[There is a small amount of satisfaction in watching Ferdinand’s half-stumbling start, but to his credit, he does recover swiftly. Even while being tugged along to the rhythm of a spirited dance, his partner eventually falls into pattern, keeping up with Hubert’s steps and unrelenting precision. Soon he’s smiling like it’s no more complicated than a spring waltz, not even reacting when his ribbon catches on the branch of a too-close rose bush. What follows is an unfurling of ginger hair sweeping behind the man with each step, every turn, a sight that is—
Ridiculous. It should be ridiculous, he tells himself, in all its impracticality. But if time were to freeze itself, and Hubert given the opportunity to truly search for the right word, he might call it striking, utterly distracting, before banishing the thought from his mind. As it is, he is given no such pause, and the thought manifests less as a thought and more as a feeling blooming right behind his heart that he doesn’t know what to do with. Doesn’t know where to place it in his mind, or where to categorically base its origins.
And so it causes him to frown, opposite of Ferdinand’s smile, and Hubert forces himself to reply, hoping to veil his apparent dissatisfaction behind his friend’s comment of “victory”.]
I did not realize that getting me to dance is something you consider an achievement on your part. Are there more invisible standards of success and failure on my part that I’m unaware about, I wonder?
[The music crescendos to a flourish, and he isn’t certain why he does it, beyond wanting to keep his focus squarely on the dance rather than the way Ferdinand’s hair frames his face when he moves in a specific way — but Hubert punctuates his question by dipping Ferdinand low, a gloved on the small of his back keeping him balanced and facing him.]
no subject
Ridiculous. It should be ridiculous, he tells himself, in all its impracticality. But if time were to freeze itself, and Hubert given the opportunity to truly search for the right word, he might call it striking, utterly distracting, before banishing the thought from his mind. As it is, he is given no such pause, and the thought manifests less as a thought and more as a feeling blooming right behind his heart that he doesn’t know what to do with. Doesn’t know where to place it in his mind, or where to categorically base its origins.
And so it causes him to frown, opposite of Ferdinand’s smile, and Hubert forces himself to reply, hoping to veil his apparent dissatisfaction behind his friend’s comment of “victory”.]
I did not realize that getting me to dance is something you consider an achievement on your part. Are there more invisible standards of success and failure on my part that I’m unaware about, I wonder?
[The music crescendos to a flourish, and he isn’t certain why he does it, beyond wanting to keep his focus squarely on the dance rather than the way Ferdinand’s hair frames his face when he moves in a specific way — but Hubert punctuates his question by dipping Ferdinand low, a gloved on the small of his back keeping him balanced and facing him.]