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I.
Hubert von Vestra's coffee shop of choice was the Pride of Almyra, a tiny establishment with dark-tinted windows, plush rugs on the floor, and reasonably priced dark Dagdan roasts with unfussy names and rich aromas that clung to your clothes for hours after you'd finished your drink. The fanciest thing on the menu at the Pride of Almyra was a coffee with milk and sugar, and you got a raised eyebrow from Khalid the barista if you ordered it. (Hubert himself, of course, took his coffee as black as the ever-present bags under his eyes.) On most days the shop was either completely empty or host to only a single regular, an elderly professor named Hanneman who could usually be found reading some sort of dusty, leather-bound treatise on the history of Crests.
Hubert would have been content never visiting a single other coffee shop for the duration of his existence - and likely would have done so, had his dearest and only friend not turned down a prestigious summer internship at her uncle's company in favor of a part-time position at Saintsbucks.
And so it was fully Edelgard's fault, he decided, and none of his own, that, instead of enjoying one of Khalid's classical Almyran records as he sipped plain Dagdan coffee, Hubert found himself standing in front of the world's cheeriest, most obnoxious barista as the man attempted to get it through his apparently empty head that his latest customer dared to order something as atrocious as plain coffee.
"S-sorry, could you say that again? I didn't quite catch that..." The barista, who had covered up whatever his name tag said with masking tape and instead written FERDIE followed by a tiny heart in garish pink, glittering Sharpie, played with a wayward strand of orange-red hair as he attempted to process Hubert's order.
"One black coffee. Large." Hubert repeated, feeling his shoulders tighten imperceptibly. Of course Edelgard was on her break when he came by, even though he'd only set foot in this Goddess-forsaken place in the first place to support her.
"W-we don't have a large here, uh, sir, our sizes are....Cethleann, Indech, Cichol, and, uh, some of our most popular drinks come in Macuil size, but I... I don't think the plain coffee does."
Hubert blinked. "Your sizing system is inane," he informed "Ferdie." "How am I supposed to know which Saint is bigger than the other? And don't you have something called a Cethleann Latte on your menu...are you meaning to say I could order a Cichol-sized Cethleann."
"Ferdie's" eyes - amber, Hubert noticed almost unthinkingly - widened joyfully, as though Hubert was finally speaking a language he understood. "Ah, yes, sir, understood. One Cichol-sized Cethleann, coming right up."
"By Nemesis," Hubert swore, thinking longingly of the Pride of Almyra's dim, faintly smoky interior. "I do not want a Cichol-sized Cethleann, whatever such a horrid-sounding drink might be. I want. A Plain. Coffee." He ground out the words between his teeth, injecting the trademark vitriol that made patrons at the library where he worked fear to return their books even a single day past due. But it was too late. "Ferdie" had flounced off - not walked, the man literally flounced - and was mixing a sickly-looking green liquid with a thick, utterly unappetizing-looking syrup.
The drink that the barista plunked in front of him on the countertop was the color of new leaves in spring and smelled vaguely like Edelgard's preferred brand of nail polish remover. Gummy Goddess Messengers floated in it, red and yellow and blue and orange, and the pile of sickly-sweet whipped cream on top was dusted with glitter that Hubert highly doubted was legally allowed to be called "edible". Even the straw contributed to the sickening picture, with the peeled-away wrapper twisted and folded into the shape of a simplistic fish.
"One Cethleann, upgrade to a Cichol, that'll be seven dollars and fifty cents," the man chirped.
"I'm sorry, what?" The large black coffee he usually ordered at the Pride of Almyra cost half that. "I am not paying a ridiculous amount of money for something that is not even the drink I ordered."
For the first time in the entire exchange, Hubert met the barista's eyes. Originally, his plan had simply been to shoot "Ferdie" one of his trademark death glares and relish as the obnoxious man quivered and quailed beneath his gaze.
That plan was derailed almost immediately as their eyes locked.
