[ Hubert is blushing. Hubert is blushing. Ferdinand has seen him flush with exertion during battle, but this is completely different. His friend has gone red from... from what exactly, Ferdinand isn't sure, but he can proffer a guess. He can feel the warmth of Hubert's skin through the fabric of his gloves, a warmth that spreads through the rest of him to curl tightly though not unpleasantly around his heart. He wonders if perhaps that warmth flows both ways.

Their eyes lock, catching and holding Ferdinand in place in a way that is utterly contradictory to the way Hubert tries to shove him away with his words. Leave it to Hubert von Vestra to equate matters of love to a distraction. ]

No, Hubert. [ He shakes his head a little, the motion freeing a strand of copper hair from the half-finished braid at his back. The lock drifts over his shoulder, carried by the breeze. He pays it no mind. ] It is joy. Happiness. After all we have been through to get this far, surely we deserve to reach out and take it.