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Ferdinand did not embark on married life with the slightest of expectations, save that he was quite willing to be surprised by venom and bone in the ice box on occasion, by pricking himself on knives in drawers that formerly held no sharp implements of any kind, and by the odd slime spell lurching around the parlor in search of lingering dust. Which is not at all different than his pre-married life, to be honest. But the point is this: he swore there were no unspoken promises to be broken, no dreams to be dashed beyond the hope of spending the rest of his life in Hubert’s forbidding presence.
Even so. He hoped for a certain…softening. Of the patterns of paranoia, of war, now that even the shadows have cleared and embraced the new dawn.
A regular sleep schedule is not asking too much, surely? And Ferdinand is not even asking! He is simply watching, and waiting, and holding his breath each night when his head hits the pillow in hopes that Hubert will join him earlier than the evening before. Maybe a day will arrive when Hubert no longer tastes every meal prepared by their own chef for tampering!
Hubert might even develop something that can properly be called a hobby! Ferdinand is not particularly fond of reptiles, but should Hubert so much as look twice at a pearly-coated lizard on their strolls through the market, Ferdinand would fall to his knees and beg the salesman to instruct him in proper care of the eerie beasts. Knives! Even knives would be lovely, as they could embark upon their study together, and Ferdinand has already spent too many hours dreaming of Hubert settling into a smithy as easily as a library and forging up baubles for Ferdinand’s approval. Gardening for deadly, devastatingly gorgeous blooms? Revising the popular magical texts that always draw such scoffs and grumbles of ire?
None of this occurs.
Hubert von Vestra simply does not soften with age. Hubert’s patterns wear into the fabric of Ferdinand’s life like anxious pacing upon a carpet, except they weave new warp and weft instead of fraying Ferdinand’s poor nerves to naught. Hubert is constant. And day by day, year by year, it is Ferdinand who relaxes.
But.
Ferdinand has no complaints, do not mistake him! It is only this simple, damning little word that chimes in his heart with such force. But.
He notices things. He cannot say what he notices, precisely, because he has no one to ask, and if he were to ask Hubert it would damn well result in every questioned moment up and vanishing forever behind a new wall of prickly austerity. Ferdinand cannot risk that. The things that he notices stick in his chest, and he thinks only, but.
Once, in the winter, Hubert’s hair grows long enough to brush the curve of those porcelain-pale shoulders, and Hubert moans so sweet when Ferdinand drags devoted fingers through each tumbling curl, bright-eyed in his wonder. The next morning all those soft curls lie hacked to pieces on the floor. Hubert gives no explanation beyond a derisive comment about Ferdinand’s superior locks, then drowns that baffling fit of self-disgust in the bitter dregs of yet another cup of coffee.
But it was beautiful. You are beautiful.
Every inch of Hubert remains immaculately planned whether they be inside or outside their home: precisely tailored, flawlessly ironed, and pristinely cleaned. Still, there comes a day when Ferdinand realizes tunics and robes have replaced every pair of indoor slacks that could once be found in Hubert’s drawers. Ferdinand could not be happier to see Hubert retire from the constriction of skintight breeches and the raw-red friction burns from one too many weapons strapped to wiry calf and thigh; indeed, he has half a mind to relax into skirts of his own, sink down before the fireplace in a whirl of silk and freedom. He invites Hubert to an evening stroll in their gardens, just the two of them and the moon, and Hubert stumbles on acceptance before hastening to the bedroom to change.
But I did not ask you to. You were so comfortable before I invited in the world.
At each diplomatic dinner and festive ball, there are always new faces for Ferdinand to greet into the fold. Hubert still lingers on the outskirts of any celebration, but when Ferdinand manages to spot his wayward spouse, he always drags the newcomers over for an introduction. And this is what truly stops Ferdinand’s heart in his chest. Because when Ferdinand presents Hubert as my husband, Hubert will give him a smile. And when Ferdinand instead presents my Hubert, Hubert gives a different smile. Reliably different! And they are both such very, very nice smiles. It is an honor to be smiled at in that way at all, truly.
But one smile is…more. And I want more for my Hubert, too.
Maybe that is why Ferdinand lets the final foundations of his own propriety crumble to dust on the wind, embracing the undiluted strangeness of one person living with another, two worlds on breathless collision. He fills every room, so that Hubert cannot worry about taking up space. He pursues hobbies of his own and seeks out old whimsies, anything that has spurred his heart another beat faster. The folk dances of Boramas occupy him for a season, and he takes on a Nuvellian patissier in the imperial kitchens for a full two years, refining his palette if not actually learning much beyond how to trim burnt edges from his eager attempts at macarons.
