Archive of Our Own

“Please tell me that you are joking.” 

“I'm afraid not, Ferdie,” Dorothea replies, drawing the slip of paper from his shaky grasp. Her efforts are futile—the image is already burned into his mind down to every minute detail, in a way he will surely never forget. How he misses his innocence from several moments ago before the infliction of these horrors. He will never know such peace again. 

“But why would anyone take the time to create a work of this nature?” he asks helplessly. Daring another glance at the page, his stomach flips again from the sheer shock and embarrassment of looking upon such an explicit image, let alone the fact that the figures depicted are so unfortunately familiar. 

“It's meant to be humorous,” Dorothea explains. 

“There is nothing amusing about this situation,” he presses. “Is this how the common people of the city perceive me? They think I am merely the- the amorous plaything of…” He cannot finish that sentence. The humiliation is simply too great. 

“I wouldn't take it so personally,” she says, patting his arm. “And if it's any comfort, I have on good authority that you two made for the best-selling pamphlet of the week in the city square.”  

“It is not any comfort at all,” he replies. “I will never be able to look him in the eye again.”

Despite his distress, something keeps luring him back to the crude sight in Dorothea’s hands. The caption is handwritten but the drawing looks to have been printed, and since he must give credit where it is due, it is by no means an amateur impression. Of course they have taken some artistic liberties—his hair is not that long and flowing, nor does he wear his ministerial uniform in bed. But those are minor points of inaccuracy. His primary critique would have to be the subject matter. He had never performed such an act with anyone, and if he had, they would certainly not have been Hubert von Vestra.

The caption appears in blocky hand-scrawled letters, spelling out the phrase THE PRIME MINISTER AND HIS SHADOW. Shadow is one word that could be used to describe the relations going on in the picture. His caricature is bent over in a very compromising position, more nymph-like and beautiful than he could claim to be in reality, completely overcome by the figure above. The shadow’s limbs surround him, its dark and swirling form dripping over the body below like tar. From the centre of the shadow peers forth a face with the smile of a demonic spirit, but for all its inhumanity, its source of inspiration could not be missed. 

“I thought you should know, just in case anyone brought it up,” Dorothea says with a sigh. “It’s been a long time since I had a feature in the society press. I have to say, your picture is a lot more flattering than some of the ones I received in my opera days. But I’ll burn it.”

“No,” he says quickly. ‘That is—there is no need for you to handle its disposal. I will take care of it.” Fortunately Dorothea does not seem to think too much of it. The paper is strangely heavy in his hand. 

“I have to go get my outfit sorted for tonight,” Dorothea tells him as she stands up, smiling warmly. “I'll see you then, Ferdie?”

“Yes, until then,” he replies, even though his thoughts are far away. Tonight’s festivities are the last on his mind after this shocking matter.

The one thing he simply cannot comprehend is why it would occur to anyone to create such a lurid and baseless work of art—after all, there is nothing of that sort between him and Hubert, obvious to anyone who knows them. They are Edelgard’s two closest advisors, companions in the war for Fódlan’s future and the second war, still unfolding against those who operate in shadow, yes, but they are not intimate. Not in that sense, at the very least. 

Has Hubert seen this? His heart sinks terribly as he remembers how soon he must face him now, with the image of their bodies untwined, the mindless bliss occupying his features while Hubert loomed above, limbs wreathed in shadow. He cannot imagine something of this nature would have escaped the notice of Edelgard's spymaster, with his mysterious enclaves and indebted eyes and ears.

The truth is that he and Hubert have been spending quite a lot of time together since his return to the capital some moons ago. They attend council together, they eat dinner alongside Edelgard in the staterooms more often than not, they take tea together nearly every day. He cannot even remember where that last tradition arose from, but it is so ingrained into his schedule that he feels at quite a loss on any of those days when Hubert disappears on business without warning and leaves him alone.

They are friends, in their own way. The capital is not always what he expected it to be and Hubert is, most ironically, the only one he is always certain he can trust. It is a strange world they live in.  

He remembers that final battle with the rain-soaked stone under his knees and his own blood in his mouth, when he found himself surrounded by shadow. The blackened smoke held back an army of white-clad soldiers bearing down on him—he heard their yells and the thuds of their blades slicing uselessly at the walls. He knew the magic that surrounded him, he had been aware of its presence for years. At first he had found it difficult to accept that it was Hubert who had saved him, but honour compelled him to recognise a debt. He owed his life.

And Hubert is honestly not so bad. He is very clever and knows a great deal more about literature than Ferdinand would have guessed, and he can be quite amusing from time to time. These days his mockery is less at Ferdinand’s expense, so it is easier to bear. Sometimes he even manages to make Ferdinand laugh, one pale eye shining with triumph. Their conversations are amicable. He knows Hubert still finds him ridiculous but he would like to think there is at least a little mutual respect between them. He is not sure why Hubert’s opinion should matter like that, and yet it does.

