Very well. And you can continue regaling me with the gossip you overheard last night, unbothered by the breeze. A win for the both of us, I would say.

[He says this as he’s peeling off his white gloves, letting them rest neatly upon the table as he stands. Hubert crosses around the small table, easily hauling his chair with him. A moment later and he’s situated his seat behind his friend, his chair turned at an angle to allow room for his legs but close enough to, well, braid his hair.

All of it done with an ease of disinterestedness that is mostly a farce — in reality, it’s a bit of a test for his own sake. Because the idea of his bare fingers running through Ferdinand’s hair is one with the potential to set either him or the other man truly distracted, dependent upon just what might have shifted between them since last night.

If anything at all. Ideally, Ferdinand will continue their correspondence as blithely as before, sunny as ever, and Hubert will tend his hair as easily as he does with Lady Edelgard’s. Without distraction, without thoughts to lead him astray from the subject matter at hand, just without.

His fingers dive into deep locks of ginger hair, beginning the process of dividing it into sections of three. It’s time to judge what happens.]

So go on. Continue.