Chapter Text
Perhaps if Edelgard hadn’t insisted on buying the whole damned crate of champagne for her holiday party, he might have been better able to see where he was going. At least well enough not to duck into the parlor at the same time as blasted Ferdinand von Aegir, colliding with him and his armload of freshly baked cookies, the Tupperware bins skittering everywhere and Hubert just barely managing to keep hold of the champagne.
“Hubert!” Ferdinand cries, rushing to gather up his cookie containers. “Please try to watch where you are going!”
“One could say the same to you,” he snaps.
“Uh-oh! Party foul!” Caspar shouts, from the other end of the parlor, though he’s moving quick, bounding over couches to help with the cookies. “I get first dibs on the ginger snaps!”
“Um. Hubie? Ferdie?” Dorothea folds her arms, then raises her eyebrows toward the archway over them. “Mistletoe rules.”
Oh, hell, no. Hubert shoves the box of champagne bottles into Caspar’s arms. There is no way he’s playing some idiotic mistletoe game with Ferdinand. And especially not after what transpired after their happy hour last week, celebrating the closing of the Hrym deal—
His entire face goes red just thinking about it.
“Oh. Um. It was . . . it was an accident, Hubert, there’s no need to—” Ferdinand tugs anxiously at the collar of his infuriatingly tight sweater. “I mean, I know it is tradition, but—”
“You don’t have to,” Dorothea says, “but it’d kinda be going against the holiday spirit, don’t you think?” Her smirk spreads as she looks at Hubert. “I’m sure it’s no great hardship.”
Hubert makes an undignified squeak. Surely Dorothea doesn’t know about last week. Although she is good friends with Ferdinand—but even he has to be more discreet than that—
Oh, Hubert is going make him regret this.
“All right, Ferdinand. Fine.” He bares his teeth in a vicious smile. “Happy holidays, right?”
Ferdinand swallows, shrinking into his shoulders as Hubert steps closer. “Um—precisely.”
Hubert grips his chin, locks eyes with him—waits for a faint nod from Ferdinand—then smashes his mouth to Ferdinand’s.
Ferdinand’s mouth opens immediately, and he fists at Hubert’s sweater, locking them together—then he’s sucking Hubert’s tongue into his mouth, and, oh, was this how it went last week, so with a snarl, Hubert straightens, drawing Ferdinand to him—
Ferdinand breaks away first with a gasp. And that gasp, delicious as it is, is regrettably the only noise Hubert hears then, aside from Bing Crosby somewhere in the distance, because every last one of their friends are staring at them open-mouthed—
“Wow. Have you guys been practicing that, or what?” Caspar asks, earning him a quick swat from Dorothea.
“So do they not hate each other anymore?” Petra asks, though Dorothea quickly shushes her.
Hubert lets go of Ferdinand hastily and smooths out his own sweater. “N-now that that’s settled.”
“R-right,” Ferdinand says, with an indignant lift of his chin.
Hubert stalks over to the bar to fix himself a drink, and slowly, the party resumes around him. But that mistletoe must have really worked its cursed poison—because now all he can think about is finding an opportunity to do that again.