give him advanced riding lessons on their rest days. In that way, Ferdinand’s existence becomes thwarting and yet familiar. Present and unrelenting.
Ferdinand follows Hubert’s gaze across the room, where Edelgard leads their professor in the current waltz. The two are always inexplicably attached, more so than any other ruling pairing he has ever seen, save for Dimitri and Dedue. In fact, Ferdinand thought, he is always most surprised that Hubert does not drop dead if he isn’t at least ten feet within the Imperial Princess’s radius.
Regret, though, floods his body just as soon as the thought materializes; Ferdinand knows better than to characterize their relationship as something along the lines of holy devotion. He learns that at one of their forced lunches with their professor: Hubert is certain that Edelgard will change the world the same way Ferdinand is certain he will change it just the same.
“You are not going to—“ Ferdinand pauses just as soon as he begins, as though evaluating the risk of every word. “Win her. If that is your intention.”
Ferdinand knows that it isn’t. He just needs to hear it.
The tension between them strengthens once again with the sharp glare Hubert shoots him. It’s all the more menacing with that ridiculous mask of his, making him look too similar to the mages Ferdinand has cut down in battle. When Hubert speaks, Ferdinand can’t tell if there is restraint or hurt in his voice. “Lady Edelgard is not a possession meant to be owned. The mere suggestion of it is egregious enough, so I’ll ask that you rescind your words before I make you.”
“What I meant to say is that you’re not going to win her favor. I don’t see why you work so hard to have something that already belongs to you.” Ferdinand accents his words with a snort. “Also, make me? What are we, five?”
The room, alit with a terrifying amount of candles, quickly becomes unbearably hot. Hubert grabs Ferdinand by the wrist, threading through crowds of people until Ferdinand is stumbling behind him out into the night.
“You don’t scare me,” Ferdinand says, loudly this time as Hubert stops in a small alcove. “I saw you helping Bernadetta bury the mice she trains and keeps the other day. Odd thing to do considering the existence of your heart for you is still up for debate.”
Hubert’s frown is a stark contrast against his pale face, alarming in comparison to his usual neutral expression.
“Rest assured,” he replies with practiced patience, “mine is beating well enough. Yours, on the other hand, may not be after this conversation.”
Hubert takes a step forward, leading Ferdinand in a defensive kind of dance as the latter’s back hits the stone wall.
“I do not find you scary or intimidating,” Ferdinand exclaims, peering up at Hubert through his mask. “I find you frustrating and irritating.”
What a peculiar silence that follows. Ferdinand blushes. “This is where you say something like ‘Pray tell’.”
“Ferdinand, I doubt you need my permission to talk well beyond your means.”
“I find you frustrating and irritating because you outwardly lack pleasure in life,” Ferdinand continues. “You seemingly have one singular goal and you will cut down and cut out everything in the name of it. That goal, of course, being whatever Edelgard’s goal is at the moment. You are her shadow and it’s hardly her fault—she, to my knowledge, has never asked you to build your entire existence around her. I catch the slightest instances of delight at times, but you suppress it, as though you have to for some greater good.”
“You of all people should know better than accuse me of something like that. Our duty to our families and the Empire are one and the same."
“And yet I am here, attempting to make the best out of this life. I hardly see you laugh or do much of anything outside of design training drills and battle tactics. And—“
“You’re watching me?”
The question lands as heavy as a stone. Confidence tilts Ferdinand's chin towards the air, but his flushed cheeks betray him. “Spare me. You’re always watching. As though you don’t attempt to strike everyone that comes within a foot of Edelgard with your stare. Thank the Goddess for the professor; she is stronger than all of us combined.”
“And what about you? Ferdinand von Aegir?” The corner of Hubert’s lip turns up in a sneer. “You have made it such a point to stray from your father’s actions that one can’t help but question the intent and motivation of your own. Instead of carving your own path, simply because you should and you can, you carry the misgivings of your family and think that your ascent to prime minister will dissipate your father’s shadow. That you will be different.”
“Yes, you often talk too much, and jut into conversations unannounced or invited. Your ego is constantly under threat by anyone more skilled. Despite your conflict, you care for those that matter to you. You would lay down your life without question. You are noble in a way that does not come with nobility. It is simply you.”
Hubert did expect that when the tension did break, it would be here, with him struggling to breathe and think and with Ferdinand ever so close.
Ferdinand's movements are slow and languid; Hubert decides to count them in his head. First, Ferdinand sets his flute on the ground beside them with a gentle clink. Next, he approaches Hubert with caution in the few steps it takes to close the distance between them.
Lastly, Ferdinand slants his lips against his own.
Almost immediately, Hubert can taste the floral undertones of Ferdinand’s drink bursting across his tongue. Ferdinand is equally insistent and persistent, hands fisted around Hubert’s waistcoat, tugging him closer and closer, until they’re both stumbling further into the cool embrace of the archway outside. Hubert finds purchase on one of the pillars, steadying himself with both hands, while Ferdinand all but arches into him so that his lips are at Hubert’s jaw, with their hips pressed together.
Hubert’s body is relaxed and yet at attention, begging to find balance. He frames Ferdinand’s face with one hand and says, “Wait. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“I kissed you first, so I would say I’m in the wrong.”
Hubert tilts his head down so his lips are all but grazing against Ferdinand’s. Huber is so close, he can feel the small intake of air when he slides his hand down to the base of Ferdinand’s throat.
“I have never done this before,” he confesses, the uneasiness in his voice threatening. “Since you’ve watched me so closely, you must know that.”
Ferdinand says and does nothing save for closing his eyes. A low lining breeze teases his hair and his mouth is slightly ajar, almost expectant, with his cheeks aflame. Hubert discards his mask first, letting it flutter to the floor, before gently tugging Ferndinand’s above his eyes where it rests atop his head. His hands are weary, shaking even, as they brush around the tops of Ferdinand’s flaming brows, down the sharp lines his cheekbones, to his mouth where his touch remains. What little air between them trembles.
The second time they kiss is filled with such intentional gentleness, Ferdinand's knees falter for a moment. Hubert's thumb draws half circles across Ferdinand’s cheek. Their teeth click once, twice, three times; Ferdinand doesn’t complain but simply guides Hubert with the careful motion of his tongue. The two part only sigh and inhale, slowly pressing together again, with Hubert’s weight leaning against him, and a knee tactfully positioned between Ferdinand’s legs.
If living feels like this, he could do it forever.
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Edelgard's feet hurt, but she can hardly mind when she has danced with the professor at least three times and counting. Spinning, under normal circumstances, would make her nauseous, but there is something about the yellow hue of the candles, the familiar tune of the orchestra’s waltz, and Byleth’s steady lead and embrace that make it okay. She counts each trio of steps, managing to catch a glimpse of Hubert in the far corner of the room at exactly the third move each time. He is pretending not to look at her, but he is, back pressed against the walls with his arms folded across his chest. It isn’t until the second to last dance that Edelgard realizes, at the top of the third, that Hubert is no longer plastered to the wall, but following Ferdinand out of the doors.
Edelgard turns once more in Byleth’s arms and smiles.