psl; [i feel you, your rising sun]

[bodeful]

[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.

Comments

[bodeful]

[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?

[proclaiming]

[ 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.

[bodeful]

[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?

[proclaiming]

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. ]

[bodeful]

[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.]

[proclaiming]

[ 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.

[bodeful]

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.

[proclaiming]

[ 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?

[bodeful]

[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.]

[proclaiming]

[ 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.

[bodeful]

[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.]

[proclaiming]

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.

[bodeful]

[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.

[proclaiming]

[ 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.

[bodeful]

[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.

[proclaiming]

[ 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.

[bodeful]

[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.

[proclaiming]

[ Ferdinand loves dancing, but not when it comes to conversation. That he has gone this long tiptoeing around Hubert’s questions is really something, but it seems that by being forthright himself, he has managed to pry an elusive straightforward answer out of Hubert as well.

And what an answer it is. He would have thought Hubert’s focus infallible, set upon its path like a cannonball, but of all the things, it is Ferdinand who has knocked it askew. It doesn’t sound like an accusation, there is no anger there so much as it is… an admission of sorts. An admission that Ferdinand is not alone in being unable to forget their dance.

A hand comes reaching back over his shoulder, fingers seeking out and closing around Hubert’s wrist to still his hands. Ferdinand turns in his chair to face his friend, eyes wide and sweeping over Hubert’s face. ]

Is it?

[bodeful]

[His friend’s grip loosely curls around Hubert’s wrist, and his movement stills, thrown askew with mild confusion. Only seconds later does his mind catch up with what his body is already feeling, as if Ferdinand had sent a shock of electricity jolting down his arm, originating from that touch — or that his fingertips were made of flame, setting a flushed warmth rushing across his skin.

He cannot stop it, and hating being the one easy to read should Ferdinand do little more than turn around, it becomes the second day in a row where he mentally admonishes himself for making yet another mistake. He's never one to be passive, and yet also never one to take action that only muddies up the waters in any given situation, whether it be politically or socially charged. This? Was certainly neither, but the same concept applied.

Or at least he thought it did. Desire rolls through Hubert, muted behind sharp eyes, and he knows that his face has reddened when his friend turns around. (Of course he turns around. Braiding his hair had been a tactical choice, in that the other would not be able to read his face all that well, forced to keep his gaze straight. Of course Ferdinand shatters that same advantage without care.)]

Yes. [He forces out the word before the moment lingers too long, not breaking his gaze from the other.] It is distraction, my friend, when neither of us can afford to be distracted.

[proclaiming]

[ 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.

[bodeful]

[That’s right, Hubert is blushing, the pale pink across his cheeks so very stark against his skin. But even that isn't nearly enough to dispel the reply that comes, twisting a bit wry from his mouth, nor is it enough for him to banish his eyes away from Ferdinand’s face. Grasping onto control in any way he can, as ever.]

You would say such a thing.

[Ferdinand sees all the work they’ve done, the victory they’ve earned, and the right they have to lay claim to joy. And Hubert, he sees a thousand more moving parts now under Edelgard’s revolutionary reign; a thousand more potential enemies that may lurk in the shadows, so many meetings that burst with political maneuvering, small skirmishes of lingering unrest spotted across various territories that they must tend to. Countless little embers to stamp out before they spark into unwanted immolations.

He sees work. So much more of it, an endless flow. And he thinks Ferdinand should be quite aware of this reality, as well. The two of them see it best from their positions — Ferdinand advising the Emperor over one shoulder, while Hubert stands at the other.]

Then tell me, when will there be time for such a thing to even take shape? Perhaps the lamplight from last night’s ball has blinded you, Ferdinand, but do recall that our responsibilities have not come to a halt just because the war’s ended. The most we spend in each other’s company is when there is official work to be done, and if the best we can manage is hovering in each other’s periphery, both mentally and physically distracted, I wonder if it should be worth it at all.

[His duty, as ever, is to Her Majesty. If he cannot account for how to wrap something else around that, perhaps it is not to be considered at all. He wonders if his friend realizes this, or speaks so impulsively from the heart that he has not considered the long-term.]

[proclaiming]

[ Ferdinand's brow creases slightly, out of confusion or some small hurt or both, as Hubert tries once again to put an end to this before it can even begin. Attraction, want, buzzes between them like a physical force, and yet Hubert comes at him with more talk of duty and distraction, as if--

And there it is, the sudden light of realization in Ferdinand's eyes, and, of all things, he laughs. ]

Oh, Hubert. I can keep my personal life and my duties separate, but if you have never had the former I can see why you do not know such a thing is possible.

[ Hubert's whole life has revolved around Edelgard, his every moment devoted to her to the point where he didn't know he could even have moments for himself. ]

[bodeful]

[Ferdinand’s peal of laughter rings bright between them, and this, coupled with the ease of admission behind his words, do cause Hubert to glance away. His gaze lands upon some nameless spot just beyond the other’s shoulder.

His friend is not wrong, however. His life defined only by duty, of course he has difficulties envisioning how anything else might fit that mould. Even their time as students had been all in service to Edelgard — any bettering of himself was secondary, though not unwelcome.]

I see it as a valid concern, certainly nothing to be laughing about.

[He slips his wrist free of Ferdinand’s touch, crossing his arms!! To water the whole thing down to Hubert’s own personal shortcomings...]

My point remains.

[proclaiming]

Forgive me, I do not mean to make light of your concerns.

[ For Hubert, romance must be so far from his mind that he can only see it as an obstacle, a needless distraction, even if his heart tells him differently. Ferdinand may not truly understand what that's like, but at the very least he can try to be sympathetic.

His hand, now relieved of Hubert's wrist, comes to rest on the back of his chair as he leans his way back into his friend's field of vision. ]

It is not my intention to be a distraction. I... have have come to see you as someone to challenge myself against. Your views and your methods are so different from my own that your perspective has proven invaluable, even if I do not always agree. That is why we work so well together. Do you not agree?

[bodeful]

[Either Ferdinand’s apology appeases something in Hubert, or the way his friend eases into his periphery forces him to meet his gaze. Regardless, he’s earned a searching look in return, brows still at a slant, mouth tugging downwards.]

Yes, I agree. I might even say that the feeling is mutual.

[Though Ferdinand will continue to work in ways that Hubert occasionally deems ineffective, or needlessly affable, he has learned that there is wisdom in observation. Many times he’s watched the other open up surprising opportunities, new routes to walk; ones that otherwise never would’ve unhinged their gates with Hubert’s duplicitous tactics.]

But it is as you say — that is work. Not… romance. [The word falls awkwardly off his tongue, like he speaks another language. Hubert is not the sentimental sort. Romance and all it encompasses lies in a realm beyond his understanding.]