But this is simply too embarrassing for words. What if people take this pamphlet seriously and believe that he and Hubert are in an inappropriate relationship? They should have no reason to, except that… Well, they do spend so much of their free time in each other’s company, if only because their duties are aligned. And he has slept in Hubert’s quarters of the imperial palace before, though that was only once or twice when he was too tired to retire to his own room after many hours of intense discussion, let alone the Aegir townhouse which he mostly eschews to avoid the unpleasant thought of his father. 

Not on any occasion has it occurred to him that he might try to court Hubert or make any indecent proposals. He can only imagine that if he did, Hubert would laugh him out of the room and scorn his noble name for eternity. Or perhaps—perhaps Hubert would accept. Maybe it would offer him some strange satisfaction to have Ferdinand beg and abandon all propriety on the floor of his sitting room where they pass the evenings. His face heats as he pictures Hubert undressing him and committing certain acts with him there on the sofa or table, too desperate to even cross the threshold to the bedchamber.

Why is he even considering such a thing? To begin with, it would never happen. Even if he felt such desire, he would not know what he was supposed to do with it. He has never properly slept with anyone, so he would probably err and humiliate himself. 

He takes one last peek at the satirical pamphlet before he folds it and stows it safely in his pocket. He cannot allow himself to be distracted by such a frivolous thing when today is an important day for the future of Fódlan. Tonight they will welcome the Queen of Brigid to Enbarr for the first time since her coronation, for the official signing of a treaty between their two peoples. He is very much looking forward to seeing Petra again, and it is important to both her and Edelgard that he make the event a success. 

But first he has tea with Hubert. Peering through the hall window to see the position of the sun, he realises how little time he has to find an escape. He could always break their habit for today, except Hubert would probably either guess why or else send spies to find out. Besides, he does not want to cancel. Tea with Hubert is the highlight of his day, combining his favourite drink with someone he does not have to worry about impressing in conversation. Despite the fact they always find some issue to squabble over, he always leaves in a better mood than he arrives. 

He sighs. He shall just have to put on a brave face and endure the awkwardness he feels within. If Hubert has heard about this little piece of popular press, no doubt he has dedicated far less time to fretting about its implications than Ferdinand. There is a good chance he does not even care. People have been spreading unfortunate stories about him for years. And many of them are true. 

At least it is a nice day outside. The sun is shining brightly over Enbarr, warming the terrace where they take their tea in the summer amongst the hedges and flowerbeds, in view of the great fountain whose base is painted blue-green to make its waters look like the sea. It is good to walk these avenues without armour or a sword at his side, simply appreciating their finery and the city’s peace, quiet on a warm, salt-wind day. 

Pushing aside thoughts of his reputation, he descends the steps into the sunlight, nodding politely at a few people as he passes. None of them are looking at him any different to usual. They have no clue as to the scenarios flitting through his mind, fantastical and half-formed—Hubert luring him into dark corners, Hubert with his hands sliding between them and clawing at Ferdinand’s skin beneath his clothes; Hubert pressing his legs apart and hushing him as he cried out in pleasure. 

He fans his own face distractedly, trying to appear nonchalant. Once he sees the real Hubert he will remember who he is dealing with and be dissuaded of all these bizarre thoughts. In truth, he feels quite ashamed. It seems wrong to be imagining such things about a friend, even if he does not mean to and the images just appear without warning in his mind. He should have more self-control. 

With a deep breath he steps out from the hedged walkway into the courtyard where they always meet. It surprises him to see Hubert already there, sitting at his usual chair with a few letters in hand. He looks just like always—cool and composed with one leg crossed over the other, the recent months having returned a little colour to his cheeks. 

Ferdinand supposes he has never really considered the question of whether Hubert is handsome or not before. It never seemed the pertinent issue when forming his opinion of the man, though when they were young he did—much to his regret—whisper some bitter things about a certain sickly and ghoulish demeanour. He would not use either word now. Hubert is not quite conventional, of course, but that is clearly a choice he makes to suit his own ends. It seems so inherent to his ways that Ferdinand would be unsettled to see him appear any different.

Returning the vague smile with which Hubert greets him, he takes his seat opposite at the small iron table, freshly repainted after the damage of the winter rust. He cannot avoid staring. The novel concept of Hubert’s attractiveness fills his mind. He actually has very fine features, now Ferdinand looks with a view to find them. He has, well… a classical beauty, one might say, if only of a particular breed. 

“Good afternoon,” he says, breaking the silence between them. “You are here early.”

“Perhaps I am simply that fond of your company,” Hubert replies dryly. He folds up the letters and turns his full attention to Ferdinand, analysing him. “You seem rather flustered today. Worried about your upcoming performance tonight?”

“It is a very serious occasion,” he points out. “It has taken a great deal of work to restore diplomatic ties with Brigid since Edelgard returned their independence. As the primary representative of our government, if tonight goes poorly it will surely be on my head.”

