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The sky was still a light charcoal when the battle ended. With a horrific, wet thud, Byleth's sword carved a head from a body. The moon was just rising red when Edelgard died—though it wasn't really her, not anymore.
Ferdinand looked away, leaning on his lance for support. He knew that the Edelgard he'd known was long gone. It didn't stop the scabs opening him up from the inside once again. The pain in all their voices, begging him to come back. Hurt and anger and disappointment staring out at him as he walked away.
He couldn't stay here. Not while her blood cooled on the tiles. Not while her head lay metres from her neck. The way she had looked at him when they'd all barged in: eyes cold, body disfigured by sheets of metal. There had been no recognition in those eyes.
Somehow, that hurt more than anything else she could have looked at Ferdinand with.
Staggering away, he threw himself onto the balcony outside of the throne room. Below, the city burned bright against the night. He wondered how many livelihoods were being destroyed as he stood. Setting fire to her own city. It was madness. She had gone mad. She had turned into that…thing in the throne room. The Edelgard he had loved was long-gone.
And now she was dead.
Ferdinand put his face in his hands, slapping his cheeks softly. He knew it wasn't his fault, not at all. But still, he couldn't help wondering: would she have been alright if he had just stayed?
The familiar flare of a spell from behind him. A deep, gravelly voice. "You."
He whirled, hands going to his lance automatically.
Ferdinand and Hubert stared each other down. Magic tessellated around Hubert’s hands: shards rolling in on themselves to become spirals, whorls of purple not-light, sucking energy in from the air itself. He’d learned to style his hair properly, Ferdinand thought belatedly. The thought after that was that he looked all the more handsome for it, but he couldn’t linger on that one.
Ferdinand’s lance was pointed at Hubert’s throat before he could so much as even think of lifting his arms. “I came back.” He smiled, grimly. “Hello, old friend.”
Hubert laughed in his face, shining with dark gravitas. Ferdinand had always thought he had the perfect evil villain laughter. “Must you be so dramatic?” Hubert asked, sneering.
“I would ask the same of you,” Ferdinand retorted imperiously. He hefted the lance, its blade drifting closer to Hubert’s throat. “But, there is no time for idle conversation.”
Ignoring his advice, Hubert said, “You are aware that I could have you bleeding before you could do anything with that useless thing.” He smirks faintly. “And you never bested me anyway.”
Ferdinand’s chest was tight. How long ago were those school days? The Ferdinand of then seemed so distinct from the Ferdinand of now, the one with a weapon to his old friend's throat. He felt a shudder building, trying to keep the tremble from his hands.
But Hubert saw. Hubert always saw.
He moved faster than Ferdinand could see. One moment he was in front of him, the next he was beside him. An arm wrapped around his neck. A not-glowing hand hovering somewhere beside his head. Hubert’s breath warm on his ear, tickling in a way he didn’t want to think too long about.
He could hear the smirk twisting Hubert’s mouth when he murmured, “What did I say?” Ferdinand was all too aware of the new strength in Hubert’s grip. Of the heat emanating off his body as he held him close. His heart beat a frantic drum in his chest, quickening his breath.
Still, he clutched the lance tighter. Hubert’s arm flexed, drawing him closer still. “Move again, and I’ll burn all the hairs from your head.”
It was Ferdinand’s turn to laugh. “You loved this hair, didn’t you?”
Ferdinand eyed the spell as Hubert’s hand shifted closer. “You are as delusional as always,” he said, voice as blank as ever. But Ferdinand didn’t miss the hitch in his voice. The flex of his long, spindly fingers against Ferdinand’s spaulder.
Ferdinand seized his arm. Spun out of his grip, jumped the spell. The stone railing exploded where he’d been standing a moment before. His lance clattered to the ground. As Hubert muttered the incantation for the next spell, Ferdinand seized him by the ridiculous collar and had him against the wall. Breathing hard, he asked, “If it wasn’t the hair that you loved, then what was it?”
Rather than denying it as Ferdinand was expecting, Hubert just smirked. “You are relentlessly optimistic. Stiflingly so, sometimes. Even so, I’d always considered it your…best quality.”
