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Hubert gives a gentle tug to Wellington’s leash the moment he sees that long snout dive for a pile of dead leaves gathered around the base of the old oak tree. Ferdinand’s rough collie—one-hundred twenty pounds of lean, lanky muscle and a thick double coat of hair—has a singular talent for unearthing the most mystifying quantities of discarded food on their walks around the Capitol Hill neighborhood, and Hubert would rather not have to spend Christmas Eve at the emergency vet clinic because he’s unearthed another entire jalapeño-sriracha pizza or triple chocolate layer cake. “Your father would be most cross with me as well,” Hubert tells him, steering them back onto the sidewalk. “And I would much prefer tonight to go smoothly.”
Wellington prances back toward Hubert and rubs up against his thighs, depositing another layer of thick white and brown overcoat on Hubert’s charcoal wool slacks. Hubert can only smile and give him a hearty buttscritch before they continue on. The bare tree branches knit together over the residential street above them like the ribs of a cathedral, and a thin wind rattles them, making Hubert hunch deeper into his coat.
Hard to believe it’s been two years now since he was nervously treating Ferdinand to their first Christmas together at his old place back at the District Wharf; yet in those two years, it’d be easier to list the few things that haven’t changed in their lives. Ferdinand, mainly. The rush of warmth his bright smile sends down Hubert’s spine every time it turns his way. He still hasn’t tired of it, and given the way they’ve been locked in together for nearly two years of pandemic now, that’s truly saying something.
“What do you think, Wellington?” Hubert asks, subconsciously patting the lump hidden in his trouser pocket. “Do you suppose your father will say yes?”
Wellington’s ears swivel as he listens to Hubert, but otherwise he offers no reply.
Hubert sighs, and turns as they reach the gated entrance to the courtyard of Ferdinand’s townhouse. “We’ll just have to find out.”
Ferdinand’s house is a stately, sumptuous reminder of an older time, much like its owner. Three pre-war stories and a finished basement of brick painted a deep burgundy shade with black trim. Black wrought iron fencing contains the artfully messy front yard of Japanese maples, overflowing bushes, and a two-person bench discreetly tucked behind foliage, where Hubert will sometimes sit to Teams chat with Edelgard and their employees while he watches the exhausted, masked congressional staffers wander past under Wellington’s watchful eye.
Well—Hubert used to do that, at least. After what happened this January, he was barely able to leave the inner rooms of the townhouse for months, leaving Wellington-walking and grocery-buying duties solely to Ferdinand. It wasn’t that he was afraid, Hubert told himself repeatedly. But he was. The hours-long siege, the constant wail of sirens and drone of helicopters overhead, the National Guard troops stationed on every intersection for the next few weeks with their armored cars and gun mounts, and yet the rest of the world pretended as if nothing had happened at all . . . It was fear, it was exhaustion, it was acceptance that nothing might ever get better, that this would be their life from now on if they were lucky, that it might only get markedly worse.
But wasn’t the Hresvelg Group actively working to fight it? Wasn’t he doing everything he could? It’s all Hubert can do, is give his everything to his work. And at least now, when he’s been awake for thirty hours tweaking and typing at proposals and media kits and draft legislation and—always—his meticulously researched files of political dirt, there’s Ferdinand, to drape a blanket over his shoulder, or bring him a coffee, or a whiskey, or both, or often—to scoop him up and carry him, forcibly, to bed.
Their bed.
Hubert unlocks the front door with his heart lodged in his throat. His gift hardly seems sufficient to express his gratitude, his affection, his devotion. But perhaps it can be, at least, a starting point.
He unclips Wellington, who noses the vestibule door open and bounds through it to hunt down Ferdinand while Hubert hangs up his scarf and coat, wriggles out of his boots, tucks his surgical mask away. The unbearably mouthwatering scent of mulled wine floods the townhouse as he heads inside, socks lightly sliding on the polished dark wood flooring. The house’s pre-war grandeur is on full display, ornate crown moulding and dark brocade papering the walls, but it’s also overflowing with hints of Ferdinand everywhere: photographs, art purchased from their friends, equestrian tchotchkes, slightly mismatched furniture cobbled from estate sales and discreet plundering of his parents’ place in the dead of night. In the over two years they’ve been together, Ferdinand’s father still refuses to meet with them, which is just as well. He can’t think of anyone whose opinion on himself or Ferdinand matters less.
