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Ferdinand von Aegir is an embarrassing drunk.
Hubert watches him from the shadows, his own glass of wine secure in his grasp, though left mostly undrunk. He has control, unlike Ferdinand.
Part of him whispers he’s being unfair. Part of him whispers that Ferdinand knows how to hold his liquor, that Ferdinand is among friends, and that Ferdinand can let go of his inhibitions if he’d like to.
The other part of him watches Ferdinand with a grim stare, not knowing if he should laugh or cry.
“You’re staring.”
Hubert startles. He turns. Edelgard’s smiling at him softly, knowingly, and Hubert hates it almost as much as he hates that she could sneak up on him.
“I’m not staring,” he protests, glancing back at their crowd of friends before turning back to Edelgard.
“Ferdinand will be fine,” Edelgard says, patting Hubert’s arm with the hand not currently holding her own glass. “You don’t need to worry about us all so much.”
Yes, it was everyone he was worried about. Not just Ferdinand. If another of their friends were drunk, Hubert would be doing the same amount of staring. Or so he tells himself.
“Lighten up a bit,” Edelgard says. “Do try to have fun. We had a major victory today, you know.”
And so they did. The capture of Arianrhod was well-won, purchased with sweat and bloodshed, and Hubert knows objectively that this is a good thing. The path laid out before them is still so long, however. Is it really so wrong that he cannot lift his eyes from it?
“Oh, here he comes,” Edelgard says. She raises her glass in salute to someone behind Hubert, and Hubert turns just in time for a wild wave of red hair and ruddy skin to practically barrel into him.
“Edelgard!” Ferdinand greets. He turns to Hubert, sniffing. “Hubert.”
“Hello, Ferdinand. Enjoying the party?” Edelgard sips from her own glass, giving Hubert a look.
“It’s a splendid party, indeed,” Ferdinand agrees, words slurring slightly. “Are you?”
“Of course,” Edelgard says, smiling over the rim of her drink. “And you, Hubert?”
“The party is fine,” says Hubert stiffly.
“Boo,” says Ferdinand. “You look as though you’ve got your own little rain cloud above your head.”
What on earth is Hubert supposed to say to that?
Edelgard, thankfully, rescues him. “Now, Ferdinand. Be kind.”
“I am being kind,” Ferdinand protests. “I didn’t say it was a bad rain cloud, simply that it exists.”
Hubert shifts uncomfortably, looking over his two friends at the rest of the group. The party has started to die down now that they’re so late into the night that it’s practically morning, but Ferdinand seems all too ready to continue. He bounces off towards Dorothea, and Hubert resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Hubert,” Edelgard says, catching him by the elbow. Hubert turns to her. “Can you make sure he gets back to his room alright? You know how he gets when he’s like this.”
Hubert does know. They’ve found Ferdinand sleeping in the garden after parties before, or, once, stark naked in the greenhouse.
“Fine,” Hubert says. “I’ll watch over him. You go.”
Edelgard smiles, patting his arm in thanks. Hubert watches as she crosses over to Bernadetta, who seems to want to appear not to be waiting for her, but smiles all the same when Edelgard joins her at the party’s exit.
Hubert broods, watching Ferdinand as he laughs with Dorothea. He has an inexplicable urge to join them, which he attributes to his own glass of wine. He sets his glass down on a table, opting instead to cross his arms and wait for their conversation to end.
And end it does, eventually, once Dorothea is pulled away by Petra. She bids Ferdinand goodnight, and then it’s just Ferdinand, Hubert, and a few stragglers left.
Hubert wonders if he imagines the way Ferdinand’s gaze lights up when he sees that Hubert hasn’t left yet. Ferdinand approaches him again, reaching out a hand, then hesitating before dropping it back to his side.
“You’re behaving strangely,” Hubert remarks, holding himself to his full height.
“I’m not strange,” Ferdinand says. “You’re the one that’s strange.”
Again, Hubert has to resist an eye roll. “Shall I take you back to your room?”
Ferdinand’s face goes red. “What— I mean. Hubert. That’s a bit forward of you?”
“Someone needs to ensure that you don’t end up in the cathedral again,” Hubert drawls.
“Oh,” Ferdinand deflates a bit. “Yes, you’re right. I do tend to become a bit sloppy, do I not?”
“Mm.”
Ferdinand puffs out his cheeks, stretching his arms over his head. “Shall we, then? I must admit that the more the alcohol wears off, the more fatigued I grow.”
“We shall.” Hubert waits for Ferdinand to move, but he stays put. Sighing, Hubert rests a hand on Ferdinand’s arm, turning him toward the exit.