Hubert stretches and sits up in his chair. “Don’t worry, I don’t believe Lady Edelgard intends on ending the affair with any impromptu executions. More the pity,” he adds, though Ferdinand knows he does not really mean it. 

They do not talk again until the servant brings their tea, occupying a pause that Hubert seems not to mind but causes Ferdinand much suffering. The longer they sit here, not speaking, the more his mind wanders on to other things. He wonders how others see them, what assumptions they have made. He could not fault them if they thought there was anything more between them than companionship. Their behaviour is not really that different from most married couples, bar the obvious lack of rings.

He has not considered marriage for a long time. During the war it hardly seemed appropriate, and afterwards he soon became so occupied with his duties both to Aegir and to Edelgard in the capital that it never crossed his mind. The truth is, he does not know anyone with whom he would wish to form that bond. It would be unusual for two nobles of such high position as them to marry, but not-

He quickly averts his gaze when he realises the direction of thoughts, treacherous yet again. The servant sets their tea tray between them and he keeps his cheek turned to hide his blush. Even the comforting herbal scent rising from the pot cannot calm his disquiet. 

“What?” Hubert asks. “Are you ill?”

“No, I am quite well, thank you,” he answers, all slurred together in one awkward phrase. “It is your turn to pour.”

Hubert snorts but does as he is instructed, lifting the pot to pour them each a cup. Indeed, Ferdinand has succeeded in inducing him to the way of tea, though admittedly with some concessions to his own tastes. It took a long process of trying many blends from Ferdinand’s collection for them to find one Hubert was willing to endure. They still deviate from time to time, but today they have that particular blend—spiced, like all things in Hubert’s preferred palate, and not too herbal. It has a faint citrus bitter to it of which Ferdinand is a fan. But even if he did not like it, he would ask the kitchen to serve it anyway, for Hubert’s sake.

“Are you looking forward to meeting with Petra this evening?” he asks, taking a careful sip. 

“Quite,” Hubert remarks. “I hear it should be quite the reunion. Even the dear Lady Varley has indicated her desire to attend.”

“Oh, I hope Bernadetta comes,” he says. “Then it would be all of us together again.”

For the first time since Dorothea showed him that haunting picture, he feels a sense of peace. Funny, that after years of being always on edge in Hubert’s presence, attempting to calculate his next devious move or the meanings behind his words, it is him with whom Ferdinand feels the most familiar comfort. But there is something about their conversation that is reassuring, how it flows in predictable rhythms, and how Hubert is never really cruel to him anymore, nor he in return.

He looks over at Hubert, who sits there resting his chin in the palm of one hand while he stirs his tea. He is handsome, after all. And Ferdinand is sure he would be a good lover, though why he should be thinking about that he cannot say—but Hubert is so intelligent and attentive, if not always frank with his words, he would know what to do. 

“We have been fortunate with the weather,” he comments, seeking a more appropriate topic of conversation than the thoughts currently running through his mind. 

“Hm,” Hubert considers, glancing up at the sun and its cloudless blue sky. “Bearable, I suppose.”

“You would not be uncomfortably warm if you wore less,” Ferdinand suggests, and then regrets it, because that sounded far more suggestive than he intended it to be. “Or- that is to say, there is no need for five different layers of black in the height of summer.”

Hubert smirks at his slip of the tongue and shrugs, running one finger under his collar in a way that only serves to increase Ferdinand’s anxiety. Why is everything he does so seducing all of a sudden? Is this really how they speak to one another all the time? It strikes him now as quite untoward.

“Have you been in the city lately?” he inquires, attempting to probe Hubert’s knowledge of the apparent rumours about them. 

“I have no desire to mill amongst the rabble,” Hubert replies.

“Those are our people you are dismissing,” he says disapprovingly. “You should not speak of them in such terms, simply because they are from the common world.”

Hubert rolls his eyes. “I was referring to the obnoxious fraternity of those clubs you insist on patronising,” he retorts.

“And you say that only because you have never bothered to attend. I could introduce you to a great number of interesting and remarkable people from many origins, not merely noble ones.”

“I’m not interested in sharing my limited time with others.”

“Very well,” Ferdinand murmurs. “As you wish.”

He knew that Hubert preferred mostly to be alone. So why was he chosen? Was it just that Edelgard became too busy with ruling and the company of their former professor to keep Hubert occupied day to day? He does not like the idea of being a placeholder.  

“I have been meaning to say,” he begins, “you are looking well.”

For a moment Hubert looks surprised, wide-eyed until his usual mask finally slips back over his features. “I look the same as I have for the past three years.” 

“That is not true,” Ferdinand says, leaning forward. “You appear very healthy and… full of life. I do not expect you to understand what I mean. It is not really about your features, but about the happiness you emanate.”

