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In the pre-dawn hours of eerie silence, a spectre swept through the palace. He appeared out of dark particles and a cold-burning magic in the west wing, a shroud of shadow that swept into the Emperor's quarters to deposit a blood-spotted scroll.
From there his path was well worn; and predicted each morning by whispering servants and not-so-subtle stablehands.
Ferdinand's hair was a spillage of sunset strewn across the papers of his desk. The lantern-light set him aglow, gave life to the radiance within; carried always, with or without tricks of the light. His head rested with folded arms as a pillow, eyes closed and moving under his eyelids.
Hubert lingered by the doorway, black-gloved hand resting on it's frame. It was enough, he told himself, to let the rise and fall of Ferdinand's chest be a comfort. To watch as he smiled at whatever mad scenario unfurled in the land of dreams, as his lips parted in a sigh. The Prime Minister was indeed alive and his simultaneously his ludicrous self. And that was enough.
He turned on his heel and took one step on his journey to his quarters in the east wing, where he could take off his gloves and sink into the mattress for a scant few hours before it all began again. Ensuring the right shade of red was selected for Her Majesty's new ceremonial gown, listening to the latest set of whispers while cleaning his knives, taking tea with the Prime Minister under the pretense of going over the banquet seating plans just one more time...
Hubert cursed under his breath as he made his way over to the sleeping storybook prince, loomed over him. Brushed an errant stand of hair from his face, fingers lingering on his cheek.
“I am so happy,” Ferdinand sighed, nuzzling into the touch. Dreamlike and beautiful, he smiled that guileless smile; breathing still even, body still slack with sleep.
Hubert withdrew his hand, stared at that smile until the warmth of it became to much and he forced his eyes to look over the loose papers: drafts of some sort, written in an dainty, looping letters.
Today, we celebrate the reforging of traditions; a victory for all who believe in love. These pillars of the Empire – your Empire, the people's Empire – unite not for any other reason but the truest of loves, as devoted to each other as they are to the betterment of all. I urge you to purge any doubt from your hearts, and embrace the truth of love in this new world.
The neat lines through many an adjective indicated an early draft, and Ferdinand's earnest voice leapt off the page and into Hubert's imagination. He could see it: weeks from now, Ferdinand raising his glass and glancing moon-eyed at the Emperor and her teacher, projecting these words with such grace and conviction that he swayed half the room at least. Ferdinand was born for speeches of sentiment, gave every ounce of himself to his words. Every positive quality of his aligned in perfect harmony.
Ferdinand let out another sweet sigh, and Hubert could not fight the upturn of his own lips. These sentiments, his hands itched with the urge to write them all down in his slanted script. To make another attempt to write the aria he could not sing, add to the thousand crumpled pieces given to the hearth of his study unfinished and unsigned. Fuel to fire, unfit for a certain pair of noble eyes.
As he was unfit, to be under noble hands as he dreamed. It was only fitting that the layer of leather remained between his fingertips and the delicate skin of Ferdinand's wrist, the sense of his pulse. It was protection, for one of them. For both of them.
“Mmm...” Ferdinand stirred. The words slipped out the side of his mouth, sleepy little murmurs. “I am Ferdinand...”
Hubert shook his head and withdrew his touch. The smile on his face was fond, painfully so, reminded of times when their swords were wooden and a certain brat would cry out his own name at the start of every battle as if it were a rallying cry. His attachment to it had waned in the following years, in the tearing down of convention and titles and the fall of countless houses. But it seemed it slipped into dreams and out of his lips in sleep, which gave no end of amusement-
“I am Ferdinand von Vestra.”
Hubert choked.
“What?”
He couldn't breathe. It felt like the walls were closing in around him, every muscle in his body contracting as the sleepy murmur echoed in his head. Ferdinand was smiling, still out to it in whatever depraved monstrosity of a dream he was having.
Reason took a moment to kick in and nip any conclusions he'd started to jumping to in the bud: of course Ferdinand would dream of weddings, they'd both been drowning in the plans for the Emperor's for weeks, seating plans and menu drafts, dress fabric and invitations and the scent of tea and coffee mixed together as they ran the numbers and fretted over every little thing. Working together in close proximity, Hubert as a candidate for such dreams made a certain kind of sense. Dreams were outside of his control, it didn't mean anything. It couldn't be construed as evidence, not like the way Ferdinand's face bloomed into a blush when the backs of their gloves touched or his effervescent grin when Hubert entered a room.
There was no conceivable reality in which Ferdinand returned his feelings.
“Hubert?” Ferdinand mumbled, amber eyes open and fixed on his late-night visitor.
He frowned in earnest concern and Hubert's chest tightened.
“What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost?” Ferdinand stretched into a sitting position.
His nightshirt was a translucent white in the flickering light, no matter how loose and flowing it was it left little of Ferdinand's chest to the imagination. Hubert forced his eyes to Ferdinand's drooping eyes and sleep-dishevelled hair, his damned beautiful face.
“Only a child would believe in ghosts,” Hubert snapped, and felt the sudden urge to strike his own forehead.
“It is just an expression, darling.” Ferdinand yawned, quick to cover his mouth with his hand. “Did your mission go well?”
“That's classified information,” Hubert said by rote, but he paused . “Although, perhaps I mean to say... it could be considered a success.”
“Wonderful! Tell me all about it at tea tomorrow,” Ferdinand beamed like it really, truly was wonderful – as if he was no longer deterred by the idea of clandestine dealings in the dark despite knowing more about them than ever before...
Hubert pursed his lips, looking for Ferdinand's tells in his expressions. He could find none, though the smile soon faltered.