“Right!” Ferdinand exclaims, clapping his hands together. “Let us be off.” He marches out the door, not waiting for Hubert to follow.
But follow Hubert does, trailing behind Ferdinand like a shadow. Every so often, he has to redirect Ferdinand onto the path toward his room, but all in all, it’s a rather short trek back to Ferdinand’s room.
Ferdinand pauses outside his door, one hand on the doorjamb. Hubert isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, his cheeks flushed as they are, but Ferdinand is certainly waiting for something.
“Well,” Hubert says. “Goodn—”
“Hubert,” Ferdinand says, turning sharply. “I must tell you something.”
Hubert raises an eyebrow.
Ferdinand’s lower lip wobbles, and he glances over his shoulder before continuing. “Please do not think any less of me for it.”
“Go on.”
“I…” A single tear falls down Ferdinand’s cheeks, but he doesn’t reach up to wipe it away. “It’s something I have wanted to say for a long time now, alright?”
“Alright.” Hubert’s stomach stirs, curiosity edging his thoughts. Part of him wonders if he should shut Ferdinand up until he’s sober again, but the larger part of him wants to know.
“I care for you,” Ferdinand says, words slurring slightly. He reaches up, brushing a hand against Hubert’s bicep. “Deeply. Endlessly. Wondrously.”
Hubert swallows, his face heating.
“I am sorry,” continues Ferdinand. “I know you do not feel the same. But I had to tell you.”
Strangely, Hubert feels the need to protest. He can’t deny that there’s something that draws him to Ferdinand, that causes him to want to tear him apart, layer by layer, piece by piece, until his heart is laid bare before him. He didn’t think it would happen like this, with Ferdinand, drunk as a skunk, laying that heart out for him on a silver platter.
“Um,” says Ferdinand, and he reaches out again, awkwardly giving Hubert’s hand a squeeze. “That is all. Would you like to join me in my room for a nightcap?”
Hubert snorts, but the idea of it has his face warming. A nightcap, in Ferdinand’s room. Alone.
“That doesn’t appear to be the best idea,” says Hubert. “You’re rather drunk, Ferdinand.”
Ferdinand pinches his own cheek. “Ah. So I am. Another time, then?”
“Another time,” Hubert finds himself saying.
“Splendid.”
And before Hubert can bear to respond, Ferdinand disappears into his room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Hubert isn’t sure what to think of Ferdinand’s confession. Part of him wants to write it off as some drunken rambling, a mistake that Ferdinand will surely regret in the morning. Another part of him, the scarier part, wonders if Ferdinand was serious. That Ferdinand—bright, sunshine of a man Ferdinand—could ever feel anything toward Hubert other than vague disgust is impossible, right?
It has to be.
Even so, the strange note of anxiety that twinges in Hubert’s stomach makes him want to skip breakfast in the morning. But Edelgard has already gone off on him for skipping too many meals, and she would be sure to call after him if he missed any more. Facing Edelgard’s wrath is more frightening than facing Ferdinand’s embarrassment, and so Hubert enters the dining hall at his usual time and in his usual manner: head down, eyes roaming.
Edelgard is at a table with Dorothea and a few others, and so Hubert fills his plate with rations and joins them, nodding in greeting.
Dorothea squints at him. “Hi, Hubie. Ugh.”
Hubert glances at Edelgard, who smiles and shrugs.
“I don’t get it,” Dorothea continues, poking at her food with an exhausted frown. “How are you two never hungover?”
“Who says I’m not?” Edelgard raises an eyebrow, sipping her tea.
“I prefer not to imbibe when others are so vulnerable,” Hubert adds, taking a reluctant bite of his biscuit.
“That’s mighty noble of you,” complains Dorothea.
From behind her, there’s a flash of orange hair at one of the entrances that has Hubert looking studiously down at his food. He hopes, for a moment, that Ferdinand won’t notice them, but his desire goes unanswered. Once he has his plate, Ferdinand plops into the seat beside Dorothea and across from Hubert, offering the table a wan smile.
“Good morning, Ferdinand,” says Edelgard.
Ferdinand winces. “Good morning, Edelgard. It is, ah, rather bright outside this morning, is it not?”
“Finally,” Dorothea says. “Join me in my misery.”
Ferdinand glances at Hubert before throwing a companionable arm over Dorothea’s shoulder. “Of course, my dearest Dorothea.”
“Not like that,” says Dorothea, shrugging his arm off of her. “Join me in my misery from over there.”
Ferdinand huffs, though not unpleasantly. He takes a sip of his own tea, turning back to Hubert with a nod. “And a good morning to you, Hubert.”