“The happiness I emanate,” Hubert repeats sarcastically. “Clearly, I’m losing my touch.”

“You have been well influenced.” 

“Perhaps.”

He does not think it is wrong to give himself some credit when it comes to the change in Hubert’s ways. The benefit of their conflict was mutual. Ferdinand will be the first to admit that Hubert was the one who brought down his pride, forcing him to confront his failures, his inadequacy. In turn he would like to believe he taught Hubert to have a little more faith and benevolence, and to see life’s beauties as well as its faults. That is why he calls them the twin jewels of the empire, even when Hubert recoils in horror and begs him not to utter such words again. It was only against the whetstone of each other’s company that they came to shine so brightly.

They part ways once the teapot is empty and the tray cleared of the thin ginger biscuits he has trained Hubert to enjoy despite his professed dislike of all sweets, and Ferdinand tries not to let his gaze linger. Hubert looks up at him through narrowed eyes and the curls of his raven hair, aglow in the sun. Since having the pleasure of meeting Hubert’s younger siblings a few months ago, he knows they all look very much alike, but Hubert, he thinks, suits it best. 

He calls for a carriage to take him down the port town, appreciating a chance to try to rearrange his thoughts. It should be no serious issue for him to have discovered Hubert handsome—he has always thought Dorothea to be the most beautiful woman in the world, since the day he met her, but he never imagined them together. Still, he cannot help sensing it has some greater meaning here.

Why, when travelling by carriage, do they always sit side by side? Why does Hubert reply to the letters he writes him when he returns to Aegir for a week every now and then? Several years ago he would have considered such habits unthinkable. They never spoke except to argue. And now he cannot contemplate his life without the presence of Hubert von Vestra.

Beyond the carriage’s small window the city of Enbarr towers against the bright blue sky, stretching out glorious and unscathed in the sun. He listens to the rattle of the carriage wheels and the general clamour of town in an attempt to ignore his troubles. At some point he remembers the piece of paper folded in his pocket right now—that picture which he should find disgusting, but that his mind seems to relish. But surely Hubert would never want him like that. Ferdinand is too much for him as it is.

Soon he smells the strong scent of the ocean in the air, half fresh salt sea and half fish market. The port town always seems a strange place to him after spending his youth in the country. He has never even been at sea. Petra, on the other hand, has crossed the ocean between Fódlan and Brigid at least three times, never doubting that the waves will carry her surely home. The finest two ships in Adrestia’s fleet were sent as a token of goodwill to escort her back to the foreign land where she passed her adolescence and won her nation’s freedom. He sees them easily from the far end of the dock—the grandest vessels with masts taller than the watchtower on the pier. 

Petra is waiting at the base of the gangplank to greet him. Her form sparkles from the fine jewels that adorn it, shifting as she raises an arm to wave his way. His heart immediately lifts at the sight of her, missing from their lives for so long. A mix of her kinspeople and his fellow diplomats stand around, though none quite match her level of radiance. 

“Welcome back,” he says.

She smiles. “It is good to see you again.”

They ride back together, catching up on several months of news. Petra tells him of the changes in her land and her grandfather’s health, which has much improved since he took to the country to rest.

“During our journey I was asking the shipmaster many questions about all my friends in the empire,” she explains, perched opposite him on the cushioned carriage bench. “He told me that Dorothea has made a new home for the orphans in the city. She did not mention this to me in our letters.”

“Dorothea does not like to boast of her accomplishments,” he says.

“That is true. I am also hearing from several people that Hubert is getting married soon. Did you know of this?”

His stomach sinks. At first all he feels is shock, because it cannot be true. “No,” he mumbles, confused. “He has not mentioned any such thing to me.”

The rumours must be mistaken. Unless it is not public news yet, and Hubert has been biding his time to let anyone know. Who could it be? The most obvious choice would be a noblewoman from the north or the east to help consolidate Edelgard’s rule, a duty that Hubert would probably not deny her despite his lonesome ways. Or he could have a secret lover, which would explain why any engagement has been kept quiet. Somehow he cannot tell which would be worse. 

If Hubert marries a distant noble, he will leave them. Not forever, seeing as he has sworn an oath to Edelgard’s service, but he will be in the capital a lot less. When he is here, he will want to live with his family in his own rooms, and he will not have time for tea with Ferdinand each day. The thought is more upsetting than he would have expected it to be. It does not seem fair, somehow. Why should Hubert go far away to marry someone he may hardly know when there are friends who care for him already by his side? 

Who will discuss literature and history with him if Hubert leaves? Who will come to tea? Hubert will go off and find some new sunlight jewel to compliment his shadows, and Ferdinand will be left behind.

“Are you okay?” Petra asks. “You do not look well.”

“I am fine, thank you,” he replies, blinking away his distress. He is not being fair. The rumours may be false, and even if they are true, what right does he have to keep Hubert from doing anything? Hubert does not owe him anything beyond common politeness. 

