Yes. Tomorrow — the usual time. Enjoy the rest of the frivolities until then.
[If there was a thread awkward tension strung through the space between them, Ferdinand dissolves it with his smile. So shall the night officially move on as if nothing strange had happened, though it is not so easy to dispose of it from Hubert’s mind, sharp and always considering. But perhaps tonight’s dance will seem more superfluous, less jarring, by daylight tomorrow; hammered down into the grooves of novel memory and nothing more.
There aren't many additional passing words between them before he watches Ferdinand leave, disappearing indoors where he’s likely to get swept up in another dance, he thinks. Hubert remains outdoors, kept company by the roses and the stars hanging silently overhead, counting the minutes before he eventually follows suit.
* * *
The next day is almost perfect weather for an outdoor meeting of tea and coffee. His cup steams with liquid dark, rich, and bitter; Ferdinand’s carries a sweeter smell, tanged by a malty aroma. Far from Hubert’s preference, but he’s started to associate the scent with none other than the man before him.
So yes, it is almost perfect weather for an outing, were it not for the conveyance of western winds brushing past them in sporadic gusts, tossing the tips of hair and clothing alike. Nothing so troublesome as to sever their meeting early, but noticeable when it picks up strands of his friend’s ginger hair as it hastens by.]
…Doesn’t it bother you on days like this one? Your hair.
[Oh, were you going on about something else just now, Ferdinand? Allow Hubert to interrupt with a non sequitur, the question making proper sense in his head as he watches long red-orange hair flutter from behind the man’s shoulders, the sight now something vaguely more distracting than usual.]
no subject
[If there was a thread awkward tension strung through the space between them, Ferdinand dissolves it with his smile. So shall the night officially move on as if nothing strange had happened, though it is not so easy to dispose of it from Hubert’s mind, sharp and always considering. But perhaps tonight’s dance will seem more superfluous, less jarring, by daylight tomorrow; hammered down into the grooves of novel memory and nothing more.
There aren't many additional passing words between them before he watches Ferdinand leave, disappearing indoors where he’s likely to get swept up in another dance, he thinks. Hubert remains outdoors, kept company by the roses and the stars hanging silently overhead, counting the minutes before he eventually follows suit.
The next day is almost perfect weather for an outdoor meeting of tea and coffee. His cup steams with liquid dark, rich, and bitter; Ferdinand’s carries a sweeter smell, tanged by a malty aroma. Far from Hubert’s preference, but he’s started to associate the scent with none other than the man before him.
So yes, it is almost perfect weather for an outing, were it not for the conveyance of western winds brushing past them in sporadic gusts, tossing the tips of hair and clothing alike. Nothing so troublesome as to sever their meeting early, but noticeable when it picks up strands of his friend’s ginger hair as it hastens by.]
…Doesn’t it bother you on days like this one? Your hair.
[Oh, were you going on about something else just now, Ferdinand? Allow Hubert to interrupt with a non sequitur, the question making proper sense in his head as he watches long red-orange hair flutter from behind the man’s shoulders, the sight now something vaguely more distracting than usual.]