His earlier estimation of the man's eyes as amber had been correct, but not nearly detailed enough to fully capture what he was seeing. They were the rich shade of honey straight from the hive, of warm rum and winter fireplaces. His orange hair licked his rounded cheeks and delicate jawline like flames, wisp after wisp somehow escaping from the tight ponytail beneath the man's branded Saintsbucks visor. His nose and cheeks were dusted with freckles, a look that Hubert might have found uncomfortably childish on another person, but on "Ferdie" simply spoke of horseback rides in the countryside and long summer afternoons spent sprawled underneath a favorite tree.
Goddess and Saints, the barista was beautiful.
Furthermore, he wasn't afraid.
Even though Hubert's yellow-green eyes were shooting metaphorical death lasers at him, the Saintsbucks worker merely placed (tanned, long-fingered) hands onto (jutting, angular) hips and stared back, giving as good as he was getting.
"I said, that'll be seven dollars and fifty cents," "Ferdie" snapped.
Hubert was momentarily thrown off balance by the man's aggressive tone. "B-but that's not what I ordered," he practically stammered out.
Desperate to save some amount of face, he turned on his heel and stormed out.
Or, rather, began to storm out. He had barely made it two steps away from the counter when the barista cleared his throat and said, in the most obnoxiously irritated of voices, "Sir, I believe you've forgotten your drink."
Hubert von Vestra was not a short-tempered man. He dealt every day with incompetent coworkers, with idiotic patrons asking the same questions over and over again. This striking man in the stupid green apron should not be getting to him like this. And yet, Hubert - un-caffeinated, flustered, having surprisingly met his match in the form of this barista and his ridiculous glitter-topped drink - was beyond upset and quickly approaching furious.
What Hubert should have done at that moment: continued walking out the door without so much as turning back, comforted by the fact that he need never encounter "Ferdie" again in his lifetime. Apologize to Edelgard later for coming in on her break and put this entire ridiculous encounter behind him.
What Hubert did do: turn back on his heel, storm the two steps back to the counter, pick up the Cichol-sized Cethleann with the hand not clutching his black leather briefcase, intending to empty it into the garbage can while the idiotic barista watched.
Unfortunately, the cup was slick - presumably due to the tower of whipped cream it sported at the top, which had already begun to drip and melt - and slipped from Hubert's grasp before he could get a proper grip on it. The drink went skittering out of the counter, performed nearly a complete flip, and splattered all over "Ferdie's" face and the front of his pale green apron.
For a moment, the two men simply stood, staring at each other as both attempted to process what had just happened.
Green liquid dripped down the barista's aristocratic nose, dampening his lips in a manner Hubert refused to admit was attractive. A glob of whipped cream had settled on his cheek, and to Hubert's dismay he found himself wanting to lean in and tenderly brush it away with a finger. The man's white collared shirt (who in Fodlan wore a white collared shirt to work a shift at a coffee shop) was thoroughly ruined, his apron flecked with foam, and that insufferably cheery name tag was dotted with bright green glitter. And yet "Ferdie" was still damnably attractive, and Hubert had just accidentally dumped a drink on him, and a person simply should not look that good with a stupidly named frothy concoction all over them.
Hubert should apologize. Hubert should offer to help him get cleaned up. (Ideally by getting that apron off him. Or introducing his tongue to Ferdie's neck. Or both.) But Hubert does neither of these things.
Instead, he turned once again on his heel and stormed out of the coffee shop a second time, finally completing the dramatic exit he had been aiming for the first time around. The fact that he had accidentally flung coffee all over the barista absolutely ruined the dramatic-ness of it all, but Hubert resolutely refused to allow himself to think about it.
He also resolved that he would never again set foot in a Saintsbucks for the rest of his days.
II.
Hubert's resolution was broken six days later when Edelgard, fresh from a double shift at said accursed chain coffeeshop, accosted him outside the library with a cup of extra-large Dagdan roast without a single speck of cream or sugar. The dark-haired man, whose own most recent shift had involved sitting through yet another meeting with the Traditional Fodlan Culture Society's chairwoman, who continued to insist that "The Legend of the Ashen Demon" was far too racy to include in the History section, even though every word of it was true, took the coffee and drank down a full third of it before realizing that Edelgard had never once in their entire friendship brought him coffee after a shift, which surely meant that this particular cup was some unholy combination of a peace offering and a bribe.