But it still stings. Every time his mind tries to dismiss the story as fiction, he struggles to imagine how romantic gossip could emerge about such an unlikely candidate out of nothing. It hurts his feelings that Hubert would not have cared to tell him, almost as much as it hurts him to think of how their friendship will change. It is a sticky, bitter emotion, twisting his heart towards anger. Jealousy. He is jealous.

Jealous of Hubert…? Yet he does not really feel the need to marry—he is happy here, in his life as it is now. So he must be jealous of whoever is it that Hubert has promised himself to. That does not make much sense though, since he is not in love with Hubert.

“Petra, what sort of person do you think Hubert would marry?”

She considers it a moment, humming to herself. “Well… They need to be clever and brave. And they need to have loyalty to Edelgard, because she is the most important thing to Hubert. Also, I think they need to care a lot about people and want to help them.”

“Indeed? Why?”

“Because Hubert cares a lot about his friends but is never knowing how to say it. He needs a person who can say it for him when he cannot.”

Ferdinand turns back to the window, the street beyond no longer seeming so bright and full of joy. “I see,” he says, heart aching. It takes several minutes before he is recovered enough to go on with their conversation. 

Edelgard is waiting for them at the palace gates, dressed in full imperial regalia except for the crown she now rarely wears. To his surprise she meets Petra with an embrace, there before the gathered dignitaries and palace guard. He shakes Petra’s hand again and exchanges a nod with his emperor, his duty complete. The band is playing a song from an opera he quite likes, The Merchant of the West. 

The matter of Hubert holds his attention all the way back to his quarters. He hopes his distraction did not show too badly during the welcome proceedings—thankfully Hubert himself was not there, or he would have been altogether useless. He is beginning to question his earlier edict that he is not in love with Hubert. If that were the case, he would surely not be so upset over his marriage to someone else. And he would not be spending the other half of his time picturing increasingly explicit scenarios between them, where Hubert abandons his betrothed at the altar and runs back into his arms before removing his clothes and recreating the acts of the pamphlet now hidden away in his desk. 

“You are being ridiculous,” he tells his reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers, affecting a frown. These thoughts are immature and ungenerous. He should put his clothes on and prepare his remarks for the diplomatic proceedings before dinner. Hubert will not like him any better for embarrassing Edelgard on such a significant occasion. So he takes at least an hour to prepare his appearance, checking every inch of his official dress for marks and ensuring every badge is properly affixed. Most would have a servant to aid them in this task, but he is too nervous for the company of others at the moment. 

The first part of the evening goes well. The whole court and city parliament gather to hear Edelgard give her speech in the throne room, finishing with a few words in Brigid’s native tongue. They are words he knows because Petra taught them to the Black Eagles during the war— the sky spirit watches over us. He tries to give her his full focus but it is not easy when Hubert is there right beside her, wearing his full ministerial cloak with its high collar and gold cross chain. The emblem of the imperial household gleams on his chest in the light of the sunset, warming their ancient hall from beyond walls of stained glass.

“I am grateful to stand here again with my friends of Fódlan,” Petra says. “I am proud to meet you as the free Queen of Brigid. While I am queen, there will always be peace between Fódlan and the Brigid nation.” The audience claps and cheers for her message of peace, even those few lingering scabs of the nobility who once stood against the sovereignty of her people. Then Ferdinand ascends to give his short address alongside Brigid’s ambassador, a wiry man of their parents’ generation. He can feel Hubert’s eyes on the back of his neck the whole time. It is fortunate he was not expected to offer more than a few trite words, or he might have struggled a great deal more.

“Edelgard spoke very well,” he remarks blithely once the crowd has dispersed, the two rulers gone from the party to discuss their affairs in private. In the space of a few minutes the sun has sunk far enough behind the walls of the city to leave them in twilight.

“Of course, she never does anything but,” Hubert replies. 

“You are not tempted to give a speech of your own?”

Hubert folds his arms over his chest, turning his eyes to the great candle-lit chandelier above them, wide as a man is tall. “I rather doubt any of these remarkably festive souls are interested in hearing what I have to say.”

“I am,” Ferdinand says, earning himself something of an odd look. Perhaps that was a bridge too far. “Hubert,” he tries, stumbling over the syllables. “There is an issue I was hoping I could discuss with you. Dorothea brought something to my attention today which I fear concerns us both.” 

If Hubert catches on, he does not show it in his expression. His face remains as passive and supercilious as ever, examining from a distance. “And I assume it cannot wait?”

“Are you doing anything of importance right now?” he points out.

“Well, I can see I have little choice in the matter,” Hubert sighs. “Come to my office then.”

It occurs to him that it may not be a good look for the two of them to be seen going to Hubert’s private quarters together given the rumour apparently going around the city about their relationship. Someone here may assume they are going there for inappropriate reasons. But he does not know how to explain that to Hubert here and now without being overheard or causing one of what Hubert likes to call his scenes of melodrama. His mouth remains tightly shut. 

