Chapter Text
If there is one thing Her Majesty’s retainer abhors, it is distractions.
(There are many things he abhors. But he is presently finding distractions to be . . . particularly distracting.)
So as spring bleeds into summer and the poorly-ventilated, thick-stoned walls of the former monastery’s council room conspire to distract him most grievously in the form of General Aegir clumsily attempting to lift his long, wavy locks off of his neck.
He tries wrapping the hair around a quill, and then pinning the quill into place, but the resulting bun just collapsed. He tries braiding it, but over the course of their long morning meeting, the braid unravels, sticking to his sweat-damp neck. Finally, he fathers it all up into his white-gloved fist, and holds it out to one side.
It isn’t just the fidgeting that Hubert finds distracting—though that’s certainly a part. No, he is additionally vexed by that long expanse of pale neck exposed by said hair, dewy skin vanishing down beneath a high collar. And while Hubert might, under ordinary circumstances, find it easy to ignore the many times he has contemplated that neck and how it might feel beneath his fingertips—how fresh and soft it might taste on his lips—Ferdinand’s constant movements keep drawing his attention to it, particularly as it pinkens from the heat and sweat.
So when Her Majesty adjourns their strategy session for a brief break for lunch, Hubert knows precisely what he must do.
“Something lovely for a lady?” the shopkeep asks him, as he browses the market stalls. “Maybe something to match her dress, or pretty eyes . . .”
Hubert makes a face at her as he scans her spools of ribbons and lace trim. “I think green or burgundy will do.”
“You’ve an excellent eye, sir. Maybe this lovely bit of red velvet?”
Hubert studies the spool she’s holding out; then, sheepish, peels off the glove of his right hand. His chest tightens as he rubs his bare fingers against the short nap of the velvet, sumptuous and indulgent—
With an embarrassed flush, he jams his hand back into its glove. “That will do.”
Once he returns to the monastery, he catches Ferdinand outside the meeting chambers and beckons him over. “General. Might I speak with you in my office before we reconvene?”
Ferdinand blinks, eyebrows raising, but nods. The poor man looks positively wilted from the heat, Hubert notes, as he ushers him away from the other council members’ eyes. He is only doing a kindness he would do any member of the empire in a similar situation.
“Please.” Hubert closes his office door behind them. “Have a seat.”
Ferdinand settles into the guest chair, but twists back to look at Hubert. “Vestra? What’s this all about?”
Hubert thrusts his hand into the paper sack and withdraws the red ribbon; as he holds it out to Ferdinand, he forces himself to look away. “Does this meet with your approval?”
“I . . . Yes? It’s a lovely hue. But I don’t understand—”
Hubert nods, decisive, and begins to remove his gloves. “Might you allow me to—” And here his confident tone falters—“to, ah, braid your hair?” In a rush, he adds, “I did notice it was troubling you.”
“Oh.” The hushed quality to Ferdinand’s voice reels him in—but he mustn’t be distracted, not now, when he’s so close to resolving this inconvenience. “I would . . . like that. Yes.”
And so Hubert parts his hair into three, and tries not to dwell too much on the rich ripple of silky curls against his bare palms as he works. He fashions the braid so that it coils back on itself to keep it off of Ferdinand’s neck. And that tender sweep of his fingers against said nape—that sensation he will have to examine better on his own.
At last he ties it off with the ribbon. “There we are. That should help.”
Before he can step back, though, Ferdinand’s gloved hand reaches up to catch his bare one. Hubert stifles a cry as their fingers lace together; as Ferdinand’s hand tightens on his own in a steady squeeze.
“Thank you,” Ferdinand murmurs, and turns to face him.
And now his whole face is flush as his neck, his lips so lovely and ripe—
“Minister Vestra, might I—” Ferdinand swallows. “Perhaps you will join me for tea once our meetings are done for the day? Or we could take supper togeth—”
“Yes,” Hubert breathes, far too hastily.
But Ferdinand’s bashful smile rewards him amply. “Then I shall look forward to it.”
And so, for all his effort, Hubert has found two new distractions in the afternoon portion of their meeting: red velvet nestled in copper locks, and the promise of the evening to come.