finalflight | psl; [i feel you, your rising sun]

psl; [i feel you, your rising sun]

[Hubert gazes across the ballroom in the same way he assesses the tides of war.

He thinks he prefers blood and steel as opposed to orchestrated music, tailored garb and dresses trimmed with lace. In the midst of battle, he can judge more poignantly where dangers lie — the tip of a lance glinting in the sun, a line of archers nocking their arrows in synchronicity — and adjust his own actions accordingly. Here, everything is so much more… nebulous. He hates all manner of pomp and circumstance, the noblesse oblige never completely wrung out from this societal circle; even this remains untouched by sweeping reform thus far. Everyone makes it purposefully harder to ascertain intention. Never is the case when an enemy comes rushing forth with their sword at the ready, anger flashing in their eyes. That is a straightforward problem to tackle.

Yet Hubert still plays the game, still reads the room, as it were second nature. Can spy which nobles seek the company of those who might grant them a higher rung of influence on the ever-changing, post-war social ladder. Keeps Emperor Edelgard in the scope of his vision more often than not, creeping along the fringes of the Imperial Palace’s ballroom, until she herself makes her way over, strongly suggesting that he take a moment to himself to enjoy a dance or two. (And to stop hovering like a dread shade, making several attendees sweat nervously for fear of retribution due to some unknown offense.)

And so he humors her for now — planning on detaching himself just long enough to abate her exasperation — though he doesn’t linger in near the dance floor, too brimming with faux smiles and posh sentiments of this tastes. It’s easy enough to slip outdoors to the adjacent courtyard, where some of the celebrations have begun to eke out under a stung-up lamplight in the clear night, cordoned off from the rest of the outside world by a picturesque wall of rose bushes that remind him of the cultivated flora within the confines of the monastery.

Here, he can while away the time, undoubtedly looking intimidating and unapproachable in a corner. And he would delegate himself to doing just that, as talented as he is in it, were it not for a shock of orange-red hair nearby, belonging to a man whose company he had somehow lost track of within the first hour of this mandatory celebration.

Hubert pauses for a whole half-second before he strides forward, coming up to meet him. His greeting is less of a greeting than it is an action: reaching out to untangle a long strand of his hair that has caught itself up in the stem of rose leaves, the latter growing against a tall wooden lattice just behind him.

Disapprovingly-]

You should pay closer attention to your surroundings, else you come away with thorns in your hair.

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[And Hubert meets that easy declaration with a laugh of his own. Short, brusque, the sort that bleeds into the night itself, but lacking the edge of any true dismissal.]

Presumptuous of you. But I wonder, then, if you hold your supposedly wonderful dancing skills in such high esteem that you believe you’d qualify as the “right” person to change my mind?

[Dancing about, making a show of it. Participating in superfluous traditions of high society and nobility, and all the ancillary circles that would hover in the same periphery — it all seems like a very Ferdinand thing to do, a man opposite to him in so many ways.]

[ There is a saying about opposites, and how they attract. Something Ferdinand never gave much thought to, personally, because he couldn’t see how he would be drawn to someone so unlike himself, until something clicked one day, and he found himself enjoying Hubert’s company rather than finding it as nails on a chalkboard. ]

Possibly, but we will not know until we try. What do you say?

[ Easy as anything, he extends his and to the other man, the look on his face softening some no less sunny for it. ]

May I have this dance?

[ The few people previously milling in the courtyard seem to have wandered back inside by now, and Ferdinand knows it would be a battle all its own to drag Hubert onto the dance floor proper. Perhaps since they’re alone, he might allow himself a bit of frivolity. ]

[Ferdinand is right to be conscious of the lack of people remaining in the courtyard. Hubert’s mind is forever that of a tactician, constantly and acutely aware of his surroundings even if he appears focused on a conversation with a friend. Were there still a small crowd idling about the perimeters of the rose bushes, or centered in the middle with drinks in-hand, he would have offered another low laugh and a more forthright rejection.