“There you are!” Ferdinand chirps as Hubert makes his way back to the kitchen. Ferdinand’s dressed in dark green corduroy pants and a red knit sweater covered with tiny cross-stitch ponies frolicking in the snow. He also has a pastry bag in one hand and a spatula in the other, and a smear of almond flour on his nose, and the kitchen’s track lighting gleaming off the messy bun of his copper hair makes him look, as always, like a goddamned angel.
“Here I am.” Hubert leans over Wellington, who’s wriggled between them, and kisses at the almond flour on Ferdie’s nose before turning to survey the barely-organized madness covering the kitchen counters. “Gracious. We’re going to be eating leftovers for weeks.”
Ferdinand sighs as he returns to piping icing. “I know, I know. But it was the right choice, to cancel plans with all the ladies. I’d really been hoping for a somewhat normal holiday this year, but . . .”
He doesn’t bother finishing his thought. They’re both tired of saying it, tired of thinking it. Almost two years of quarantining and isolation and stress and anxiety ratcheting up inside them like a held breath. They did as they knew they should, and got their shots, got their boosters, and instead have been rewarded with the threat of a new variant and surging infection rates.
It was easier to believe they were safe, before. Easier to pretend that their vigilant masking and sequestration was making a difference, that they personally were not getting anyone sick or getting sick themselves when their world shrank down to the four-block region of Capitol Hill that contained the townhouse, the bodega, the yuppie grocery store and pharmacy and an Ethiopian restaurant they felt safe picking up from instead of their usual delivery habit. Easier to laugh when Senator von Aegir spent a few days in the hospital after he got sick from a campaign donor dinner full of his dearest political allies, all celebrating their cruel policies and horrendous mismanagement. Easier to breathe this past summer, when they were able to meet their other vaccinated friends for outdoor dinners, even a few work dates at coffee shops. But almost two years of carefulness have been for nothing, it feels, and yet again they are alone.
“It’ll be all right,” Hubert says firmly. Because he needs it to be, if nothing else. “Edelgard and Dorothea are supposed to FaceTime us this evening, and we’ll do the same with your sisters tomorrow.” He gives Wellington one more scratch behind the ears while he kisses Ferdinand’s cheek, then heads to the sink to wash his hands. “Now, how can I help you in cooking this tremendous mess?”
Ferdinand puts him to task on the vegetables, which Hubert think only qualify as vegetables on a technicality, given the vast quantities of bacon he’s currently chopping up to mix in with the green beans. Wellington is underfoot as ever, rubbing against Hubert’s thigh every now and then to remind him of his existence, nose skimming the granite counter’s edge, gently dropping hints that should there be any extra bacon, he’d be happy to dispose of it. Hubert just nudges him aside with his hip. He’s spent too many nights scrubbing collie puke out of wool rugs when Ferdinand gave him too many rich treats to fall for that one.
“Oh! There’s the girls!” Ferdinand exclaims, and brings his tablet around to prop it on the counter where they’re both working. Hubert turns down the volume on the jazzy holiday music playlist, and accepts the FaceTime from Edelgard as Ferdinand wraps his arms around Hubert’s shoulders to peer over them.
Dorothea’s face fills the screen first as she adjusts the tablet’s angle, flashes of her TriBeCa loft whizzing past before she sits back with Edelgard on a bright teal velvet couch. “Hi, boys!” Dorothea sings, and holds up an oversized chalice of red wine. “Merry Christmas Eve!”