But by then, it was too late. He had drunk deep of the elixir his dearest friend had handed to him, and now he could not in good faith ignore the pleading look in her lilac eyes as she fell into step beside him.
Still, Hubert waited until he felt the caffeine begin to spark in his bloodstream before acknowledging the fact that she almost certainly wanted something from him. "Yes, La - er, Edelgard?" he finally asked when they were nearly halfway back to his apartment, his tongue still stumbling on the overly-familiar, title-less name she had begun insisting on recently. "Is there something you wished to discuss?"
Edelgard sighed, fiddling with the edges of the green Saintsbucks apron she held in her arms. This surprised Hubert - his childhood friend was usually so direct and assertive - but he gave her the time she needed to gather her words together.
Finally, after nearly five minutes of walking in tense silence, Edelgard spoke:
"I need you to apologize to Ferdinand."
"Who?"
She rubbed her temples, clearly stressed by the topic of conversation. "Ferdinand. He's one of the other baristas at Saintsbucks. You ran into him last week. Reddish orange hair, freckles, constant smile? Surely you remember..."
"Ah." Remember he did. Ferdie, or, apparently, Ferdinand, was none other than the annoyingly chipper man he had accidentally doused with coffee. "And why do I need to apologize to him?" Hubert asked, despite knowing full well what Edelgard was going to say.
"He's insisting that you came into the store and dumped coffee over his head," she explained, one hand unconsciously tying a knot in one of her apron strings. "Claims that he was just trying to give you a recommendation, too. Been pouting and sighing about it basically nonstop, and since I'm on like every single one of his shifts because the Goddess apparently hates me or something...yeah. He's gotten intolerable."
Hubert bristled, black-gloved hands clenching and unclenching on the matching black leather strap of his satchel. "I...I did no...No such....That is to say...How dare he." Hubert von Vestra was not quick to anger, especially when the slight was against himself personally, rather than his family name, Edelgard, or - even worse - Edelgard's family name, but the barista's blatant lies were enough to stoke his anger. "That is not at all what happened. I came into Saintsbucks, yes - to support you, mind - and this "Ferdie" of yours refused to serve me a proper coffee, instead attempting to swindle me into paying for some frothy creation far more expensive than what I had intended to order. If there was a spill, it was entirely on accident, and furthermore entirely his fault, as he was the one who insisted on serving me some horrid tower of whipped cream and glitter instead of the drink I ordered."
Despite her obviously tense mood, Edelgard stifled a giggle at that. "Yeah, that sounds a lot more like what actually happened, knowing you," she admitted.
"You believe me?" He raised a single eyebrow, glad to know that he had not lost his closest friend to the soulless corporate embrace of Saintsbucks culture.
"Of course."
"So I don't need to apologize to the odious man?"
"Unfortunately, you still do."
"Lady Edelgard." His irritation and distraction were so strong that the habitual title slipped out before he could stop it. "Please tell me that this is all some sort of elaborate joke that you are playing on me because, as you constantly insist, I have no sense of humor."
"I wish," she responded, lilac eyes wide. "Unfortunately, the truth is..."Ferdie" the barista is Ferdinand von Aegir."
"No." Although Hubert was accustomed to drinking larger cups of coffee most days of the week, he began to feel the edges of a caffeine-induced headache pulsing at his temples. "As in, the eldest and only son and future heir of Aegir Farms and Fine Breeders?"
"The very same."
Well. That complicated things. Edelgard's uncle, Volkhard von Arundel, was the head of Adrestia Securities, one of the biggest manufacturers and installers of security systems in Fodlan. And one of their most prestigious clients was Aegir Farms, which bred racehorses, show jumpers, and dressage champions the names of which even non-horse people would recognize upon hearing. If Hubert hoped to someday work at Edelgard's side as his father currently did at Arundel's - and he very much did - he knew he could absolutely kiss that dream goodbye in seconds if he lost them the Aegir contract.