Ferdinand blinked. “In all the years I have known you…Are you alright? Did I hit your head too hard?” He squeezed Hubert’s throat a little tighter. “I will never allow you to get under my skin.”
Hubert rolled his eyes, sneer curling his lips. “I take it back. Your current witlessness is an unfortunate side-effect of such optimism.” He ran a sudden hand up Ferdinand’s chest. Up his neck, to cup his face. Ferdinand shivered, leaning into it without a thought. “Even a child knows better than to leave their enemy’s hands unattended.”
Ferdinand’s heart sunk as he felt the sharp prod of a knife at his side. “I’ll—I’ll kill you regardless.” He willed his grip on Hubert to tighten, feeling the flex of his neck beneath his fingers.
“You’re assuming I won’t just gut you where you stand.” Ferdinand forced his gaze to harden as he stared Hubert in the eyes. They were as impassive as always. “And I doubt you could really kill me, soft as you always were.”
The prod did not work the way Hubert had probably intended it to, because Ferdinand just clenched his teeth and squeezed harder. He did it until Hubert let out a choked wheeze. Sighing grimly, Ferdinand said, “You were saying?”
Hubert scoffed, though Ferdinand did not miss the bobbing of his throat. “It seems we are at an impasse then. Your friends”—he said it with a wrinkle of his nose—“are inside. You are out here. Would they find you before you bled to death?” He smiled, the expression handsome despite its blackness. “Or would you die from the poison first?”
Ferdinand leaned closer, so close that their noses were nearly touching. Hubert smelled of coffee. Acrid, slightly burnt, with an undertone of sweetness. What had he said, those five years ago? That Ferdinand had a surprisingly keen nose for coffee?
They’d spent afternoons drinking the stuff. He remembered. Maybe Hubert would remember too.
“I—I don’t wish to kill you, Hubert,” he said softly. Hubert’s face did not change, though Ferdinand could’ve swore he twitched when he called him by his name.
“Then that’s too bad for you,” he hissed. Still, Ferdinand did not feel the nick of a knife on his skin.
He pressed on. “Can we start over?” He meant it, more than he’d ever meant anything he’d said to this man. Mornings, afternoons, evenings: all spent over a pot of tea or coffee. Talking, arguing, debating one another. He had never admitted to Hubert—and he suspected, hoped, that Hubert had never admitted to him—that he had enjoyed his company.
Hubert was laughing again, head thrown back in Ferdinand’s face. He couldn’t look anywhere but his mouth. “From where? We were doomed from the very beginning.”
“Don’t say that!” Ferdinand interrupted. “We were friends. We were friends, weren’t we?” You loved me, didn’t you?
Hubert’s eyes were cold as he stared Ferdinand down. “Unfortunately for the both of us, yes.” And he knew it wasn’t a confession, but it felt like one. He wanted it to be one. Hubert continued, “But you killed my Lady. You killed everyone, Ferdinand. You’ve killed everyone but me.” Ferdinand hadn’t meant to give Hubert his heart just then. But now it was dashed to pieces on the stones.
“No!” His lungs were too tight, chest too small for the heart bursting from his ribcage. “No, no, I didn’t. I never lifted a blade against them.”
Something like anger leaked into the set of Hubert’s brows. “You lifted a blade against them as soon as you turned your back on us.”
The words were cold. So cold that they froze Ferdinand where he was, staring helplessly. What could he say to that? What was there to say, with Dorothea and Petra’s bodies lining the tiles inside. The false-Edelgard’s white hair stained red with her own blood. Bernadetta charred on Gronder Field. Caspar and Linhardt left in the burning rubble of Fort Merceus. His old friends, all dead and buried.
Maybe he could’ve saved them.
But he was saving himself. He did what he needed to do.
Duke Aegir, his father, had not even been killed by his own hand. Edelgard had robbed him of that victory, as she had robbed him of every triumph since his birth. And declaring war on the entire continent? Conquering the rest of Fódlan? There were other ways to achieve her goals, ones that didn’t require the level of bloodshed she had wrought.