“Merry Christmas to you both,” Ferdinand answers, and gives Hubert’s shoulders a squeeze. “We’re so sorry again that we had to change up plans at the last minute—”
Dorothea flits her free hand through the air before wrapping it around Edelgard’s waist. “Don’t even worry about it. It was the right thing to do. And I still managed to snag this lovely thing all to myself for the next month or however long she’s going to be stuck up here—”
Edelgard stifles a giggle. “Thea, please—”
“Wait.” Hubert sets down the handful of bacon sticks he’d been clutching. “You aren’t going to be here for the presentation?”
Edelgard sighs, head tilting to one side. “I know you’re not trying to talk to me about work, Hubert. On Christmas Eve.”
“But—”
“But no, I won’t be there in person. And neither will you, most likely. And I know you can handle this. I always wanted you to take point on it, and you’re gonna crush it, Hubert, honestly. It’ll be fine.”
But it won’t be. For his entire tenure in founding the Hresvelg Group with Edelgard, he’s been the operative in the background, gathering research, crafting the most devious and powerful messaging strategies, placing the proverbial knife in the hands of their clients for whoever’s career is overdue for assassination. He isn’t the front person giving the presentations to the clients, selling them on Hresvelg Group’s mission and value as a political consultancy. That’s always been Edelgard’s job.
But when Ferdinand’s employer—the Capital Area Immigrant Rights, or CAIR, Coalition—reached out to the Hresvelg Group, Edelgard tapped Hubert to lead the account. You know their mission and their needs better than anyone else on our team. You’ll crush this. And true, he’d heard Ferdinand complain at length about the complete lack of meaningful policy change in immigration rights from the new administration, and knows precisely the challenges he’s up against as one of their lawyers. But being personable, being a salesman for the Hresvelg Group, is something else entirely. Even knowing damned well Edelgard is going to offer the whole package pro bono doesn’t help his nerves any.
“. . . Yes, ma’am. Of course I will.” He smiles tightly and reaches for the mug of mulled wine Ferdinand had set out for him.
“Okay, Hubie, Edie, that’s quite enough work talk.”
Dorothea leans into Edelgard, who wraps her arms tight around her with a kiss to the top of her head. Just seeing them together eases Hubert’s tension, at least. Edelgard deserves someone who can appreciate all of her, not just her drive and passion for her work, but everything else. That it’s Dorothea of all people, who could not be less impressed by political savvy, only pleases him all the more.
“Aren’t you gonna tell them?” Dorothea prods.
Ferdinand straightens up. “Ooh? Tell us what?”
Something clenches tight in Hubert’s chest.
Edelgard giggles, and untangles one arm from Dorothea. “Well. We went for a walk at the new Little Island piers today, because it was actually nice out for a change—”
Dorothea links her hand in Edelgard’s and extends it toward the screen.
“And . . . I said yes.”
Ferdinand shrieks and almost spills his wine as the large ruby in an antique setting comes into focus on Edelgard’s ring finger. “Dorothea! You asked first? You sly devil!”
Hubert’s mouth has popped open as the tightness in his chest becomes a vice. Fleetingly, Edelgard shoots him an apologetic look—she knew his plans, after all—but she can’t hold it any longer, lapsing into a huge grin and turning to kiss her girlfriend—no, her fiancée—in full. “Congratulations,” Hubert manages. “There’s no one better in the world for either of you.”
And he does mean that. The way Edelgard has softened and smiled since Dorothea came back into their lives after parting ways at school . . . He wouldn’t change that for the world. He doesn’t even mind the fact that he’s about to toss himself fully into helping them with wedding planning, handling all the minute details that Edelgard and her grand ideas are sure to miss. Everything about it is perfect.
Aside from the timing.
They gush and chatter away for a few minutes longer, about possible wedding timeframes, and Ferdinand’s siblings, and of course letting them coo through the screen at what both of them insist on calling their “grandpuppy” for reasons unknown, but Hubert doesn’t hear most of it. He finishes chopping the bacon and scatters it into the green beans, then as soon as the call’s over, he excuses himself with the briefest kiss to Ferdinand’s cheek.
“Are you quite all right?” Ferdinand asks him, but he’s already headed upstairs.
