Work Text:
Getting the celebration approved doesn’t turn out to be nearly as difficult as Ferdinand anticipates.
In preparing the proposal, Ferdinand tries to predict what sort of arguments someone (read: Hubert) might raise and drafts counter-points ahead of time. Hubert is always five steps ahead. Ferdinand has argued with him more than enough times. By now, he knows better than to go up against his fellow minister without a solid foot to stand on. So he does all he can to ensure his proposal cannot be picked apart so easily. If Hubert wants to shoot it down, he’ll have to really work at it (and honestly, when arguing with Hubert, oftentimes the best one can do is make him work for his inevitable victory.)
As he finishes presenting his proposal, he does not receive the push-back he expects.
He does not present it at a cabinet meeting full of their fellows in government. Instead, it is the familiar faces that had once attended the war counsels. Most of them will not be in the capital much longer. They’ve all got plans to follow through on now that the war has so recently ended. All the more reason to have this celebration, as Ferdinand points out in his proposal. One last night together before everyone goes their separate ways.
Edelgard appears deep in thought, but Ferdinand recognizes her expression. It’s one she only wears when she is pleasantly surprised. Hubert, rather unsurprisingly, doesn’t seem nearly as convinced. Her Majesty hands him the proposal draft to look over while Ferdinand awaits judgment. It’s nerve-wracking, watching him go through it, knowing that he’s essentially dissecting it as he does so. Who knows what number of flaws he’ll find? Ferdinand is braced for the entire idea (and its writer) to be eviscerated.
That is not what happens.
“I’ll need to detail additional security measures,” Hubert eventually says, and Ferdinand recognizes it for the understatement it is. Knowing Hubert, he’ll want to do a complete overhaul of the security Ferdinand had plotted out in his proposal, will want to have backup after backup in case one of his million layers of defence somehow fails. “But on the whole, I see no issue with it, so long as it truly remains a small celebration.” He shoots Ferdinand a pointed look, which would usually prompt Ferdinand to retort, but considering their audience, he restrains himself to a mere huff of indignation. Something about their banter nowadays feels…
Ferdinand isn’t sure how to describe how it feels, actually, only that he finds himself becoming bashful when others are around to see and hear their bouts. As if they’re voyeurs, peeking in on some private, precious moment between Hubert and himself.
Such an idea is absolutely absurd, but it’s far from the most absurd idea Ferdinand has ever had.
Thankfully, Dorothea has his back.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want us to have too much fun,” she comments dryly. “It’s not like we’ve earned it by fighting a war or anything.”
Hubert levels her with a flat, unimpressed stare.
“The war has only just ended. We haven’t the resources to throw a large soiree as of yet. As earned as a reprieve may be, it wouldn’t do to sabotage all of our efforts by throwing things into disarray while we are still rebuilding.”
“Surely not,” Edelgard agrees. Hubert hands back the papers, and she leafs through them to a page towards the end. “But Ferdinand seems to have accounted for that. The budget for this is masterfully done… Are you sure you don’t want to be the Finance Minister instead?”
“I am quite certain, yes. The budget was the trickiest part; I am unsure that I would have managed it without input from our companions.” Namely, Dorothea and Yuri granting him insight on how to be something they call ‘thrifty.’ Not to mention Linhardt checking over his arithmetic in exchange for Ferdinand agreeing to take on his chores (and agreeing not to tell anyone he’d helped, lest someone try to talk him into taking over his father’s position after all.)
Words are the tools of Ferdinand’s trade. Numbers just give him a headache.
“Very well,” the Emperor sighs with mock-disappointment before finally speaking the words Ferdinand so longs to hear:
“I approve your proposal, Ferdinand. We will hold a small celebration to ring in the new year.”
——
Part one of his plan has been a success.
With the celebration approved and preparations well underway, it’s time to take the next step. Unfortunately, that next step is a thousand times more daunting.
He needs to ask Hubert to be his date.
Or— Maybe not date. Ferdinand is under no illusions as to Hubert’s feelings for him. They’re friends. Ferdinand would even hazard to say they’re close friends, though never within earshot of Hubert. As such, of course, he understands that Hubert holds some degree of fondness for him… But Ferdinand knows better than to read too far into that. He knows better than to demand more than Hubert is willing to give. Than Hubert is able to give. Ferdinand refuses to let his own silly crush trick him into thinking Hubert could return those feelings.