“Are you not going to scold me for falling asleep at my desk?” Ferdinand asked.
A sound assumption, not uncommon. Perhaps he would have, perhaps he could have if he was not busy waiting for Ferdinand to ask other questions.
Hubert raised his eyebrow. “Are you not going to ask what I'm doing in your chambers at this hour?”
“Would you tell me if I did ask?” Ferdinand's smile returned, intolerably fond. He tucked a lock of his hair behind his ears as he looked up, ensuring their eyes met. “It's certainly not for the reason the maidservants seem to think. I believe I'd be aware if we were having a scandalous affair.”
The latter words had Hubert scarcely avoiding choking on his own spittle. Scandalous affair, and said with such an air of casual mirth.
“Yes, yes you would be,” Hubert agreed, frozen and unblinking.
Ferdinand simply smiled. A small thing, soft and sweet and bitter. Hubert gazed into those amber eyes and found a torrent of troubled thoughts. Of what, he couldn't say. Couldn't know, couldn't bring himself to ask. Whatever they were, the prime minister turned back to face his desk.
Left Hubert staring at the way his hair flowed down his back, untamed. The hint of skin visible through the nightshirt, muscles moving as Ferdinand pushed in the chair he'd fallen asleep in.
It was decidedly not one of their comfortable silences, more a stretching tension measured in shallow breaths and flickers of the candelight.
“I know, Hubert. You come here to check on me,” Ferdinand said, almost offhand, as he stacked the papers on his desk. “The prime minister would be a logical choice for those who slither in the dark to impersonate. If our positions were reversed, I supposed I would be suspicious of me as well.”
Ferdinand's hand tided the stacks of papers, ever-restless. A familiar point to fix on as Hubert's heart hammered. Misconceptions. An easy out, a plausible excuse. It would be so simple to agree.
“That is... a reasonable conclusion,” Hubert managed to get out, “Only it's not the... correct one.”
Ferdinand stopped moving. “It isn't?”
“No, I-” Simply need to know that you are breathing, alive and well before I can sleep. “-simply know you are incapable of caring for yourself. How do you imagine you end up in your bed on those numerous nights you fall asleep at your desk? Magic?” Hubert postured, he pinched the bridge of his nose in feigned contempt.
“Oh,” Ferdinand let the sound out, air rushing out as if he had been holding his breath. “Really?”
Hubert's hand fell limp to his side, his gesture thankfully unseen.
“Yes,” Little more than a whisper, truth prevailed. “Really.”
The room – the world, that particular instance of time and all things before and after brightened as Ferdinand turned back around, his delight beyond description.
“You worry about me,” Ferdinand gloated like a child who had learned a salacious secret, only sweeter. Biting down on his lip with wide, bright eyes.
Hubert huffed, and looked away. The tilt of his head had his hair falling in his eyes, stealing Ferdinand from his peripheral vision. For the better, perhaps. To linger upon such an expression was to stare too long into too-bright lantern-light.
“I worry about how close your hair ends up to still lit candles, paper strewn around as you toss in your sleep,” Hubert frowned, mind racing. There had to be a way to diffuse the the situation, fight back the sentiment that lingered, stuck in his throat. “I worry about enduring your back pain complaints if you too often spend the night hunched over your desk. You – you are such a bother, Ferdinand von Aegir.”
A half-beat of silence was left in the wake of his words, preceded by peals of laughter. Ferdinand clutches his stomach with both hands as he laughed, loud and warm; not mocking for a moment. If the sight was not so captivating, perhaps the spymaster would have fled.
“That might, haha, oh Goddess-” Ferdinand shook his head, straightening his posture and attempting to curtail the laughter, before clearing his throat with a cough. “That might just be the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”
Then I have failed you miserably , sang a voice in the back of his mind, melancholy. It was enough to break the spell, set a scowl across his face. Whatever unholy force had held him in place relinquished its grasp, and the sensation propelled Hubert to turn with a flourish of his cloak.
“Hubert, wait-”
Hubert made for the door with large strides, knowing no words could stop him.
Fingers encircling his wrist, he was not expecting. Could not combat.
It happened in slow motion. It happened, rather like it was happening to someone else. Ferdinand was before him, smiling. A gloved hand – that was, a distant voice reminded Hubert, attached to his own body – was lifted from underneath, lifted by Ferdinand until his lips pressed to the glove's – to Hubert's knuckles.
“Thank you,” Ferdinand murmured into the leather, pressing another kiss. “For watching over me. For all of your work, such thankless tasks.”
Hubert knew he physically could not feel the lips between the cursed barrier – no matter how it they seemed scald him. He swallowed, hard, and couldn't help but notice the way Ferdinand's eyes fixed on the motion in his throat.
Hesitant, he pulled his hand from Ferdinand's gentle grasp and the threat of yet another kiss.
“To see their results is thanks enough,” he managed to reply, halfway between the door-frame and the hall. “I- I bid you goodnight.”
The close of the door behind his fleeing footsteps, the muffled sound he took as returned farewells, the closed-curtains and shadows of guards blurred with the speed of his movement. But could not run from his thoughts, and the way the strange conversation and dream-murmurs would play over and over in his mind until sleep at last dragged him under. From the looming realisation of world-shattering proportions, a shift in perception that could prove quite troublesome.
Perhaps there was a conceivable reality in which Ferdinand von Aegir returned his feelings.
-
A note left on The Prime Minister's desk, the following morning:
' In regards to saying 'nice' things, it isn't as if I don't have them to say. In my defence, the ban you personally imposed on snakes singing arias leaves me little opportunity to extol your virtues. Lift the prohibition if you dare.
- H'