Hubert pulls the maroon jewelry box from his pocket and returns it to its previous hiding place in his makeshift office. This is fine. He’d originally been planning to ask on New Year’s Eve, anyway, back when they thought they’d be returning to their favorite restaurant for the celebrations this year and not having to cancel once more. He’d only changed his mind to tonight because he knew how very isolated and unwelcome Ferdinand gets to feeling around Christmastime, mostly because of his father but now also because of the pandemic. He just wants Ferdinand to know he is loved, he is adored for precisely who he is, that he needn’t be alone . . .
But what’s another week to wait? He’s waited his whole life for someone like Ferdinand to shake him from his single-minded stupor and remind him of the beauty and heart in life, too. Someone who has peered inside his soul and seen his cold, ugly, calculating mind and loved him all the same. Someone whose very existence spreads sweetness and warmth across the despair and hopelessness of the world, sunshine blooming everywhere he touches . . .
Hubert shakes his head and returns downstairs to finish their dinner preparations.
Beef tenderloin, perfectly seared and dripping with a blue cheese sauce. Buttery bacon green beans. Rosemary za’atar roasted potatoes and carrots. Salmon-cream cheese-spinach dip with gluten-free crackers. And, for Ferdinand and Wellington, at least, airy bread from their favorite bakery, carefully segregated from the rest of the serving dishes, with Ferdinand insisting, each time he reaches for a new slice, that it really isn’t that good and Hubert isn’t missing a thing.
“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, setting his cutlery down with a gentle smile. “For all of this. It really helps with . . . well, you know.”
Hubert can’t help but smile, and he reaches over to tuck back a stray lock of hair behind Ferdinand’s ear. “I still can’t quite believe you aren’t sick of me after seeing me every day for two years solid. But each day with you is special. Not only today.”
“It feels special all the same.” Ferdinand starts to lean forward, then covers his mouth. “Ahh, sorry, I’ve been eating bread like a jerk. Let me go brush my teeth so I can kiss you properly.”
Hubert sits back with a pleasant smile as Ferdinand scurries off. It’s true—every day with Ferdiinand is special, a new present for him to unwrap. And true, some days are tougher than others. The day he spent shaking as the helicopters and sirens blared and every noisy passerby out the window made him jump with nerves. The days where he rolls out of bed and immediately onto a Teams call with Edelgard or Linhardt or Bernadetta, followed by three hours of furious emailing and document finessing, then more Teams calls, and the next thing he knows it’s midnight already. The days when even Hubert longs to stare at something other than the walls of Ferdinand’s townhouse, but the moment he wanders toward Eastern Market, the thought of being near other humans, masked or no, sets off his panic all over again. Even the days when all Hubert really wants is to shove a dozen donuts in his mouth and wash them down with a heaping bowl of real pasta that doesn’t taste like sand.
But there has not been a single day in the past two years that has not been made better for Ferdinand’s presence: bright, dramatic, inspiring, uplifting, scatterbrained, determined, adoring. He simply lacks the words to say so, and hopes that someday soon he can show Ferdinand instead.
“Wellie, what on earth are you eating?” Ferdinand shouts from the parlor.
Hubert’s heart thuds in his chest. He stands up from the table, and rushes forward, adrenaline pumping as if to pry open the jaws of a lion—
But Ferdinand has beaten him to it, and is already wrestling a partly-gnawed tiny box from his lengthy snout, its velvet exterior a familiar shade of dark maroon.
Hubert swears.
“What is—Oh. Oh.” Ferdinand drops the box, then, as Wellington lunges for it again, kicks it away. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”
“N-no.” Hubert’s vision is swimming; he reaches out to steady himself against the doorway. “It’s my fault.”