And now he might, all because the Aegir heir was a spoiled, air-headed brat who had somehow had the same idea as Edelgard to get some "real world experience" by working part-time at Saintsbucks Coffee.
Things could not have been worse if Edelgard had just told Hubert that he had spilled coffee (if that ridiculous frothing, glittering, sugar-smelling potion could even be called coffee in the first place) on the living embodiment of the Goddess herself.
No, is what Hubert wanted to say. Never, is the word on the tip of his tongue. But this is Edelgard, his dearest friend, his most-likely-someday boss, who so rarely asks anything of him, and he cannot refuse her this. He cannot refuse her anything, truly, no matter how embarrassingly.
So Hubert sighed heavily, clutching his satchel tighter and pulling at the ends of his bangs with his free hand, yet another nervous habit. "Fine," he finally said. "Tell me when Fer - when von Aegir is working his next shift."
III.
Hubert had thought it would be easier, this time. He would walk in. He would look "Ferdie" - Ferdinand - in his stupidly deep and warm amber eyes, and then he would apologize. He wouldn't mean the apology, but the arrogant pampered heir wouldn't notice that he hadn't, because Hubert von Vestra was far more skilled with his tongue and his words than this man would ever be. He would even buy a coffee, because Edelgard had promised him that she was also working this shift, and she understood his desperate need for something simple, black, and highly caffeinated, and would not try to sell him on any ridiculous frothy drinks named after the Four Saints. Then, he would leave, and would continue patronizing the Pride of Almyra, never setting foot in a Saintsbucks ever again, not even for Edelgard's sake.
It was, of course, not that easy.
Edelgard must have told Ferdinand that Hubert was coming on that particular day, because the auburn-haired barista was ready and waiting. When Hubert arrived - at a time when barely anyone else was in the shop, fortunate because nobody had to see him apologize and unfortunate because he had the man's full attention - Ferdinand was already behind the counter, standing with his back straight and his shoulders thrust out like a king surveying his domain. Today, his wavy tresses - had it gotten even shinier in the week since Hubert had last been here? - were tied back in a loose, messy bun, two single free-flowing strands allowed to hang loose and frame his sharp-chinned face.
While he still wore the requisite green Saintsbucks uniform, today he had forgone the top straps and belted the garment around his waist, complying with only the bare minimum of employee dress code regulations. This exposed the entirety of his chest to Hubert - a chest that Hubert could see was well-defined, with toned pecs and the curving, teasing hint of tight abdominal muscles.
Hubert could see this because, for some Goddess-forsaken reason, the ever-ridiculous Ferdinand von Aegir had decided to wear the tightest red silk shirt known to mankind. It looked more like something a professional salsa dancer would wear to a competition than anything a part-time barista would wear to work at Saintsbucks. For the Four Saints' sake, it even had a deep, plunging V-neck that put far, far too much of Ferdinand on display: a long, elegant neck, collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, even the tiniest teasing hint of curling chest hair as stunningly reddish-gold as that upon his head.
Blood rushed to Hubert's cheeks, and he immediately understood the irritating man's plan: "Ferdie" was doing this deliberately. To distract him. To ensure that the blunt, perfunctory apology that Hubert was going to make for Edelgard's sake into a stumbling, stammering mess that he and his other ridiculous rich-boy friends could laugh about later.
It was a foolish plan. Hubert could see right through it. It would never work!
And yet, it was. Working, that is. Hubert had initially planned to apologize from as far across the room as possible. He wasn't typically one to speak loud, but he could project his voice, bark out a few words of apology, and then never have to see Ferdinand von Aegir again in his lift.
And yet, that wasn't what was happening. Instead, Hubert found his feet ignoring his brain's command and drawing him closer, closer to where Ferdinand stood. Instead, his cheeks continued to redden until he knew from the barista's smirk that the other man could see it. Instead, he was grasping one hand in the other and twining his fingers together nervously like a schoolboy about to be punished for answering a question incorrectly.
"Von....er, Ferdinand....Ferdie? do you prefer Ferdie?" No, no, this wasn't it at ALL, this wasn't how this was supposed to go! And yet, Hubert couldn't stop talking, even though he was fully aware that he was babbling. "I'm....sorryIdumpedcoffeealloveryou....It was....It was an accident. Really."