Still, Hubert is always working, is always so stressed. The only time he seems to relax is on the rare occasions he gets to socialize with their fellows on the Strike Force outside of their official duties. When he has tea with Ferdinand, for example. So, Ferdinand has made this the perfect opportunity for Hubert to do nothing but spend time with the people he cares about. This is why, as he touches base with Hubert throughout planning the event, he insists that the security be designed so that Hubert will not need to be actively on duty the whole night. Ferdinand insists that Hubert not be working that night. Hubert tells him that he’s always working in some capacity. Upon receiving the closest thing to a glare Ferdinand can muster, however, he concedes that he will do his best to take the night off. Mostly.
Ferdinand doesn’t believe that for a minute.
The only way to ensure Hubert follows through on that is to be with him that night. To be at his side and make sure he isn’t wandering off the skulk in some shadowy corner. So, he must ask Hubert to be his ‘date’ for the event. Obviously. That’s the only solution here, and it is purely being done for Hubert’s benefit and is not at all a contrivance of Ferdinand’s to pretend there’s something more between them.
Even if it is a contrivance to pretend there’s something more between them… Is it so wrong for Ferdinand to want just one night? Just one night where he can imagine Hubert cares for him the way Ferdinand cares for Hubert. Just one night where he can imagine the man he loves returns those feelings. One night, and then he’ll never again have to wonder what it would be like. If he’s fortunate, maybe it will all go so horribly that his crush will be ruined, and he’ll finally be rid of the agony of unrequited love.
He springs the question as they take tea and coffee together one evening. The morning had been brisk, but by the time they settle at their usual table in the gardens, any previous winter wind has settled. The sky’s clear blue is slowly stained with orange and red, bleeding upwards from where the sun dips behind the horizon. There is no snow on the ground, but Ferdinand knows everything will be coated with frost by the time he gets up for his morning ride the next day.
For now, though, it’s a lovely evening.
“It is a bit strange,” Ferdinand starts, because surely he cannot just throw the question at Hubert apropos of nothing and expect anything but an incredulous look in response. “How everyone seems to be so… paired up.”
“Romantically, you mean?” Hubert clarifies. He raises a thin brow, though whether that’s due to the topic itself or due to how suddenly it’s been brought up, Ferdinand isn’t sure.
“Yes, exactly! Of course, Caspar and Linhardt are no surprise. But Edelgard and Dorothea… Not to mention Petra and Bernadetta!” He exclaims and is vindicated when Hubert inclines his head slightly in concession.
“I’ll admit, that last one was… difficult to predict.”
“Completely unpredictable, more like. It seems everyone has found their match,” Ferdinand sips his tea to disguise his hesitation before regaining his nerve. “And then there is us.”
He doesn’t miss the way Hubert tenses, at that. His expression doesn’t change, but something in the way he’s watching Ferdinand sharpens, and the set of his shoulders shifts just the tiniest bit. Small details Ferdinand wouldn’t have known to watch for a few years ago.
“Us, you say.” His tone is flat, giving away absolutely nothing. Ferdinand is used to that, but considering the situation, it makes him nervous for the first time in years.
“Yes, ah— Us. We spend much of our time together, after all. It would not be a stretch for one to see us as having… paired off, so to speak.”
“I… suppose,” Hubert admits after a moment’s pause, and Ferdinand’s heart clenches at how begrudging the admission seems. Is it so horrible for Hubert to consider them as a pair? It must be. He has been staunchly against the Twin Jewels moniker. Ferdinand had assumed that was just due to finding such a title too ostentatious, but…
What if it’s the very idea of being paired with Ferdinand that repels him?
The mere thought sparks such a panic within him that Ferdinand cannot help but ramble.
“Of course, it is expected that we would work closely together, considering our positions, but even before I was Prime Minister, we were together more often than not. And now, even when we are not working, we never seem to be apart for long.” He gestures to their current surroundings to prove his point. He pauses to take a sip of his tea to cut off his anxious, wordy nonsense and allow Hubert to answer. When he says nothing, Ferdinand cannot help but add in a tone smaller and meeker than he would ever admit himself capable of: “I simply think it is… nice.”