Now, well, Ferdinand still earns that noise of amusement. But a lingering look at the offered arm, and the other man’s endlessly sunny disposition in the midst of them being alone has him actually considering it. Frivolity, indeed. Something that Hubert is often quick to deny, but the courtyard is emptied out, the interior of the palace brimming with energy he’s made an effort to detach himself from and an Emperor that would shoo him away should he return so quickly; all of this calculates into there being no reason to deny him, unless he thought the notion too ridiculous to humor.

Once, he thought sharing a casual conversation over tea and coffee with this man would’ve been ridiculous. A dance in the middle of the night, trouncing around an empty courtyard like a suitor trying to woo a maiden even more so. Should he find it odd or disconcerting, then, that these notions no longer apply?

Neither, really. Only vague amusement sparks in decisively sharp eyes as he takes that offered hand, expectation clear.]

Fine. Impress me, if you think you can.

[ This moment could go either way. Even with them being the only two out here, Hubert could still refuse him, and Ferdinand would not be entirely surprised if he did. It is frivolous, asking the other man for a dance. They are allies, friends even, with nothing to gain from rubbing elbows and making nice at a social gathering.

But, they have given so much, lost so much, to forge this path ahead that there is a part of Ferdinand that wants this simply because he wants it, and not because it serves a purpose. He has no idea of Hubert possesses such inclinations, or if he would be given to listen to them if he did, but that is just another of the many, many differences between them. Ferdinand, the open and caring heart to Hubert’s cold and calculating logic.

Such idle thoughts fall by the wayside the instant Hubert slides his hand into Ferdinand’s own. The smile that graces his features is warm and genuine. ]

I shall do my level best.

[ He assumes, of course, that as a noble, Hubert has at least been taught to dance – thought it is perhaps a bit different now, with one of them having to follow instead of taking the lead. Considering he is the one doing the impressing this evening, Ferdinand steps up to lead their little impromptu dance, apparently taking his cue from the distant notes drifting out to the otherwise quiet courtyard, sweeping into the steps without further preamble.

Ferdinand is a lot of things, but a liar certainly isn’t one of them. He is good at it, dancing as easily as one might simply walk or breathe, long, graceful strides carrying them through the grass around the wall of roses. ]

[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.]

Well. You’re not terrible, I suppose.

[ Compliments from Hubert are still something he’s getting used to – like a snake singing an aria, he’d said – though this latest is far more Hubert, and not quite as strange. Backhanded, some might call it, but Ferdinand chooses to view it through the lens of what he knows of his friend, and viewed in that way, he believes it to be much more complimentary than it sounds.

He laughs, even as he guides them around the lawn. ]

And you, my friend, seem as if someone has stuffed an iron rod down the back of your jacket. Are you not enjoying yourself?

Why? Because I choose to take care with each step, instead of flitting airily about with my hair trailing behind me like you do?

[It’s his first instinct, to rebuke something in which Ferdinand touts superiority — as if he cannot break the habit that they crafted for themselves early in their acquaintance — but even as a scoff slips from his lips, there is no ire behind it. Just the usual dry sarcasm, opposite of his friend’s sunny disposition.]

And if that is how you compliment your dance partners, then it’s no wonder I found you out here, standing all on your own. You’re supposed to change my mind when it comes to dancing, not discourage me from any further ones from you.

That was not meant to be a compliment, merely an observation.

[ He wonders if Hubert would find it just as odd to have Ferdinand complimenting him as Ferdinand found the other way around. Perhaps not, since Ferdinand tends to be a fair bit more open and sincere about all things.

He slows their dance to a stop, not to pull away, but to simply shift their positions. ]

Here is another one, while I am at it: it seems to me you would rather lead.

[A compliment from Ferdinand might settle strangely in his ears for all of a handful of seconds, but it’s true that the man’s earnest nature — searingly so, sometimes — makes it less odd and more something to be expected once in a blue moon.

Still, there is no such thing coming from him today, only a halt to their dance, and an observation ringing true — Hubert, if he must twirl about on the ballroom floor (or the courtyard, as it stands), is not the sort to be led. He gives Ferdinand a considering look, pausing.]

I thought to do you the favor of letting you flaunt your purported talents, but...