Could she be here now? As he walks through the crowd behind Hubert, he searches the faces of every noblewoman for some kind of recognition or sign of affection. Hubert always tends to draw a few stares, but none of them seem loving. But if it is an arranged marriage, neither of them may be particularly overjoyed by the match. After all, Hubert may be one of the most powerful men in the empire, but he can be intimidating and often glowers at strangers for no reason. One has to really know him to understand his overawing look is just for show, and he is in fact quite amusing and well-tempered.

Hubert’s quarters are not far—up the central staircase and to the right, on the floor where the imperial household is kept. Even though as prime minister, Ferdinand belongs to the government quarter on the other side of the palace, he knows these halls by heart. There was a time when Hubert always kept his door locked, now it opens with a gentle push, revealing the tapestried room with its desk and settee and many bookshelves—the only cluttered part of his quarters, they are that laden with volumes. 

“Well?” Hubert prompts, fiddling absent-mindedly with the hem of his left glove. 

Ferdinand has forgotten what he intended to say. Even when he finds his voice, it does not emerge with much grace. “Hubert, are you aware of… that is, there have been some rumours. Or a rumour, based upon a comedic pamphlet that has been in circulation lately.”

Hubert simply raises his brow, waiting for him to go on.

“Perhaps it would be easier if I could show it to you, but I do not have it on me,” he continues. “It is a delicate matter, so you must forgive me for not expressing myself well. The pamphlet contains a printed caricature of the two of us, and though we are not named, I think it is quite obvious. It depicts us performing an- explicit act.”

“I see. And this is an urgent issue because…?”

Is he truly that ignorant as to the consequences? “Well, it is not of any concern to me,” he says, more and more disturbed by the moment. Aside from maybe the faintest flush glancing his cheekbones, Hubert gives no reaction whatsoever. It is not fair. “I have a very good reputation, it will not do my name any harm. But if you are to be married soon, I do not think I should have to explain to you why it is not a good look for either of us.”

Hubert stands there and does not deny it. Ferdinand feels his heart be crushed underfoot. 

“So it is true,” he murmurs. “I thought Petra must have been mistaken. I… I wish I could wish you well.” 

“And yet you can’t.”

Ferdinand looks away to avoid letting Hubert see the emotion welling in his eyes unwanted, bursting forth from some place in his chest he cannot shut away. “I have no right to tell you what you should do,” he says shakily. “You do not owe me anything. But please, Hubert…” His resolve shatters. “Please do not leave me,” he begs. “I have come to rely on your friendship so much over the years, I am not sure how to live my life without it. Perhaps it is surprising to hear me say so. I fear I failed to tell you, though I had many opportunities. But I will miss you very dearly once you are gone.” 

With his head hung in shame, he can only see out of the corner of his eye when Hubert takes a step forward, his face a blur. 

“My friendship,” Hubert repeats. “That’s what you’ll miss.”

“Please do not make me say it,” he replies. “It is just- perhaps there is a reason the common people of the city might jest about our relationship.”

Then, most perturbingly, Hubert begins to laugh. In all fairness, it is not an unkind laugh, more an exclamation of surprise, but it confuses his already bruised heart even more. “Ahem, my apologies,” Hubert coughs out, containing his mirth. “I mean no disrespect.”

“Hubert,” he says, deeply serious. “Are you getting married?”

“What do you think?”

“Hubert!” he cries. “What is wrong with you?” He genuinely cannot tell whether he is relieved or outraged, only that every nerve in his body is alight and burning with the most sincere emotion. You just allowed me to make a complete fool of myself over mere baseless speculation! Did it not occur to you to interrupt and correct my misunderstanding before I made such a humiliating address?”

“Oh, I don’t agree at all,” Hubert smiles. “Your speech was most enlightening. And very touching, I must say. I had no idea you harboured such earnest feelings for me.”

“I do not believe you,” he whispers, agonised. “Please forget everything I said.”

“I would prefer not to. After all, who could have once imagined that I would do so well as to earn the praise of the indomitable Ferdinand von Aegir?”

“You must not mock me. I meant every word, though now I wish I had expressed myself with more eloquence, since you apparently refuse to ignore it.” 

“I'm not mocking you,” Hubert promises. He takes another step closer. “Now, about this shocking work of art apparently circulating the country…”

“I do not think it has made it that far,” he says. He is trying to decide if he is hallucinating or if Hubert really does seem to be making advances on him. “You have seen it?” Hubert shrugs, but by that Ferdinand knows from experience his expression means yes. Of course he has. His eyes are everywhere. “I- I expect you found it quite offensive.”

“Hm, not particularly.” 