“…Nice,” Hubert repeats as if testing the taste of the word.
“Yes. Do you not agree?” Ferdinand cringes at the sound of his own voice as he says that. Too eager. Too desperate. Surely Hubert will pounce on such a show of weakness—
“If I found your company objectionable, we would not spend so much time together.”
—Or not?
“So you agree we spend a lot of time together.”
“My agreement is hardly necessary, Ferdinand; it’s an objective fact. We spend a disproportionate amount of time in one another’s company.” Hubert takes a sip of his coffee, averting his eyes briefly as he does so. For someone usually so intense about eye contact, it stands out. Ferdinand isn’t sure what to make of it.
“Yes, but—”
“Ferdinand,” Hubert puts down his cup, his eyes meeting Ferdinand’s once more. “What exactly is this about? Clearly, you are working up to something, and I would much prefer if you’d get to the point.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, seeing as everyone else has a date for the event….” He hesitates.
“The point, Ferdinand.” Hubert urges, more impatient than he usually would be, though Ferdinand cannot fathom why.
Ferdinand swallows a sudden lump in his throat. He takes a breath and asks:
“Would you perhaps be interested in accompanying me to the celebration?” He finally blurts out, speaking a little too loud and a little too fast. He can barely stand to look at Hubert as he asks, but neither can he bear to look away. Hubert’s one visible eye widens just a bit and the corners of his mouth twitch. Those small changes in expression would have been missed if Ferdinand wasn’t watching him so closely.
The silence drags on for a moment as Hubert stares at him with a placid expression, nothing given away. The longer they sit like that, staring at each other in silence, the more Ferdinand becomes certain he’s made a horrible mistake.
Until:
“Very well,” Hubert finally answers. His voice is always quiet, but this is Ferdinand’s first time hearing it soft. Gentle. There’s another twitch, but this time Hubert allows it to become a small smile, so different from the usual sinister grin. Ferdinand is certain his heart will burst at the sight of it.
“Truly?” Ferdinand cannot help but ask, cannot help the way his voice squeaks in his nerves and surprise.
“If I intended to reject you, I’d have done so.” Hubert reminds him. “Yes, truly, Ferdinand. I would be….” He pauses as if considering his next word. When he finds it, he says it as if it is a foreign concept to him. “Delighted.”
Delighted.
Ferdinand suddenly wishes he’d brought his smelling salts. He fears he may faint.
Part two of his plan is complete.
He isn’t as pleased about that as he is at the way Hubert is smiling at him, at the tone his voice has taken, at the word delighted.
Ferdinand feels like he’s flying.
——
Ferdinand feels like he’s dying.
There are flowers in his office. Flowers. Beautiful flowers, apparently courtesy of the Minister of the Imperial Household. When he first lays eyes on them, he has to take a seat and catch his breath. They just about hypnotize him, and he spends far longer sitting there staring at them than his schedule allows for. When he finally manages to get up, he outright flees from the room, a strategic retreat to preserve his life. He gets on with his day, distracted by the memory of such beautiful blossoms still sitting on his desk, and he is relieved when he finally has a moment to speak with Dorothea. Their meeting is, officially speaking, to sort through the decor for the event. In actuality, Ferdinand doesn’t need to be there for that. But Dorothea likes to have someone to chat with as she works, so he has arrived to keep her company and confide in her about this harrowing experience.
Unfortunately, she does not have much sympathy to offer.
“Maybe I’m missing something,” she suggests, not looking up from where she is sorting through the ordered materials for the decor and ensuring they’ve received what they’ve paid for. “But what’s so ‘harrowing’ about your partner sending you flowers? I thought you’d be into that sort of romantic gesture.”
“Romantic— Hubert and I are not partners, Dorothea. There is no ongoing romance which would demand he perform such a gesture. He must be mocking me.”
“Wait, I thought you said you asked him to be your date… and that he said yes.” She finally looks up at him in confusion.
“I— I asked if he would accompany me that evening, and he said yes, but— It is not a date.” He insists. Dorothea stares at him for a moment, her expression smoothing over before falling into an exasperated fondness Ferdinand is very familiar with.
“It’s not a date.” She repeats, and Ferdinand nods.
“Not a date.” He confirms.