Hubert tries not to choke on his breakfast, sure that his face is pink as Edelgard throws a curious and much too sharp glance in his direction. “Ferdinand.”
Ferdinand, thankfully, seems more concerned with his breakfast than with Hubert. It’s almost offensive, the way Ferdinand studiously ignores him, caught up in jibes with Dorothea and Edelgard. Hubert can feel Ferdinand’s nearness like an itch beneath his skin, one that he could never scratch out even when there’s blood beneath his nails.
Hubert finishes his breakfast quickly, methodically, downing his first cup of coffee for the day and standing from the table to go and get his second. He turns his back on his friends, and it’s not until he’s nearly cleared the long table that someone catches up to him, a hand at his elbow making Hubert pause.
He turns, altogether unsurprised to see Ferdinand, the hand at his elbow falling back to his side and flexing.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand says, glancing to the side then back at him again. “May I ask you something?”
Here it comes, Hubert thinks. The embarrassment. The retraction. The awkwardness. “You may.”
Ferdinand bites his lip, the freckle on his chin wobbling. “Last night, when you walked me to my room…”
Hubert watches that freckle. He wants to trace it with his thumb, to drag it down and watch it flush against his skin. He blinks.
“Did I say anything… untoward?” Ferdinand finishes. “It’s just, I remember leaving the party, and you leaving with me, but, er,” the tips of his ears flush pink. “Not much after that.”
Hubert’s heart pounds against his chest so strongly that he wonders if Ferdinand can hear it. So that’s it. Ferdinand doesn’t remember. He doesn’t recall confessing to Hubert that he likes him, that he wants him. He doesn’t remember any of it. Doesn’t remember his hand against Hubert’s wrist, the quiet of the hallway as he shared his feelings. If someone else had walked Ferdinand to his door that night, would they have heard the same? Would Ferdinand have confessed his undying love to them as surely as he had confessed it to Hubert?
Hubert’s stomach curdles. “Why,” he asks, “Do you assume that anything untoward happened?”
Ferdinand’s entire face is red now, and he stutters a bit before continuing, “It’s only— I tend to babble when I’m drunk, as I’m sure you well know, and if I said anything to offend you, or anything else of the sort—”
“You said nothing that offended me,” says Hubert, honesty seeping into his words. “I walked you to your room, and we… spoke, for a bit, and then you went to bed. That is all.” The lie bites into him, horrid and hungry.
Ferdinand visibly relaxes, exhaling and running a hand through his auburn waves. “That is good to hear. Thank you, Hubert. I apologize for putting the burden of my drunken self on you, although clearly I was in good hands.”
“I won’t argue the point,” says Hubert, surprising himself by smiling for just a moment.
Ferdinand smacks him on the arm. “Stop that,” he says. “No one ever believes me when I say that you’re funny. You are simply not permitted to make jokes when we’re alone.”
“My apologies,” Hubert says. “I will consider that for the future.”
“Thank you,” Ferdinand juts his chin in the air. “Now, I must leave you to rejoin the others. I fear Dorothea will fall out of her seat without me there to support her.”
“A noble pursuit.”
“Indeed.” Ferdinand smiles at him, and something in Hubert’s heart cracks a little. He watches as Ferdinand retreats back to the table, catching Edelgard’s eye. Edelgard offers him an inquisitive look, which Hubert promptly ignores.
What he can’t ignore, though, is the way Edelgard catches up to him as he leaves the dining hall, catching Hubert by the wrist until Hubert stops and turns.
“Where are you off to?” she asks.
“To study,” Hubert says drily.
“Hm.” She hasn’t released his wrist yet. “What was that about with Ferdinand earlier?”
Hubert’s face warms. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do.” Edelgard raises an eyebrow. “Did something happen last night?”
Hubert doesn’t want to tell her. Telling someone what happened will surely break the tenuous spell that lays over last night. Telling someone means facing the reality of it all— it means receiving confirmation that surely, Ferdinand wasn’t serious. Surely, he didn’t mean it. Telling someone, telling Edelgard, who’s never anything but honest with him, means the truth will wipe away any fantasies.
Edelgard must sense his hesitation, because her hand drops, and she looks up at him with a gentle gaze. “Hubert, my dear friend. Are you alright?”
Hubert closes his eyes, remembering the feeling of Ferdinand’s hand on his arm. Ferdinand inviting him in for a nightcap. Ferdinand saying he’s fond of him. Ferdinand.
“Not here,” Hubert says.
Edelgard blinks, then nods in understanding. “Walk with me.”