Ferdinand looks up to meet his eyes, almost unable to breathe. Instinctively he leans into the gesture, jumping as the silk of Hubert’s gloved hand touches the skin just below his jaw. Hubert hesitates, a proper flush forming on his cheeks. It suits him well. Ferdinand is the one to close the distance.

It is better than his imagination. Hubert’s tongue is pressing past his desperate lips and into his mouth, his hand is in Ferdinand’s hair, tugging lightly. He stumbles back and the back of his legs are against the low arm of the settee, holding him suspended. He has no idea whether he is kissing Hubert properly, but it feels right. A great weight and heat is bearing down on him, filling his breathing space, slick in his mouth. He breaks away for air, eyes half shut and clutching to Hubert’s shoulders for support. 

Hubert’s breath is warm against his neck. He begins to rock against the leg caught between his own, messily kissing his way back to their previous position. Somehow his embarrassment at his reaction only serves to increase it and he cannot tear himself away—nor does Hubert seem to want him to, from the way his grip tightens in Ferdinand’s hair. He has never been so close to anyone, every inch of Hubert’s body shoved up against his own, but it is still not enough. 

“What does it feel like?” he says quietly, not daring to open his eyes.

“Hm. Hard to say. I will make certain you enjoy yourself,” Hubert replies. “If you ask.”

He is afraid somewhere in his heart. A nervous strain beating faster than the rest, warning him not to try. But he feels more than that. He looks up into Hubert’s handsome face and the shine of perspiration on his brow. “I am asking.”

Much to his disappointment Hubert initially pulls away, though he soon understands the purpose when he finds himself tugged along towards the bedroom door. He really expected Hubert would just do it to him there on the settee instead, but this way is probably more comfortable. He has been inside Hubert’s bedroom before but never for more than a minute or so—like his office space, it reveals little except its owner’s particularism, everything ordered in its proper place. 

“I have not stopped thinking about it,” he admits as Hubert pushes him down onto the bed, twitching under every light touch to his abdomen. Hubert’s fingers are trying unsuccessfully to remove the fastenings of his dress uniform. “You may leave it on,” he suggests. Once off he will never manage to get it on again properly after this, even with Hubert to help him. Hubert himself stares, lips just parted, while Ferdinand fumbles with his trousers instead, managing to untuck the waist after some labour. 

“Since I do not know what to do, I am going to need your assistance,” he points out. He is less naive than perhaps his plea suggests. He has heard enough in his lifetime to comprehend the basic principles. Still, it comes as something of a shock when Hubert at last leans in and pulls at the loosened garment until most of his thighs are exposed and the evidence of his enthusiasm is obvious beneath his underclothes. 

“Turn over,” Hubert commands.

Ferdinand flushes but follows his orders, crawling onto hands and knees while Hubert crowds him from behind. Soft fabric and glances of skin brush over the small part of his lower back left exposed and he jolts, gasping aloud when a bared hand traces the seam of his underclothes cautiously.

“Please,” he says, hoping Hubert understands. “I will tell you if I do not wish to continue.”

Hubert hums and presses in closer, stroking his throat with one hand as the other drags his underclothes down to his knees. He knows Hubert is no fool and there is a good chance they have already been missed at the meeting downstairs. If someone comes looking for them, they will arrive upon quite a scene. Besides, he feels desperate to have this now. 

The hand under his back retreats for a few moments before returning almost dripping with what feels to be some sort of slick sweet-smelling ointment, warm on Hubert's palm. He shudders, tensing up as he guesses the direction of Hubert’s movements, certain and calm. 

“Well?” Hubert asks, soft against his shoulder.

“Keep going,” he insists. “Please.” Despite his mounting courage, he still slips down to his forearms with a choked sound when Hubert first slips his forefinger inside. Maybe it is just that the sensation takes him by surprise. It does not hurt, but it feels strange at first. Hubert remains otherwise still against him, saying nothing. After a minute or two of teasing another finger probes alongside it—it stings for a few seconds until he becomes used to the pressure, his lower back straining to keep suspended. 

It is already so overwhelming, he cannot imagine how it will feel when they actually… He buries his face in the bedlinens to cool his burning cheeks and muffle the noises threatening to break through. Hubert’s free hand is trailing down the plane of his stomach towards his groin, but Ferdinand hardly needs it to experience the full force of pleasure. Every now and then the fingers inside him brush past the right place to make him feel it, the desperate pang that travels up his spine and leaves him shaking. 

Hubert is very careful. Even when Ferdinand finds himself rocking back into the pressure, Hubert holds him steady and never pushes too far. 

“Go on,” he says again, though this time he hardly recognises his own voice, it emerges so hoarse and keening. Well, it would be embarrassing, if Ferdinand were not currently bent over Hubert’s bed with his mouth hanging open and his heart skipping every other beat. The third finger seems to only make it halfway, but that is more than enough—he groans and tenses as his entire body reacts to the overwhelming sensation. It seems ridiculous that they are both still fully clothed, yet in some ways that is exciting in its own right. The act seems so secret, so illicit. And he does not mind being a secret for a while, so long as he is Hubert’s.