“…Does Hubie know that?” She asks, in a tone Ferdinand isn’t sure how to decipher, as he’s never heard it from her before.
“Of course he does. Do you think he would have accepted otherwise?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” She tells him. An awful ache blooms in Ferdinand’s chest, driven in intensity by the beating of his hopeless heart. He purses his lips, brow furrowing.
“Dorothea, that is not a funny joke.”
“Good, because I’m not joking.” She certainly sounds serious, but surely— He cannot risk so much as considering that she might be serious. That she might be right. He cannot believe that Hubert would say yes to a date with him because that’s not the reality he lives in, and it would surely break his heart irreparably if he were to get his hopes up.
“He would not have accepted if I had specified it as a date.” He insists, clinging to that belief for dear life.
“Right, because it’s not like he’s been pining over you for years or anything. It’s not like he looks at you like you’re the only reason the sun rises. It’s not like he goes out of his way to spend as much time with you as he can. It’s not like he mentions you frequently in conversations with friends. It’s not like he’s been in a weirdly good mood since you asked him or anything like that.” Dorothea speaks in a tone that sounds strangely similar to sarcasm but can’t be because she’s only saying things that are true.
“Exactly!” Ferdinand beams, pleased that she’s finally catching on. She does not return the smile. She looks at him the way one might look at a disaster that is too horrifying to watch but simultaneously too horrifying to look away from.
“…You’re lucky you have your looks,” is all she says, shaking her head and returning her attention to her work.
“Why, thank you!” Ferdinand preens, and isn’t at all sure why Dorothea shakes her head again and sighs in response.
——
The day of the event draws ever closer, and Hubert’s strange behaviour persists beyond the flowers.
Previously, there has always been some sort of… invisible barrier between them. A threshold beyond which neither of them can step. Something that keeps them at a certain distance apart, which keeps their hands to themselves. Hubert never touches him, and he never touches Hubert. They never stand close enough that they brush up against each other, and they never sit near enough that they could lean against each other.
Except, suddenly, that barrier is nowhere to be seen.
The first time it happens is as they’re sitting in Hubert’s office going over the most recent requests for an audience with the Emperor. There are so many that it takes the two of them to get through it all in a timely manner. As Ferdinand is reading, he feels a brush of gloved fingertips against his cheek, and it startles him so severely he almost falls out of his chair. Regrettably, his reaction causes Hubert to draw his hand back as if he’s been burnt, his cheeks dusted pink, eyes askance.
“Apologies, I— Your hair.” He attempts to explain, stumbling uncharacteristically over his words. Now safely on his side of the desk, his hand closes into a fist, relaxes, and then repeats that motion two or three times. For someone who suppresses nervous tics as well as Hubert does, he may as well be screaming his discomfort. Ferdinand rushes to correct his error.
“No, no, it— I do not mind. You merely surprised me.” He assures, and Hubert’s drawn-up shoulders lower just a bit. His hand relaxes and remains that way, laid flat on the table. He watches Ferdinand with a scrutiny and intensity that reminds Ferdinand of the way Hubert considers his foes on the battlefield. The way he assesses their intentions, their next moves, and their weaknesses. Suddenly, Ferdinand feels entirely too exposed.
“I see. If that’s the case, now that you know to expect it… May I?” He moves as if to repeat the gesture but stops short of touching. Then Ferdinand nods, and those fingertips are back, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He expects that to be all, but then they drag along his jawline as Hubert pulls away, in a gesture that is entirely more intimate than would be expected between friends, and Ferdinand—
Ferdinand must be reading too far into this.
“I really should cut it at this point,” he comments, mouth dry, unsure what else to say that wouldn’t give away his foolish heart.
“I understand why you’d want to, though I think the length suits you,” Hubert tells him, the pink that had previously coloured his cheeks deepening to red. “If you find it a bother, perhaps I could braid it for you.”
“You would do that?” Ferdinand cannot help but ask, though he is internally cursing himself for doing so, for sounding so breathless as he does, and for smiling like a besotted fool.
“I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” Hubert points out, with that same softness in his voice that Ferdinand had heard over tea when he’d asked—
He’s reading too far into this. Much, much too far.
