[He has been taught to dance, of course. It’s merely part and parcel of being a noble, and though Hubert looks down upon such social prerequisites with disdain, the practice that had been indelibly stamped into his mind as a child still exists. For tonight, it means that he can join Ferdinand in a dance without stumbling about like a fool — he would not have accepted to begin with if he thought there was a chance of that.
The notes drifting from within the palace act as the anchor points to their dance once they begin, one which Ferdinand takes the lead to, and Hubert is given little choice but to follow. Yet there are still hints of his personality inlaid in his steps, something that a man of calculating control can never quite hide; a preciseness to every movement, “following” Ferdinand’s lead in a way preemptively judges where he’ll step next anyhow, a stiffness to spine and shoulders that works as a paradox to his friend’s flowing motions, the continual look of appraisal in a sharp eyes partly obscured by dark hair. It is the partnered dance of a man unused to letting someone else take the lead, as if he’s right on the precipice of turning the tables around.
It says something for how much Hubert is willing to humor him that he doesn’t.
Instead, gloved hand in his, Hubert is silent while Ferdinand brings them across the courtyard, to and fro, close to the roses and then away from them again, like a lazy pendulum swinging from one corner to the other. He is good, he will give him that. Better than he might have expected, and Hubert has seen the noble’s grace on the battlefield before — even so, this still faintly surprises him.
He allows this to be known in his own way, of course.]
no subject
The notes drifting from within the palace act as the anchor points to their dance once they begin, one which Ferdinand takes the lead to, and Hubert is given little choice but to follow. Yet there are still hints of his personality inlaid in his steps, something that a man of calculating control can never quite hide; a preciseness to every movement, “following” Ferdinand’s lead in a way preemptively judges where he’ll step next anyhow, a stiffness to spine and shoulders that works as a paradox to his friend’s flowing motions, the continual look of appraisal in a sharp eyes partly obscured by dark hair. It is the partnered dance of a man unused to letting someone else take the lead, as if he’s right on the precipice of turning the tables around.
It says something for how much Hubert is willing to humor him that he doesn’t.
Instead, gloved hand in his, Hubert is silent while Ferdinand brings them across the courtyard, to and fro, close to the roses and then away from them again, like a lazy pendulum swinging from one corner to the other. He is good, he will give him that. Better than he might have expected, and Hubert has seen the noble’s grace on the battlefield before — even so, this still faintly surprises him.
He allows this to be known in his own way, of course.]
Well. You’re not terrible, I suppose.