It is not indulgence. It is simply living the life he has been so blessed with.
There are also horses, of course. Ferdinand cannot strictly consider that a hobby, when there is no Ferdinand von Aegir without equestrian endeavors, but these days he devotes his unclaimed hours to the training and procurement of suitably even-tempered steeds for a growing stable that he funds. It gives jobs to cavalry unit staff displaced by the war’s end, housing to the retired warhorses, and free lessons to any child hoping to learn the ins and outs of dealing with the world’s most preeminently noble creatures.
It should not surprise Ferdinand when the offer comes: a sweet-tempered pegasus newly withdrawn from the flier corps. She had developed a bit of a spook over the years when other fliers veered too close, and it made her an ill-fit for peacetime drills and formations. Yet her placidity among casters is second to none, and she has been involved in so many aerial rescues over the years that she cares little about refusing any rider. She even allows Ferdinand to ride her around the paddock, if not the skies, while he gathers his thoughts and determines to purchase her outright.
Branching off into a flier program will take a few months of research yet, but in the meantime someone will need to oversee her care and coordinate her trainers.
But Hubert always wanted to fly.
It is simple enough to draw Hubert to the stables one afternoon after much of the staff has gone home. The paddock will need its magical netting draped from fence to fence if they are to ever allow a pegasus to graze freely, and Hubert has listened with uncommon attention ever since Ferdinand first proposed the flier school addition. Ferdinand mentions offhand that he will simply get some bishop to cast the spell, and Hubert snorts in instant derision.
“Faith will never chain the beasts. Only reason.”
“I have read—”
“You read wrong.”
Ferdinand huffs and tosses a dismissive hand. “Then perhaps you might demonstrate, expert that you are.”
And off they go. A perfectly executed plan.
Hubert has no great love for the stables. Though Ferdinand’s own warhorse eagerly accepted carrots from Hubert’s hands no matter how bloody, the stench of the mud and filth is the one wartime necessity Hubert has eagerly dispensed with. There are constant complaints as they stroll through the halls. It is not up to imperial standards—no surprise, seeing as it is cleaned primarily by children working their way towards grander responsibilities—and Ferdinand is terribly lucky that anyone has considered handing off a pegasus to him at all, considering his pitiful knowledge of their care.
“Are they not simply horses with wings?” Ferdinand asks in delicate ignorance, hiding his smile as they turn the corner to the newly occupied paddock.
Hubert stops.
“This is Libera.” Ferdinand means to stroll forward for a full introduction until Hubert’s hand catches his wrist and refuses to let go. “Come now. It would be impolite not to say hello.”
“She will spook,” Hubert says, voice oddly small.
“Nonsense. She is a consummate professional.”
When Hubert does not answer, and neither pulls away nor allows any approach closer to the pegasus daintily grazing in her enclosure, Ferdinand steps close to hook his chin over Hubert’s shoulder. The nearness does a little to ease that frantically beating heart. Ferdinand only hopes it does not tumble into anger instead.
There should be venom in it, when Hubert spits, “You did not tell me you’d already acquired one.”
But there is not. There is only that something that Ferdinand cannot catch, a tremble of butterfly’s wing and avalanche alike.
“If it is the flying that stops you,” Ferdinand reasons carefully, “Then have no fear. She is tucked soundly within her blankets and knows better than to take wing before we prepare the netting.”
After a moment without answer, Ferdinand presses a kiss to his lover’s tense jaw and tries again. “If it is something else, I will remind you her war record is as illustrious as our own. She even allowed me to harness her for a jaunt around the field.”
And a laugh, cold and bitter, barks from Hubert’s throat.
But how much more hateful it will be when she does not grant the same to me.
Ferdinand takes a step away, one hand settling on his hip in a stance that all but gives the oncoming lecture on its own. “She is the perfect training mount. Patient and calm. We will not have the program up and running for at least half a year yet. Would it not be best for all if Libera practiced her educational prowess on a student discerning enough to hone her skills?”
“You planned this.”
“Yes. This is your dream, is it not?” And Hubert has so very few of them. “Please, Hubert. It would mean everything for me to…”
Enable is not the correct word. Nor is indulge, or assist, or even witness. Ferdinand simply wishes for Hubert’s flourishing, but all Hubert will do is shake that doleful head.
“Maybe in another life.”
But why not this one?
Hubert’s gaze snaps to his in shock, as though Ferdinand actually said the words aloud, and…perhaps he did.