[He concedes to switch their positions, a hand moving to Ferdinand’s side while the other remains holding onto his.]

...You’re not wrong. [In the distance, the familiar, easy tempo of a waltz recedes in favor of the next piece coming into play — a little livelier, the rhythm a little more pronounced, something bold to break up the three-beat melodies of what had been playing before.

If one didn’t know any better, one might think that even music itself is working in tandem with Hubert tonight.]

I am, after all, more impressed by a dance partner that can adapt to something less predictable than the usual waltzes on display. Do that much and I will concede that I may find this vaguely entertaining.

Think you can keep up, Ferdinand?

[ A challenge not unlike one he would have posed to Edelgard, once upon a time, when he all but leapt at the chance to one-up her at anything and everything, even the art of dancing. That embarrassing habit of his was ended quite effectively, but this feels different than his misguided need to prove himself superior. Like a battle between equals, perhaps, a push and pull as they try to best figure out how they fit together.

The tempo of the new song wafts in the night air, and Ferdinand has some small idea of where this might be going. He grins. ]

I am confident in my abilities, Hubert. I hope you are ready to be quite dazzled, indeed!

[Ha. Dazzled. Since when was Hubert ever dazzled by anything? He looks utterly amused by Ferdinand’s confidence, which is, again, unsurprising to him.

But he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even give warning before he’s counting the beats of two measures to judge when to begin— if Ferdinand means to impress him, after all, then there’s no need. The only preamble the man receives is the press of fingertips a little more deeply against him a whole half-second before he begins.

And what a start it is. The tempo is quick and dictates a quick step, and Hubert is practically sweeping his friend into the dance if he’s ill-prepared. Though these are skills that Hubert has not used in a very long time, he recalls them with clarity the same way he recalls tactics for the battlefield, and he deploys them rather the same way. Without hesitation, with clear efficacy festering behind a shadow of a grin. The melody of the piece suits him better, anyhow — no flourish of a ballroom waltz, no schmaltz and needless sway. Just a precise allegro to time each and every step to, leading with no leeway to allow someone to catch up. Either they do or they do not, and he takes them both across the courtyard, brushing past the roses, as they dance.

He finally remarks—] To think that you’ve wrung out two dances from me.

[ Hubert does not waste a second, does he? It’s a good thing he’d already had some inclinations on what was going to happen based on the music, or else Hubert would have well and truly left him in the dust. Even with the small warning, the sudden start to the dance surprises him, not making for his best showing but his recovery is swift.

Good that it is, because Hubert sets quite the pace and Ferdinand is a little surprised to see him taking to such a thing – but then, the sharp tempo and equally sharp movements are entirely Hubert, even if the art of dancing itself is superfluous. Once Ferdinand finds his footing, not willing to fall behind the other even in this regard, a grin finds its way to his face and stays there. He’s not entirely sure when it happens, focused as he is on the steps, the way they move in tandem with Hubert at the lead, but a sweeping turn brings them too close to a rosebush, and when they move away again, the silken ribbon used to keep Ferdinand’s hair somewhat tame is left dangling on a thorny branch. The silly picture Hubert had painted earlier of him twirling about with his hair flowing behind him becomes quite real in that instant. ]

I bet that is two more dances than anyone else has managed to get from you. I shall count this as a victory, at the very least.

[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.]

[ He’s used to having his hair free, often trailing after him in a fiery wave as he charges around the battlefield as well as the dancefloor. Since the thorns don’t catch in his hair itself and only tug the ribbon free, there isn’t much of a pause to give. ]

You said it yourself that you do not like dancing, yes? And here I have gotten you to do it not once, but twice. Now, if I can only get you to enjoy yourself instead of frowning at me so, then—

[ Then what? Who knows, because Ferdinand’s train of thought pretty swiftly jumps the rails when Hubert dips him of all things. Time seems to stop for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, his wide, honey-colored eyes locking onto Hubert’s – because he can see both his eyes for a change, pale and striking, with the usual shock of dark hair hanging away from his face. Color creeps onto his cheeks, unbidden, and for a treacherous second he wonders what would happen were he to lean up to meet his partner. ]

Ah. You surprised me.