After that, Hubert keeps finding excuses to touch him. A brush of hands as they pass off papers, a hand on the small of Ferdinand’s back as they walk to their usual tea table, a brief hand on his shoulder as Hubert passes behind him on his way to his seat at meetings.
Whatever Hubert’s game is, Ferdinand is becoming increasingly certain that he will not survive it.
He realizes that Hubert likely isn’t aware of the pain his little jokes are causing. He must be unaware of Ferdinand’s feelings. Otherwise, he would never be so cruel to a friend. Unfortunately, Ferdinand cannot correct him in this matter without giving away far too much, so he must endure.
Just a few more days. Surely, after they attend the event together, all of this will calm down.
——
The day before the event, Ferdinand is dropping by to deliver some documents to Edelgard. Usually, when he does this, Hubert is there to do the same, and they leave together for evening tea. This time, Hubert is nowhere to be seen. Ferdinand is as surprised as he is disappointed.
“Where is Hubert?” He cannot help but ask, and does not at all understand why Edelgard’s eyes sparkle with amusement at his question.
“Some last-minute security matters for tomorrow’s celebration. Considering you’ve laid down the law about him working tomorrow night, he’s trying to ensure everything is flawless beforehand.”
“I see. Well, I am glad he is taking my ah… Law, as you put it, seriously. He deserves a night off to enjoy himself.”
“That he does,” Edelgard agrees, leaning forward in her chair and resting her chin on her fist, smiling at Ferdinand as if she knows something, but he isn’t sure— “And I’m sure as his companion for the night, you’ll make sure he enjoys himself.”
“Ah. He… told you about that?” Ferdinand can’t help but wince. He should have expected that, but— Well, he doesn’t much like the image that pops into his head of Hubert and Edelgard laughing at him and his pathetic request for Hubert’s company. The amusement in her expression makes his stomach twist unpleasantly. Is it really so laughable?
Who is he kidding? Of course it is. The ridiculous fop Ferdinand von Aegir making a fool of himself once again… He must be a source of endless comedic entertainment for them.
They ought to make him the court jester rather than the Prime Minister.
“Of course he did. I can’t remember the last time I saw him so excited about something that isn’t intended to end in blood.”
“Is that… sarcasm?” Ferdinand tries to clarify, because it must be. It doesn’t sound like it, but tones in conversation can be a bit beyond him sometimes, and it’s entirely plausible that it’s gone over his head. His question makes Edelgard frown, the amusement from before chilling into something mixed between confusion and concern.
“No? Of course not. He was extremely pleased that you had asked. I didn’t think that would come as a surprise to you.”
“Perhaps not.” It does, actually. It comes as such a surprise that he cannot quite believe it’s true. “It is just… His behaviour towards me has changed since then, and I am unsure what to make of it.” Perhaps he can gain some insight from Edelgard. After all, who knows Hubert better than she does?
“I think it makes sense to adjust your behaviour towards someone when they go from being your friend to being your date.” She argues, and Ferdinand feels his face flush.
“Oh, I see what the misunderstanding is. It is not a date.”
“It isn’t?” Goodness, but if Ferdinand didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks alarmed at that.
“Of course not, he would not have accepted if it were.”
Edelgard stares at him with an astonishment which makes her resemble an owl, eyes wide and blinking blankly at him.
“Are you quite sure about that?” She finally asks, her words slow and cautious.
“Please, Edelgard, I know you delight in teasing me, but I am not so delusional as to convince myself he would—” He is trying to sound casual, maybe even light-hearted, as if it’s a joke. His voice fails him, though, breaking before he can finish his words. He cannot bear to mock his ardent affections, to make a joke out of the idea that his beloved could return his feelings. As if it’s laughable.
Even if it is laughable, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Apologies,” he excuses himself, clearing his throat. “Frog in my throat.”
In an act of boundless mercy, Edelgard doesn’t call him out on the blatant lie.
“I think perhaps you should reconsider your view of the situation,” she tells him instead. “Broaden your horizons of possibility.”
Ferdinand has no idea what she means by that, but no matter how he asks, Edelgard refuses to elaborate further.
——
The event is finally upon them.
It takes hours to do his hair, Dorothea and Petra switching off whenever their arms get tired. Dorothea wants to thread jewels into his hair, but Ferdinand doesn’t want to look gaudy. As they’re arguing over the matter, because Dorothea insists he needs some sort of adornment, Petra eyes the vase of fresh flowers Ferdinand had received that morning. From Hubert, of course.