So, staring into the frigid fury of Hubert’s face, the last true member of the Black Eagle Strike Force, Ferdinand set his lips in a line. Opened his mouth to say all of this to him.
He’d been expecting Hubert to cut him off; he always did. But what he hadn’t been expecting was how he’d done it. Not with the knife, or a wave of a hand, or even his own voice. No, Hubert von Vestra—his eternal rival next to Edelgard, the man who had antagonised him for his entire childhood only to become a tentative friend, the one he had sworn would never ever get under his skin—kissed him. It was a hard kiss, an angry one. It burned with the ferocity of a five year absence.
And it lasted for a second. Then Ferdinand was wrestling him away, shoving him back against the wall.
They fought, hands flying. Ferdinand caught his wrist, the one belonging to the hand holding the knife. Hubert twisted, but Ferdinand held strong, even as the tiny dagger cut through the fabric of his gloves. He kicked Hubert’s legs, and he collapsed. The knife flew out of his hands, skidding to teeter on the edge of the balcony. But it was too late. It had already scratched a long gouge down the back of his hand.
Absently, he thought that it was lucky it hadn’t been his tea-drinking hand.
Then, Ferdinand shuddered. Fell to his knees beside Hubert, who was looking at him with abject horror. He couldn’t stop shaking. The metallic smell of blood was strong, but not stronger than the acidic taste of poison. It vaguely smelt of coffee.
In his state of delusion, Ferdinand laughed. The irony of dying to Hubert by poisoned coffee.
“Now is not the time for laughing!” Hubert was holding his face with one hand, slapping him. “Sit up,” he commanded.
Ferdinand did as he said, letting him prop him against the stone wall. He had never seen Hubert so frazzled. He wanted to ask why he was still here. Hadn’t he done what he wanted? He’d avenged Edelgard. After all, it was Ferdinand’s fault that she was gone.
If he’d stayed, he could’ve guided her back. He could’ve told her all that he was about to tell Hubert now. They could have negotiated. They could have won. They could’ve saved everyone.
He told Hubert this in fits and bursts, as the man tore apart his pockets. “What are you looking for?” he slurred. The stars were coming out above Hubert’s head, though he was blocking out most of them. When had he been in Hubert’s lap?
“You are useless! Didn’t I tell you the blade was poisoned?” he snapped. Bottles and daggers clattered onto the floor.
Ferdinand felt vaguely affronted by his anger. “You kissed me,” he murmured. He also didn’t need to add that he was the one who’d had the poisoned knife in the first place. “Why are you angry at me?”
“Because you’re ridiculously more handsome and idiotic than you were five years ago, and I—and I—” He cut himself off, meeting Ferdinand’s eyes. “I can save you.”
He began peeling the glove off Ferdinand’s right hand. His head lolled as he turned to stare at it. The blood had seeped through the fabric. It was ruined. The thought rankled him, and he tried to snatch it back.
“Don’t move!” Hubert’s voice fractured as he seized Ferdinand’s hand, inspecting the wound. He was a splintered man now, his true essence revealed. Parts of him spilling all over the place. It seems those five years had more of a toll on him than Ferdinand had thought. Hubert had, after all, kissed him.
“I can save you. I can save you.” He was repeating it to himself, a mantra to steel himself. Ferdinand wanted to tell him that it was okay, but his tongue had become leaden in his mouth.
He whipped to face Ferdinand, pale eyes wide as he stared at him. “I’ll suck the poison from the wound. It can’t have gone far, not if I cut your hand.” He seemed to be saying it more for himself, than anything.
Ferdinand distantly thought that this might not be a good idea. He tried to tell Hubert this, but he ended up just drooling on himself. He would probably be embarrassed about that later.
Hubert’s lips were soft on Ferdinand’s skin. This was not at all how he’d envisioned this going, Ferdinand thought. All those years spent in the cold of the Kingdom or the swampy humidity of the Alliance territory, trying not to think of Hubert and then thinking of him too much. He hadn’t imagined that he would have his lips on a wound, sucking poison out of his bloodstream.