They walk in silence until they reach a quiet corner of the courtyard. Edelgard’s arms are crossed, and she won’t stop staring at him. Hubert feels as though her gaze is piercing him physically, as though she can see right through any lies or diatribes he might offer.
“Ferdinand… confessed his feelings for me,” Hubert grits out, each word feeling as though it’s wrenched out of him, thorns covering his throat so that it comes out bloody and wanting.
Edelgard, bless her, merely hums, nodding.
“It was only drunken babbling,” Hubert says. “He does not remember it.”
“I see.” Edelgard taps her chin with one finger, then peers up at Hubert. “And did you tell him how you feel in return?”
Hubert swallows, the thorns crawling their way into his chest. “How I feel?”
“Hubert.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Hubert,” Edelgard repeats.
“What?” He looks away. Hubert is never fidgety, but he fidgets now, uncomfortable under the full weight of Edelgard’s gaze.
“Don’t tell me that you left Ferdinand there without saying how you feel in return.”
“I… I did not have the means to. He left before I could respond,” Hubert says, because it’s easier than confessing exactly what his feelings are.
“Hubert,” says Edelgard for the third time, and this time it’s full of fond exasperation. “Did you ever consider that perhaps Ferdinand is embarrassed? That he was giving you an out this morning, pretending he did not remember?”
The thought had not occurred to Hubert. Now, though, it encompasses his thoughts, bringing new meaning to their conversation. “His feelings are incongruous with his actions.”
“Are they? Hubert, you take tea with him, or, rather, coffee, nearly as often as you take it with me. He gives you gifts. He makes an effort to draw you into conversations you would otherwise never take part in.”
Hubert squeezes his eyes shut, denial welling up inside of him. The truth rears its ugly head, forcing its way out of him through cracked lips and gritted teeth. “I do not deserve him.”
Edelgard laughs, though not unkindly. “Dear friend. You deserve happiness as much as the rest of us. Is that not what we are fighting for?”
Hubert’s chest hurts. Edelgard is right, of course. Edelgard is usually right. But it doesn’t make this any easier.
“Talk to him,” says Edelgard. “Tell him how you feel. If not for yourself, do it for me. Frankly, I’m tired of watching the two of you dance around each other like flat-footed schoolgirls.”
Hubert snorts despite himself. “If that is what you wish of me, then I shall,” he says.
“Thank you,” says Edelgard. She takes his wrist in her hand again, pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “I love you, Hubert. I want you to be happy.”
Happiness seems so far out of reach, and yet as though it’s constantly just slipping from Hubert’s grasp. Could he really have it all? Their victory in war, and Ferdinand’s hand in his? It’s hard to believe.
Hubert makes it through the rest of the day and the next before he’s drawn into Ferdinand’s orbit again. Their weekly tea comes up quicker than Hubert thought possible, and before he can even blink, he’s sitting across the table from Ferdinand, a cup of coffee in front of him.
“A rather fine blend,” Ferdinand comments, sipping at his own cup of tea before glancing at Hubert over the rim. “Would you like to try it?”
No, Hubert would not, but Ferdinand looks so hopeful that he finds himself nodding. “If it pleases you.”
Ferdinand’s cheeks flush, and he sets the cup down on Hubert’s side of the table. “Please, have as much as you wish. I have more leaves stored in the kitchen.”
Hubert picks up the cup, sniffing it before taking a tentative sip. It’s much too sweet for his taste, fruity and floral and everything he hates in a cup of tea, but he swallows it anyway, setting the cup back down with a grimace.
Ferdinand laughs. “That look on your face tells me all I need to know.”
Hubert schools his face into a scowl, which only causes Ferdinand to laugh harder.
“Long gone are the days in which that scowl could intimidate me,” Ferdinand says, tutting as he takes another sip. “Would you like for me to try your coffee? It’s only fair.”
Hubert’s coffee is the expensive kind, the kind where he doesn’t waste a drop, and yet, he finds himself nodding.
“Splendid,” continues Ferdinand. He reaches across the table, their fingers brushing together as he accepts the cup from Hubert. Hubert draws his hand back as quickly as he’s able, flexing it beneath the table.
Ferdinand drinks from Hubert’s cup, then scowls. “Much too bitter,” he complains, setting the cup back down in front of Hubert.
“It’s from Morfis,” Hubert says. “They carefully cultivate each bean before roasting.”
“Well, you can keep it,” Ferdinand says, waving his hand away.