He enjoys how it feels. That surprises him a little. Before he felt more curiosity than anything, a muffled desire to be known intimately and realise the exaggerated fantasies playing in his mind. But he does like it. Hubert does not kiss him except for the faint line of his face and his laboured breath against Ferdinand’s scalp, dry fingers vaguely running up and down the shape of his arousal in time.

“I am ready,” Ferdinand promises, hoping he is not mistaken. He is not sure he can wait either way. He has a terrible sense that if he does not get Hubert inside him immediately, he is going to miss out on the opportunity forever. “Hubert,” he gasps, choking on air as the man in question pauses to tease his inner wall instead. “Did you hear me? I am ready.”

“Heh, well,” Hubert smirks—Ferdinand can just see it before him from the tone of his voice, “I refuse to hear any complaints tomorrow when you can’t ride your precious horse around the stableyard.”

“You talk very serious talk for someone who has yet to demonstrate their prowess,” he replies, craning his neck to look back and meet Hubert’s gaze with the challenge. Hubert’s pale eye practically sparkles, the face around it creased with an unusual degree of emotion. His heart is crushed again, though not this time from sadness. He simply feels too much.

Gently, Hubert eases his fingers free. Ferdinand counts the passing seconds while Hubert contends with his own trousers. He does not want to allow his nerves to take over. It is comforting when Hubert leans back over him, his shadow, soaking up what little of the dusk light still lingers. Blunt pressure pushes against his entrance, breaching it in tiny fractions, and he does his best not to hold his breath. 

It does hurt a bit. Brief pain stabs his lower back as he struggles to relax, but soon the burn fades and he can move again. Hubert feels a great deal bigger than his fingers were. Perhaps he should have heeded the warning. They stay like that for a minute while Ferdinand gets his bearings, conscious of how tightly Hubert grips the folds of his clothes, white-knuckled and breathing hard. Slow as possible, almost not trusting himself to move, he pushes up off the bed and rolls his hips backwards.

Hubert breathes in sharply, meeting the gesture halfway until his hips are flush against bare skin. It takes the last vestiges of Ferdinand’s self-control not to cry out, and the next time he is not so successful, gasping aloud. That arm has snaked back around his middle to stroke him in time with each movement, almost too much for him to bear. He hopes it feels as good for Hubert as it does for him. He does not seem to be doing his fair share of the work but that is hard to remedy when his limbs have gone strangely boneless in Hubert’s arms. The most he can do is rock back into it every now and then, clenching every time Hubert brushes against that spot inside of him that makes him lose his self-control. 

“Satisfactory?” Hubert manages to ask, mouth against his throat.

As if he will give Hubert the gratification. “You… you can do better,” he replies. Hubert thrusts hard and he collapses back onto the bed, twitching. It would be more manageable if he was not being touched at the same moment, each successive moment begging him harder to give in. He could. His impulses felt like weaknesses, but this, he enjoys too much, he does not know how to weather such discipline anymore. 

Even though Hubert will not make more than the slightest sound, he can feel the way his rhythm starts to falter, erratic from the pressure between them. He wants… he is not sure. He wants to feel something more. He cannot hold himself back any longer, not against the weight of all this between them. He comes onto the sheets and Hubert’s erratic hand, carrying him through it as he shakes. It takes several moments before he is breathing anything like normal, and only then does he notice how empty he is.

Turning over a little, he reaches for Hubert’s clothed waist and meets his stare head-on. It only takes a few messy jerks from Ferdinand’s untrained hand before Hubert is spilling onto linens beside them, thankfully avoiding stains to either of their outfits. Though now Ferdinand is feeling worried about his back and the place on the bed he despoiled just now. He may have to return to the dinner party without a jacket. 

Hubert slumps on top of him, though Ferdinand does not mind being squashed given the circumstances. Lifting his clean hand, he runs his fingers through the pretty black hair tickling his cheek, wondering if it is strange that he likes Hubert’s smell. Perhaps it is just so familiar. 

“When you said you were not getting married,” he says, emerging from the haze, “did you mean only presently, or that you would never be married ever?”

“Presently,” Hubert answers. “But I could be induced to change my mind.” Sighing deeply, he rolls over to lie there wrinkling Ferdinand’s poor dress uniform even worse than before until Ferdinand summons the courage to poke his human blanket in the side. 

“We must clean ourselves up and get back,” he says. “Hubert, I can tell you are not asleep. It is time to get up.”

Hubert harumphs and turns his face away in disgruntlement, clearly displeased at the idea. 

“Very well, two more minutes,” Ferdinand sighs, head falling against the soft bed, unable to fully contain his smile. “I suppose you have earned it.”

He wonders whether Hubert would really marry him, if he asked. 

He wonders why he never thought to ask before.