Specifically, she suggests the small white vinca flowers within the bouquet. They’re small enough not to be too flashy but not so small as to be particularly difficult to weave into his braid and still lovely enough to serve as an appropriate adornment. Of course, it isn’t as if he has to dress to impress, as he will be among friends at the celebration, but…
Well, he does want to impress someone.
He wonders what Hubert will think when he sees Ferdinand has decorated his hair with parts of his gag gift.
“You know what these flowers mean, don’t you?” Dorothea prompts, and Ferdinand is too worked up to scold her for her teasing. He does know what they mean, and the meaning makes his throat close up before he can say the words. So, she says it for him. “Eternal love, Ferdie.”
“Surely he did not realize,” Ferdinand responds, finally. “Or, if he did, it only enhanced the joke.”
“Joke?” Petra looks between him and Dorothea in open bafflement as she picks out the flowers for his braid. “I do not have understanding. Where is the joke being?”
“Hubert has been teasing me over asking him to be my companion for the evening. He keeps behaving as if it is a date, which I am certain must be endlessly amusing to him.” Ferdinand tries not to sound too bitter and isn’t at all sure if he has succeeded. Petra doesn’t seem any less confused.
“Is it teasing to act as a date to your date?”
“It is not a date,” Ferdinand tells her, as he told Edelgard, as he told Dorothea. He hears the songstress sigh heavily behind him, where she’s finishing up something at the back of his head.
“You see, Petra, our dear Ferdie is in a state which we call ‘denial.’”
“Denial? What is he denying?”
“That Hubie is head over heels for him, is considering this a date, and has taken it as Ferdie instigating a romantic relationship.”
“Oh. That is all very… like your operas. Though, is it not normal for heads to be above heels?”
“It’s an expression. It means he falls all over himself whenever Ferdie is involved. Metaphorically.” She adds the last word just as Petra opens her mouth, likely to point out that Hubert isn’t prone to falling over.
“So Ferdinand is denying that his lover loves him?” Petra clarifies, looking from Dorothea to Ferdinand with great concern.
“We aren’t lovers,” Ferdinand insists.
“But—” Petra starts, but a glance at Dorothea quiets her.
“Don’t waste your breath, Petra. There’s no getting through to him when he’s like this. Hubie could look him in the eyes and say ‘I love you’ and Ferdie would probably laugh and tell him that’s quite the funny joke.”
Ferdinand shifts uncomfortably, but a sharp tug at his hair stills him quickly.
“I’m sitting right here, you know.” He reminds them, pouting, primarily upset because she’s right. If Hubert confessed his supposed love, Ferdinand would assume it to be a joke because it would be. That’s the only circumstance under which he’d do so, right? Hubert could never sincerely say such a thing, not to Ferdinand.
…Right?
——
He can’t look Hubert in the eyes. The moment they lay eyes on each other that evening, something about how Hubert looks at him makes it quite difficult for Ferdinand to breathe. It’s too much. Too similar to, dare he so much as think it, adoration. Obviously, Ferdinand has lost his mind and is far more delusional than he’d thought himself to be. That, or his braid is too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain, causing him to hallucinate. Or both.
Ferdinand realizes quickly that he has no idea what to do with himself.
Usually, at official events, the Prime Minister is a representative of the nation with a specific job to do. But this is not an official event; he is attending as Ferdinand, not the Prime Minister. He doesn’t need to make the rounds and greet guests, and he doesn’t need to make small talk with dignitaries. The only ‘rounds’ he and Hubert make are to mingle with their friends. Eventually, when most of their friends join the dance floor, Ferdinand ends up lurking off to the side with Hubert, both of them with a drink, chatting. It starts stilted, more awkward than their conversations have been in years, mainly because Ferdinand is so worked up.
Soon enough, though, he falls back into their comfortable familiarity. Hubert is deceptively talented at putting Ferdinand at ease for someone who naturally makes others uneasy. Every time Ferdinand gets the nerve to meet Hubert’s eyes, though, he must immediately glance away. Those green eyes are always intense, but with the entirety of Hubert’s attention fixed on Ferdinand, with the suffocating fondness in that gaze… it’s more than Ferdinand can take.