[ No kidding. ]

[He feels it too, the way the world lurches to a halt for a few passing seconds. His face brought closer by the motion, revealing what he’s certain is a pink color creeping across Ferdinand’s skin, eyes widening in visible surprise. And Hubert, for all he can honestly appreciate the view, is hit with one terrible, utterly undeniable realization — that this was a mistake.

Because he can feel it all across his body, snaking out towards his limbs, that distracting tingle of traitorous excitement. The way he has to swallow hard to remind himself to breathe, as if air had hitched in his throat, unnoticed. His jaw sets tight, his fingers curl into the fabric of Ferdinand’s jacket, and the music crawls on despite their pause.]

…Yes.

[Surprised him and himself, no doubt. In a way that Hubert had not quite prepared nor accounted for.

He had always been the sort to rule with his head over his heart, and he flat-out refuses to let his heart take the reins for now. Whatever this feeling is may pass, a thing to be laughed about (or better yet, ignored) at a later date. For now, to indulge himself in it would be misleading and, frankly, is a little disconcerting, therefore the taller man only straightens, hoisting the both of them up.

But he doesn’t continue the dance, though the music would dictate them to. Instead, he detaches himself from Ferdinand and turns his look over to where a stray silken ribbon flutters uselessly in the breeze, caught against the rose bushes.]

That’s enough for one evening, I think. Consider me impressed.

[Don’t mind him as he walks over to where the ribbon is, plucking it free with gloved hands, then turns to face Ferdinand again. He holds it out with expectation, if the man wants it returned.]

A victory to add to your tally.

[ The moment passes, and whatever chance Ferdinand might have had to act on the strange feeling of anticipation and want unfolding behind his ribs is lost altogether. Hubert rights them both and moves away, the sudden distance between them feels like a chasm and Ferdinand is at a loss for a moment. Perhaps he'd been imagining it, but for a second it seemed like something had sparked between the both of them until Hubert had quite suddenly slammed the doors down.

... The more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if he did imagine it. This was Hubert after all. His devotion belonged solely to Eldelgard with room for little else. With a sigh, Ferdinand draws gloved fingers through his bangs, pushing them away from his face. ]

Yes, thank you.

[ Absently, but he seems to shake the cobwebs after a second, and moves to take the ribbon from Hubert's outstretched hand. Perhaps it's a test, the way he lets his fingers brush over his friend's as he takes it back, tucking it into a pocket for now. ]

I suppose I ought to go back inside now. No doubt there are people wondering where I am.

[If fingertips pass over each other’s for a mote longer than necessary, Hubert might purposefully make no notice or mention of it. In fact, once the ribbon slips from his fingers, he neatly crosses his arms, back straight and shoulders angled.]

Likely so. Your presence is probably one easily missed on the dance floor. So you’ve proven to me with your apparent skill.

[He could leave it at that, let his friend shuffle away inside where the music continues uninterrupted unlike where they stand. But after a silence that lingers between them, he adds-]

Though... if you have the time tomorrow, would you be inclined to meet over something to drink?

[Tea and coffee. The usual.]

[ It seems a bit odd for this to end here, with an abrupt parting and even more abrupt words, but Ferdinand is at a loss on where to go from here, if anywhere. Thankfully, Hubert steps in to fill the silence first, and the invitation to their usual teatime (tea and coffee time, really) eases the unsure tension that had been gathering itself in the pit of Ferdinand’s stomach. Perhaps he’d been worried that the strange moment of magnetic pull between them had somehow altered the balance of their understanding of one another, that walls would come up again after they had finally come down.

It seems his fears were misplaced, and his smile returns, sunny as ever. ]

I would like that, yes. I shall see you tomorrow, then?

[ If he hasn’t the time, well. He’ll make it. ]

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.]

Edited 2019-09-16 19:57 (UTC)

[ Ferdinand had been sharing some bit of gossip from the previous night's festivities. Not that his own method's are anything at all like Hubert's, but he thought perhaps his friend might find the rumors interesting - something to log away in the great file he keeps on anyone and everyone who travels in Edelgard's circles.