“I will,” says Hubert, deliberately taking a sip. The flavor explodes on his tongue, and he sighs, leaning back in his chair. His ankles knock against Ferdinand’s beneath the table, but the contact feels safe when it’s out of sight.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand starts, the tips of his ears going red. “We’ve spoken about it briefly, but I wanted to again thank you for walking me back the other night.”
“No thanks needed,” says Hubert. “It is already forgotten.” Edelgard’s voice rings in his head, urging him to confess, to tell Ferdinand of his feelings, whatever feelings those are.
“You’re too good to me, Hubert,” says Ferdinand. “It’s strange when you’re being kind.”
Hubert swallows. It’s not an invitation, but it’s as close to one as Hubert thinks he’ll get. He remembers Edelgard compelling him, remembers the feeling of Ferdinand’s hand on his arm, relishes in the feeling of their legs side by side beneath the table now. Tentatively, Hubert knocks his calf against Ferdinand’s, and feels himself smiling.
“I find it easier and easier to be kind to you, lately.”
Ferdinand laughs, voice high-pitched. “What makes you say that?”
“Ferdinand.” Hubert resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, instead taking another drink from his coffee. “About our conversation the other night…”
“Yes?”
Hubert flushes. “I—” He takes a deep breath, gathering his words before he speaks again. “There’s something you should know. That night, you confessed something rather personal to me. Something embarrassing.”
Ferdinand purses his lips, blush spreading down his jaw and across his throat. “Embarrassing, you say?”
“Embarrassing is not the correct word,” Hubert says, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. “You said that you cared for me. That you were fond of me.” His breath catches on fond, and the next words come out in a rush. “Of course, I am sure that it was simply chatter from a drunken fool, but—”
“It wasn’t,” Ferdinand blurts, and Hubert wants to trace that blush with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. “Hubert, I must confess that I lied that morning when I said I didn’t remember. I remembered, and I—” he stumbles over his words in a way he rarely does, setting down his teacup to wring his hands. “I meant what I said. I do. Care for you, that is. I know that you do not feel the same, so there is no need to respond in kind, but— Oh, Hubert. It’s been eating me up inside, pretending as I was.”
“Ferdinand.”
“You do not need to say a thing,” Ferdinand says.
“Ferdinand,” Hubert tries to pour emotion into his voice, tries to say what he knows he needs to say without saying it. “You are constantly trying to speak for me.”
Ferdinand scoffs, but stays silent.
“My feelings are difficult to parse,” says Hubert. “I have never been especially proficient at describing them.”
“That’s alright,” says Ferdinand softly.
“I care for you,” Hubert says, voice almost a whisper. “Wholly. Ardently. Possessively.”
Ferdinand shivers. “Then why not say it?”
“You left before I could,” Hubert says. “And you were drunk. Profusely so.”
Ferdinand’s flush deepens, crawling beneath his collar. “I’m not drunk now.” Slowly, he hooks his foot behind Hubert’s calf, drawing a line up it beneath the table. “Am I?”
Hubert feels drunk, though. Drunk on the feeling of Ferdinand’s foot against his leg, drunk on the idea of finally saying how he feels. His head spins, and Ferdinand keeps his foot hooked behind Hubert’s knee, drawing him forward until Hubert is leaning across the table.
“You’re not,” Hubert says, and his breath catches when Ferdinand leans forward, too close.
“Hubert,” says Ferdinand, and kisses him.
It’s a chaste thing, Hubert’s first kiss. Ferdinand’s much fuller lips move against his gently, wavering just a bit. Hubert kisses him back, feeling almost shy. It’s a curious feeling, one that curls its way into his chest and settles there, not unwelcome but new.
Ferdinand nips at his lip before pulling away, and Hubert immediately wants to kiss him again. Before he can lean back, Hubert reaches up, holding Ferdinand in place by his cravat. Ferdinand’s eyes go dark, his mouth falling open as Hubert gives it an experimental tug. Ferdinand’s foot falls, his body going lax beneath Hubert’s fingers, and it’s intoxicating, the way Hubert can seemingly pull him around with just a simple tug at his collar.
“Can we—” Ferdinand says, voice low. “Can we go somewhere? Am I being presumptuous?”
“No, you are not being presumptuous.” Hubert releases Ferdinand’s cravat, and Ferdinand lets out a breath as he leans back. “My room, or yours?”
Ferdinand is as red as a tomato, but when he says, “Yours. It’s closer,” his voice has that annoying edge of overconfidence that Hubert has grown to associate with him.
“Excellent,” says Hubert. “I suppose I shan’t finish my coffee, just this once.”
Ferdinand rolls his eyes. “Your sacrifice is noted.”
As they walk to Hubert’s room, hand in hand, Hubert can’t help but smile.