Ferdinand is about to offer to refresh their drinks to give himself a moment to breathe, but before he can, Hubert asks:
“Shall we dance?” He holds out a hand, palm up, the other putting his empty glass onto the tray of a server who’s passing by. Ferdinand automatically does the same and puts his hand in Hubert’s before he’s even processed what’s happening.
“I thought you preferred to avoid dancing,” Ferdinand points out as Hubert leads him toward where their friends have been dancing for most of the evening. The music, set up by Manuela and featuring the vocal stylings of herself and Dorothea, has been upbeat all evening. As they take to the floor, Ferdinand spots Dorothea whispering something to the band. He has a sneaking suspicion as to what she’s up to and is proven right when the moment they move to join the dancing, the music slows significantly.
“I do, typically,” Hubert confirms, seemingly unfazed by the sudden change in tempo, pulling Ferdinand in and putting a hand on his hip, positioning them for a waltz without missing a beat. “But you enjoy it, and I enjoy seeing you enjoy yourself,” Hubert says. He just… says that. He says it, out loud, with his words, as if it isn’t enough to stop Ferdinand’s heart entirely.
Ferdinand is starting to suspect this is a very roundabout assassination attempt.
This close, there’s no avoiding Hubert’s gaze. The moment their eyes meet, Ferdinand is trapped. He can’t look away even when he tries. They fall into step with the music, the movements automatic after a childhood of dancing lessons. This close, there’s no way to miss the gentle upturn of Hubert’s lips, the softness in how he looks at Ferdinand.
“You liked the flowers?” He asks, his eyes flitting down to the white blossoms decorating Ferdinand’s braid before they come back up to hold Ferdinand’s eyes hostage once more.
“I— They were lovely,” he says, finding he cannot call Hubert out on the joke. Not when subtle relief breaks over the taller man’s expression, as if he’d been worried Ferdinand wouldn’t like the flowers. As if it mattered if Ferdinand didn’t like the flowers.
“Do you have a favourite?”
“A favourite? Flower?” Ferdinand asks, unsure why he’d need to know that, but Hubert nods. So, fuelled by the nerves that have plagued him all evening, Ferdinand gives a rambling answer: “I have had a few. As a child, I enjoyed any that were bright and colourful. Then when I first lived away from Aegir, I liked lilies. They were my mother’s favourite, so they reminded me of her and of home. But nowadays… There is this specific sort of iris. The first time I saw them, I had thought them to be dead; they looked so dark and withered. So dreary. When I got closer, though, I realized that was not the case at all. The petals aren’t black as they seem from afar, but a purple deeper than any I have ever seen. The petals are not withered, but they ruffle beautifully around the edges, some standing tall and some fanning out as if they were some dark cloak. It is so dramatic, yet somehow understated, with such a unique beauty, I….” He trails off.
They haven’t missed a step of the dance, and Hubert is looking at him in a way Ferdinand has never seen Hubert look at anyone, and they’re so close together, and Hubert is so handsome, and Ferdinand is so utterly besotted—
“They remind me of you,” he finds himself saying quite unintentionally. “That is why they are my favourite.”
As close as they are, he doesn’t miss the way Hubert’s breath hitches.
Ferdinand isn’t sure what he expects, but he definitely doesn’t expect Hubert to suddenly pull him a little closer, chest to chest, and tilt his head down to whisper in Ferdinand’s ear:
“Then I’ll be sure to procure some for you if I expect to be away on business. To remind you of me until such a time that I may return to your side.”
Good gracious, has Hubert been editing Bernadetta’s forays into romantic fiction again? How is Ferdinand meant to function under these conditions? Between such sweet words and their proximity, he cannot help but let his head rest against Hubert’s shoulder as they dance. He feels he could stay there forever. Then, he feels a strange pressure on the side of his head, just above his ear, and it takes him quite a bit of time to realize what exactly it is that he felt.
Hubert has pressed a kiss there.
They are dancing to a romantic song, pressed in an embrace so close it can only be described as intimate, Hubert is whispering sweet promises into his ear, has pressed a kiss against his hair, has sent him flowers that mean ‘eternal love,’ and all Ferdinand can think is:
Is Hubert willing to go so far for a joke?