He hadn’t washed his hands after chopping the bacon when he went to hide it away. Of course that damned hound sniffed it out. He tries to glare at Wellington, who only peers up his snout at Hubert with deep, soulful eyes. Traitorous, treacherous eyes—
“Well.” Ferdinand is fussing with his hair. “I, ah. I didn’t see—I mean, I can pretend I didn’t—”
Hubert drags his hand down one side of his face, then goes to retrieve it from under the couch Ferdinand kicked it to. “Don’t bother. Dammit, nothing about this is going right—nothing today at all—”
Ferdinand sighs, and as Hubert straightens back up, Ferdinand’s expression softens. “That isn’t true. It’s not the day we planned, but . . .”
“You’re right.” Hubert grits his teeth. “Of course you are. Here I am being an ungrateful bastard when I’ve gotten to spend my holiday with a literal angel—”
“Hubert, honestly.” Ferdinand laughs.
Hubert takes a step toward him, the slobbery, gnawed-up box clenched in one fist, the other reaching for Ferdinand’s cheek. “But I mean it. Somehow you manage to brighten even the darkest of days. And when your days are tough—and I know they are—I hope in some small measure, I’m able to brighten yours, too.”
It’s never enough, but he does try. Brushing out Wellington’s coat, handling household chores, ordering delivery, especially on the hardest days for Ferdinand. The days when Senator von Aegir is smeared all over the news for some new heinously cruel bill he supports, or the days when one of Ferdinand’s clients loses their appeal. The days Ferdinand blames himself for not being enough, as if who he is isn’t more than anyone else in the world.
“You do,” Ferdinand breathes, chin tilting up as he gazes into Hubert’s eyes with bright amber ones, shiny with tears.
“Which is why I . . . want to spend my life with you.” Hubert’s usually steady, almost sinister voice wavers. “I want to spend my life with you, one day at a time, one day after the next, each moment a gift I want to cherish.” He drops to one knee. “And I certainly didn’t mean to do it like this, with your dog almost choking on it or our friends somewhat stealing the moment out from under us or anything else but—”
He struggles to pry open the box now that the hinge is bent from Wellington’s fierce jaws, but it finally snaps apart, revealing the thick gold band inset with a single oval diamond. Hubert wrestled over countless options before settling on that one: masculine in a soft and elegant way.
“Ferdinand, would you do me the honor of marrying me?”
Ferdinand covers his mouth with one hand, the moisture brimming in his gaze spilling over.
“Oh, Hubert.” His other hand falls to Hubert’s cheek, thumb brushing at his cheekbone just beneath a spill of dark bangs. “Nothing would honor me more.”
And all the stress in Hubert’s body evaporates, his shaking subsides, his chest is light and warm.
He pulls the ring from the case and slides it onto Ferdinand’s finger where it rests against his cheek, then turns his head to kiss Ferdinand’s palm. “I love you.”
“I love you, Hubert.”
Ferdinand tugs at Hubert for him to stand, then twists his hand from side to side, admiring the gleam of gold and sparkling diamond in the soft light from the wall sconces and the Christmas tree. And Hubert knows his black turtleneck is covered in dog fur, and his hand is covered in dog slobber, and his breath smells like garlic and bacon, and his eyes are a little wild from two years of not having to socialize with anyone but this man. But he won’t regret a moment, if it’s the path that brings him here.
Ferdinand kisses him like he’s something he wants to savor, slow but admiring, and Hubert thinks he could never tire of this. That he never even knew he wanted this until Ferdinand came along.
The playlist rolls over to a languid jazz rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and Ferdinand shifts his stance, one hand at Hubert’s waist and one, the one with his new ring, clutching Hubert’s hand. And as much as Hubert might ordinarily hate the thought of dancing, it feels so right to let Ferdinand pull him along, a careless, placid waltz across the living room floor, with Wellington circling around them as if he’s trying to stay true to his shepherd lineage to push them together, closer.
“I suppose this probably wasn’t how you had it all planned out,” Ferdinand says gently, gazing up at Hubert as the song ends and they come to a stop. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Hubert lets out a shaky breath, then closes his eyes. Forehead resting against Ferdinand’s, one hand clutching his tightly, and the other falling to give the softest scritch to Wellington. “No. Neither would I.”