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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[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.]

[ In his more recent experience, braiding takes on a new level of difficulty when the hair in question is attached to one’s own head, though he supposes if Hubert does it for him, then that removes that particular problem.

(While in turn raising the problem of just how he feels about having Hubert’s hands in his hair – not a bad feeling by any stretch, but certainly one he doesn’t know what to do with.) ]

I admit I never gave much thought to who does Edelgard’s hair. I was often too busy trying to best her at everything else to even consider it.

[ The mental image of tiny Hubert tending to tiny Edelgard’s hair, though… cute. ]

But now you have piqued my curiosity. If it truly is not much trouble, go right ahead. It will be nice to get all this out of my face for the time being.

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.

[ Is it odd that Ferdinand finds himself momentarily distracted by Hubert’s hands? By long, slender fingers slipping free of ever-present gloves with the intent to comb them through his hair. It feels intimate in a way, the very thought bringing a swath of pink over Ferdinand’s cheeks – unseen, thankfully, now that Hubert has settled in behind him.

If this is meant to be a test, Ferdinand has already failed spectacularly, not helped by the way he stays quiet for perhaps a moment too long even after his friend prompts him to continue. This is… nice. Strangely domestic, and “domestic” is not a work Ferdinand would have ever thought to attribute to Hubert von Vestra. ]

I… ah. I had already finished, unless you need me to repeat something?

[Having begun with silence is already telling. Hubert notes it with a clinical mind, doing his best to ignore the all-too-real sensation of his bare fingertips sometimes brushing across Ferdinand’s scalp. The softness of his hair intwined in his touch. He will have to abate it via focus alone, but if Ferdinand gives him absolutely nothing to focus on than this… gesture between them, then it’ll be all for naught, and Hubert will have fallen prey to his own experimentations.

Traitorous body, traitorous mind. He wills control into his veins, pushing aside warmth having coiled in his gut the moment he sat a bit too close, and tries to prod his friend into trying again. He refuses to suffer silently for the other’s lack of effort.]

No. But I would have you say something, unless you want me to sit silently behind you while I tend to your hair like a dread shadow?

[Or a moody, calculating servant.]

[ Hubert seems very determined to get him to speak, when there is a part of Ferdinand that would rather enjoy the moment. There’s nothing dreadful or looming about Hubert’s presence behind him, but rather comforting, the slide of his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair soothing. ]

There is very little you do not do like a dread shadow, Hubert.

[ A joke, something to keep the silence from stretching to awkward lengths, though it sets Ferdinand’s mind upon a trail of conversation. Whether or not Hubert finds it agreeable remains to be seen. ]

To tell the truth, if someone told me years ago that someday I would enjoy regular teatime with you, and even go so far as to let you do my hair, I would have laughed myself silly.

[He grins, thin and a little lopsided. Ferdinand’s hair neatly divided, he begins the process of braiding it.]

And if someone had told me the same, I would have called them uselessly stupid.

[He cannot decide if centering the subject around their friendship is counterintuitive or just the opposite, but it is better than letting the both of them sit in silence as he fights back the awareness of touching his hair. So he follows the conversation's flow, curious to where it may lead.]

I could not stand to be in your presence. When the Professor forced us into weekly tasks together, I had considered more than once flinging dark magic into your face and watching the consequences unfold.

[You know, as you do. Hubert hums in a held-back chuckle because… Hubert.]

So cruel! [ His shoulders shake a little with suppressed laughter, but to his credit he remains mostly still. Since he’s committed himself to keeping this ridiculous hairstyle, he’s been consulting Dorothea and even Petra on ways to keep it manageable. Dorothea has swatted at him more than once for moving around too much while she’s trying to tame his mane. ]

But I will admit that the feeling was entirely mutual – excepting the magic, of course. I thought our differences insurmountable, but I am… glad that was not the case at all.

I would have missed out on an exceptional friendship.

[An exceptional friendship. That was the easiest way to quantify it, a rather mismatched pair that had grown friendly all the same; but Hubert casts his proverbial net a little wider, still fishing, even as he continues deft work with fingers threading through Ferdinand's hair.

The braid is neat, but not too tight. Loose enough to not pretend to tame this man's impossible mane.]

I'm certain you would have found someone else to share your tea with, and to braid your hair, if I could not have filled that spot for you.

[ A pause. He’s not certain if Hubert is fishing for something or if the remark is an idle one. It is always difficult to tell with Hubert, not helped at all by the fact that Ferdinand can’t see his face. ]

Perhaps, but…

[ But what? Ferdinand’s thoughts drift back – to the moment that concluded their dance the previous day, yes, but further than that. To the moment he’d spotted a certain kind of coffee for sale with a merchant in town, and unbidden, Hubert had sprung to his mind. ]

But I do not think I would want anyone else to fill that spot.

[If pressed, he’d admit he’s not certain exactly what he is fishing for. Some small shift between them, a crack in their usual relations that had let something else slip in? Or for the opposite, for his touch to disarm or cause Ferdinand to reply in a more sentimental and obvious way? Something in-between?

He cannot say. He does not know, much less understand what to hope for. It is easier to qualify all of it as distraction if that is the case, for Hubert knows better how to deal with potential issues when viewed under the light of inconvenience.

Still. But I do not think I would want anyone else to fill that spot. His fingers pause, readjust themselves, and Hubert swallows. He wishes he could control his body better, to stop the infuriating way his heart stutters at that simple statement.]

...Rather sentimental of you, Ferdinand. Why not? Don’t tell me you’ve grown that fond of me already.

[ Hubert’s hands still in his hair, and Ferdinand’s heart leaps into his throat with… with what, he’s not certain. Anticipation? Fear? Hope? He can’t help but feel that he’s suddenly sent speeding away on a road for which he has no map, with no idea of the intended destination. It could just as easily send him careening off a cliff as it could see him someplace safe and warm.

And perhaps Hubert, too, has no idea where this is going. His questions come at him like curves in the road, and all Ferdinand can do is lean into them with the hope that he doesn’t crash and burn.

Ferdinand’s fingers curl into the edge of the tablecloth, eyes squarely upon the half-full teacup left to cool on the table. Another breeze sets the surface of the liquid rippling. ]

If you do not wish me to tell you, then I will not, but I think you already know that I am.

[There is something disarming about Ferdinand’s plain affirmation of his question. Hubert is much more the type to play the game, dancing along the edges of whatever he chooses to uncover — and his friend, ever bright and straightforward (and lacking in the art of subtlety) does what he can to unknowingly throttle it to pieces.

What to say? Why does he feel like he’s set a trap and is now the one to have fallen into it? His finger slips, losing a pleat of hair, and he has to undo a bit of the braid to compensate. What is it that he’s aiming for?]

Do I? [Hubert loses some of his figurative gentle prodding, getting more to the point, then. His face still feels too warm.] All I can know for sure is that you have been detrimental to my focus since last night.

[He lets that sit there, shining a spotlight on the elephant in the room.]

And that’s dangerous, you know, between two figures of such import within the workings of the Empire itself.

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