So he is quite surprised when Hubert very abruptly changes the subject - to his hair of all things. Ferdinand blinks a time or two, and as if to lend credence to his friend's question, the wind whips a lock of flame-colored hair into his face. ]

Ah... sometimes, as you can see. [ Sheepish, as he tucks the wayward strand back behind his ear. ] Perhaps I ought to have tied it back again today.

[Perhaps that’s the issue, the distraction that hangs over his shoulders. Though his mind takes note of all that Ferdinand tells him — the gossip flown about the ball, the only worthwhile information born of such a celebration — Hubert finds that the shadow of last night’s dance hasn't fully dissipated. He had never paid too much attention to Ferdinand’s features before, beyond maybe a passing interest in how easily he assumed the emblematic personage of a nobleman, but after their dance, it as if it’s all come to the surface, thrown into clarity that he cannot ignore.

Problematic, considering he thought that the passage night to day might have taken the edge off of that strange moment between them. For all intents and purposes, Hubert feels as if it has, but not without lingering consequence.

He conjures up a reply before his pause runs too long.]

Were it not for how you perform on the battlefield, I would be tempted to call it impractical. Maybe I still will.

[Except he has seen the man battle time and time again, and thus to actually call his impossibly full hair an impediment would flat-out be a lie.]

After all, I cannot focus on your report on the prating between dancing nobles when your hair keeps flying into your face like that. Do you need me to do something about it for you?

Edited 2019-09-17 16:29 (UTC)

[ Whatever Hubert’s feeling, he does a good job of hiding it. Ferdinand has been looking for some hint, even the barest flicker of the spark that flew between them in that stolen moment in the courtyard, but his friend is as difficult to read as ever. He figured the matter a thing of the past, though he’s unsure what to do with the way that notion sits heavy on his heart, an ache for things that could have been.

He is, however, determined not to bother Hubert with such things. His friend is ever the one to think with his head far, far over his heart, and no doubt he would find Ferdinand’s sentimentality over what is probably nothing absurd. ]

If by “do something about it” you mean to take a pair of scissors to it, I must respectfully decline. Impractical as it may or may not actually be, I have grown rather fond of it.

[Despite all else churning in Hubert’s inscrutable mind, that wins a low chuckle.]

Or do you simply not trust me to wield a sharp object so close to your head and neck?

[It’s a jest, of course, but his reputation for being utterly terrifying is amusing and one in which he indulges in. Helpful in his machinations at most, and at the very least, it’s intriguing to watch lesser men squirm under a sharp, critical eye.

He’s lost some of that power with those grown closer to him over the course of the war, but there’s little to be done about that. Familiarity dulls the blades of many things, and leaves open its own opportunities.]

But no, that isn’t what I was going to suggest. I think keeping your hair not only tied back, but in a braid, might be more beneficial to you in this wind. You’re not so fickle as to rebuke that much, are you?

I would trust you with my life, Hubert, just… perhaps not my hair.

[ A joke, as evidenced by the amusement in his eyes. The first part is true enough, and he knows that Hubert is respectful enough of his own preferences to not do anything as drastic as give him a haircut without permission. ]

Pardon my incredulity, but since when do you know how to braid hair?

[ Hubert doesn’t have enough hair to braid, and it strikes Ferdinand as an oddly frivolous skill for someone like his friend to have for no real reason. ]

[He crosses his arms. Now his hair-braiding skills are coming into question? How comical.]

You say that as if braiding is something difficult to learn.

[Anyone can do a basic braid if they have even the slimmest gift of hand-eye coordination. Or isn’t an idiot.]

You know that I have been Lady Edelgard’s vassal since we were children. And in that time, I have aided her with many things — matters both social and political, or providing her with information that I go to great lengths to… obtain. But my fealty also applies to much smaller, mundane matters. Or do you believe that she is the one who does her own hair all of the time?

[You should see how neatly and precisely he can tie a ribbon, Ferdie, if you're surprised about braiding.]

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