Might as well double down. “The war is over, Hubert. There is nothing stopping you. I will not allow there to be. I…I know it is surely not as simple as this, but whatever it is that prevents you from thriving to fullest measure…” Ah. Perhaps Ferdinand should not, in fact, have doubled down, seeing as there are now tears welling in his eyes. “You are my Hubert. And if you are going to follow your heart’s call in any life, I…I would so dearly like it to be this one. So I may share in your joy, as I have ever shared in your sorrow, and your work, and your—”
Hubert kisses him so swiftly his knees go weak, and then again when Ferdinand sputters for speech.
“Grand,” he manages to choke out, sinking into the circle of Hubert’s arms. “I have managed to make even this about myself. As always.”
There is no denying it, and Hubert does not try. They stand together for a little while as Ferdinand fights off the pangs of overblown egotism. It is for Hubert, yes. And it is for them, because that is what For Hubert means, and a marriage really is a terribly complicated thing in the end.
But it is so simple when Hubert at last pulls away. “You did this for me. In truth.”
It was not a question, yet still Ferdinand nods. “She is perfect. She will endure anyone’s fussing, and, well. You have an awful lot of fussing to give.”
“Well.” There is a soft dusting of pink at the tips of Hubert’s ears, fragile as cherry blossoms and twice as sweet. “No matter who is to ride her, she will need the netting to fly free at pasture. Hold her while I chart the boundaries.”
Libera’s nose twitches at the hint of magic on the wind. She is not interested by Ferdinand’s attempts to lure her in with an apple, and her dark eyes follow Hubert’s progress along the physical line of the fence. She nearly trots over for an investigation—Ferdinand has to leap the fence and distract her with an incomprehensible mash of clicks and orders, and more than once he hears Hubert’s shallow laughter at such woeful incompetence. The winged wretches must use a different set of commands than his more familiar friends. It is not Ferdinand’s fault that he lacks such knowledge.
It is certainly Ferdinand’s fault when he leans improperly into the joint of her wing, thinking it thoroughly protected beneath her weighted blanket, and ends up smacked in the face by a rush of feathers.
“Hold!”
Ferdinand tucks in against the clatter of hooves, yelping when the blanket slips from her back and falls upon him in a heap. He tries to roll away from the clomping and shouting and only manages to tangle himself further, and a moment later two thousand pounds of snorting equine thump to the ground aside him. On the edges of the blanket.
“Ah,” he hears Hubert say from above, “She appears to feel quite passionately about the netting.”
There is no use trying to squirm his way out; save for one boot poking free into the daylight, she has Ferdinand wrapped as well as a sausage. It is an accident. Surely. They are intelligent creatures, yes, but this is spite.
The background hum of magic cuts out. Libera snorts.
“Fly away if you wish. Nothing is stopping you.”
Nothing is stopping her from rolling and crushing Ferdinand beneath her, either. He stays perfectly still, even when he hears the soft brush of silk over stiff hair. Then Hubert’s footsteps move away.
“Ornery old maid, aren’t we. You may fool your new master but you do not fool me. Up. Come here.”
The bulk of her eases away from Ferdinand’s side, and the clop of her hooves follows. Ferdinand frees himself in a hurry, lest she return to roll his bones to unhappy dough, and is greeted with the sight of Libera gently licking at Hubert’s ink-stained palms. Her teeth clip dangerously near the bony fingers, but Hubert does not flinch.
“You didn’t say this one carried mages,” Hubert drawls, and it takes Ferdinand a moment to realize the words are for him, since Hubert uses the very same measured tone as with the damn pegasus.
“I did not know. What is the difference.”
“Reactivity. They can distinguish between a rider’s craft and an enemy’s. Without an introduction, enemy is all I am to her.”
“Wonderful for her. She will still need the netting.”
“Give me a week.”
Ferdinand opens his mouth to argue.
And closes it again. Oh. Oh. Yes, those are tears welling in his eyes once more. No matter that Hubert refuses to meet his watery gaze, staring only into Libera’s dark brown eyes.
“Wait here a moment. I have bribes enough to shave a few days off that timeline!”
If Ferdinand expects anything, it is to find Hubert standing outside the paddock upon his return, hands returned to their gloves and mouth twisted into a scowl, as if only so much nonsense could be endured in a single day. But Ferdinand has gotten very, very good at expecting nothing at all of his Hubert. So it is no surprise to find them right where he left them, if considerably more burdened, as Libera now leans her full weight against Hubert’s chest as she shows off her magnificent wingspan.
Grinning wide, Ferdinand jogs over with apples and hope enough to spare.