It was idiotic at best, downright suicidal at worst. Either Ferdinand died, or both of them died.
He tried to wrench his hand out of Hubert’s grip. His nails dug into Ferdinand’s skin, holding him there. “If you move it’ll make it worse,” Hubert hissed. “And if you’re concerned about me dying, then don’t be. It’s not enough of a dose to be able to kill two men.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “At least, I don’t think so.”
Ferdinand stared at his lips, painted red with his own blood. Then he was struggling to sit up, a hand reaching out to brush Hubert’s hair from his face. He kissed him, softly, trying not to taste the blood and poison on his lips. This was a real kiss, or at least as real as it could be with the blood. It was gentle, holding none of the resentment that either of them had nursed for years.
When he leaned back, Hubert’s cheeks had gone pink. Ferdinand felt strangely lucid. “I’m sorry for leaving,” he whispered. The words didn’t slur too badly.
“Be quiet,” Hubert said, not ungently. Then he had Ferdinand’s hand back against his mouth, tongue lapping at the blood he was drawing from the wound. Ferdinand tried to slow his breathing. Find something else to stare at. Otherwise he would just think about Hubert dying. It was not something he wished to dwell on.
The moon was still red, now hanging suspended above them like an omen of death. He wondered if he would die here, lying in Hubert’s lap. It didn’t seem as if he was doing anything. He looked wobbly himself now. Ferdinand could feel the pressure of his lips lessening.
Finally, Hubert let go of his hand. Fell beside him. Red trailing down his face.
Ferdinand reached for his hand. With the other, the one still oozing blood, he reached out to wipe it off Hubert’s lips. “Thank you,” Ferdinand whispered.
Hubert nodded. A tear leaked sideways out of his eye, quickly followed by another. “What were you saying before?” Ferdinand asked.
He squeezed his eyes shut, tears still leaking from beneath his eyelids. When he opened them, his pupils had dilated, filling his irises in. Lips shivering, Hubert said, “I missed you.”
Ferdinand smiled. It was his first real smile of the night. “I started drinking coffee regularly.”
“And I, tea.” Hubert returned his smile with a true one too. He was radiant. “I’ve spent every night since regretting not dragging you back.”
“And I wished that I had found a way to stay.” Ferdinand pressed a kiss to Hubert’s forehead. He shivered beneath his lips, skin clammy. Maybe they would die here together. The idea settled itself in Ferdinand’s chest, made itself comfortable. It felt right, somehow.
Hubert smiled up at him, eyes still glassy. “If we live, you don’t suppose you’d want to have a drink together? I found a shipment of your favourite tea.”
Ferdinand nestled his face against the side of Hubert’s neck. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open. “I would love that, thank you.” Hubert wrapped limp arms around him. Ferdinand squeezed him gently. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”
He felt Hubert nod against him. Felt his lips press softly to his head. Eyes drooping, Ferdinand let the oncoming blackness swallow him up. It held the faint aroma of coffee.
*
They were two men undone. Unwound until all that was left was their very essences. Stripped bare of five years of pain and anger and regret. It hurt, horribly so. Still, it was enough. It had been enough.
When Ferdinand awoke, it was to the smell of his favourite tea. And there he was. Standing at the door of the infirmary, a teapot in his hands.
Hubert smiled in his odd, lopsided way. He hadn’t ever learnt how to smile properly, but Ferdinand couldn’t hold that against him. Not when his smile stirred the warmth in him that it did.
Ferdinand beamed back.
They had tea together, for the first time in five years. It was the best tea Ferdinand had had in a long, long time. And when Hubert kissed his hand, properly this time, Ferdinand didn’t feel the stab of guilt that had haunted him for years. He may not have been forgiven yet, but he was on the way.
All was well. The room smelled of tea. It sounded of laughter. Two men broken by a war were healing, in one another’s company. This was the sweetness that laced the bitterness of reuniting. If you held the tea in your mouth for long enough, the taste of happiness would seep overwhelmingly onto your tongue.