As the song ends, they step out of their embrace, and Ferdinand finds himself feeling quite dazed. Hubert notices immediately.
(Why? How? Is he particularly attuned to changes in Ferdinand’s demeanour? No, surely not. He is just observant. That’s all.)
“Are you alright?” He asks quietly.
“I am fine. A bit light-headed, that is all.”
“Perhaps we should step out for a moment and retreat to the balcony for some air.”
“That is… an excellent idea, actually. Would you mind—” He begins to ask, but Hubert follows his line of sight towards the drinks and nods.
“Of course. Perhaps water rather than wine for now if you are feeling unwell.”
Ferdinand agrees to get Hubert to leave more quickly. The longer he remains within that man’s proximity, the less his brain seems to work correctly. He hurries to the balcony, slumps against the railing, and gulps in great gasps of air as if he’s been drowning.
What was all that?
It can’t be a joke, can it? Everything else could have been a joke, but surely Hubert would not have kissed him for the sake of mockery? No, to do such a thing would imply he knows of Ferdinand’s feelings, that he is being intentionally cruel about it, and that… That’s a bridge too far. Even Ferdinand cannot convince himself Hubert would do such a thing insincerely.
Does Hubie know that? Dorothea had asked, and Ferdinand had told her that of course he does.
Are you quite sure about that? Edelgard had asked, and Ferdinand had told her that of course he is.
Ferdinand is denying that his lover loves him? Petra had asked, and Ferdinand had told her that they aren’t lovers. Of course they aren’t lovers.
They aren’t.
They aren’t lovers.
…But could they be?
He is startled out of his reverie as a shadow comes to stand beside him, offering him a glass of water. Ferdinand takes it and numbly sips at it. It doesn’t help.
“You seem troubled,” Hubert points out. He isn’t one to point out the obvious unnecessarily, so it is purely a prompt for Ferdinand to share if he so wishes. How considerate. How caring. Ferdinand wants to throw the glass of water over the balcony and watch it smash. Why is this so frustrating? So confusing? Why can’t Hubert be distant and only vaguely friendly as he usually is? Why does he insist on behaving as if Ferdinand is special to him?
The obvious answer cannot be the correct one. It simply cannot. Unless, of course, it is? But if it is, then— then—
In a cleared-off section of the courtyard below, Ferdinand sees Caspar and Linhardt finishing setting up the ‘decorative explosives’ as Linhardt describes them. Or, well, Caspar is setting them up. Linhardt is napping on a nearby bench, only rousing when Caspar drags him over to ensure everything has been done correctly. After Linhardt finishes checking them and nods at Caspar, the shorter man pulls him down into a kiss.
It gives Ferdinand an idea.
“…There is a tradition for celebrating the new year,” Ferdinand starts to explain. “A kiss as the bell chimes is meant to be good luck. Of course, I will not hold you to that if you would rather not, but if you would like to….” He trails off as a gloved hand reaches over, gently presses against his cheek, and turns his face towards Hubert. When they lock eyes, as before, Ferdinand’s thoughts abandon him. Usually, Hubert can most accurately be described as cold, but at that moment the way Hubert looks at Ferdinand is so heated that his outfit feels a bit stifling.
“I’d like to,” Hubert tells him. “Very much so. My only complaint is that I don’t wish to wait for the bell.”
Oh. Oh, dear.
Ferdinand is not going to survive tonight, that much is clear.
“Then don’t wait.” Ferdinand breathes the words, unable to care about the ignoble presence of a contraction within his speech. All he cares about is the upward quirk of a slight, crooked smile. All he cares about is the hand caressing his cheek and the hand at his waist. All he cares about is Hubert leaning in. All he cares about is their lips meeting. All he cares about is how Hubert’s thumb gently strokes over his cheekbone as they kiss.
All he cares about is Hubert, and when the decorative explosives are set off on the ground far below, Ferdinand can’t be bothered to pull away long enough to appreciate them, especially not when Hubert presses him against the railing in such a way, as if he can barely restrain the force of his desire.
…Maybe Ferdinand has been deluding himself. Just… not the way he had feared he might.
The joy of that realization is dampened slightly by another realization that follows:
Dorothea is going to have a field day with this.