Ferdinand tapped his chin, as though debating whether or not to accept Hubert's rushed apology. Inwardly, the taller man sighed. From what little he had heard of Ferdinand von Aegir from Edelgard, he hadn't expected the other man to be grateful or dignified about it, but somehow he still managed to be even more frustrating than Hubert had imagined.
"Welllll...." he responded finally, drawing out the word as though he had all the time and the world. (And, at least for the moment, he did, as, somehow, it was just Hubert's luck that not a single other customer had come into Saintsbucks during their entire conversation.)
"Fine," the barista answered at last, "but you owe me."
"I do not..." Hubert started to say, but then Edelgard's pleading eyes met him from over the glass-topped counter of indifferent-looking baked goods, which she had been unsuccessfully hiding behind in a less-than-subtle attempt to eavesdrop on Hubert and Ferdinand. Sighing internally, he forced himself to meet the man's liquid amber eyes. "Fine," he responded, mirroring Ferdinand's earlier flippant statement. "What do you want?"
"I'm going to find a drink you like," Ferdinand said, fully surprising Hubert, thinking the man had been about to ask for some sort of even more ridiculous bowing-and-scraping apology, or perhaps even some sort of social media post extolling the Aegir heir's supposed greatness. "I'm going to keep making you drinks, and you are going to keep coming back here until you find one that you like, and admit to me that I'm right, and 'floofy' coffees are totally delicious and worth drinking."
Hubert opened his mouth to retort, but Ferdinand surprised him further by leaning over the counter and placing one long finger against Hubert's dry lips, shushing him. "And if you say anything about 'plain coffee,' or try to order one, or try to get El here to make you one behind my back, then I will be very, very cross with you and will have to think of another way for you to pay back what you owe me." He had the audacity to actually wink at Hubert then, and as for Hubert himself, well...his blush merely deepened, his face nearly matching the scarlet hue of Ferdinand's silly silk shirt.
No, he thought.
This is ridiculous, he thought.
"All right," he said, his traitorous mouth betraying him.
What have I done, Hubert's brain screamed. But a smaller, less rational part of him knows exactly what he has done: made a verbal commitment to spending a significant amount of time in the presence of one Ferdinand von Aegir and his stupidly bright smile and his impossibly liquid eyes and his constant, grating, cheer.
An even smaller part of him finds himself beginning to look forward to it.
After all, it's not like Ferdinand can succeed at finding a fancy drink that Hubert will be willing to so much as tolerate, let alone enjoy.
Right?
IV.
"Dark-roasted beans from Brigid with a caramel swirl, topped with a homemade shandy whip," Ferdinand says, his voice as deep, rich, and sinful as the chocolate-drizzled creation he pushes across the counter.
"Too sweet," Hubert says after a single sip. When Ferdinand pouts, he relents at least slightly: "The dark chocolate topping is a good idea, but it's not enough to make up for the caramel, so the overall result is still cloying."
(He tosses the mostly un-drunk cup immediately into the trash, entirely missing the string of numbers Ferdinand had scrawled on it.)
"A dark chocolate mocha with a cherry cordial infusion and elderflower syrup." Ferdinand mock-bows as he presents the cup and Edelgard, who is once again sharing a shift with her fellow family heir, makes a gagging sound from somewhere behind the counter.
Hubert folds his arms. "I don't even need to taste it to know that the flavors clash," he says, but Ferdinand sticks out his lower lip and Hubert takes a reluctant sip. He's right. The flavors clash.
(When Ferdinand doesn't make him pay for the drink, Hubert simply thinks that he hadn't drunk enough of it to justify paying for it. He doesn't consider for a moment that the auburn-haired barista might have any motive besides that.)
"Cold brew swirled with blended java chips, topped with a white chocolate whipped cream, chocolate covered espresso beans, and amaretto syrup." There are actual bags under Ferdinand's eyes, not quite hidden by his cleverly applied concealer, hinting at just how late he had stayed up the previous few nights crafting this drink.
Hubert plucks one of the espresso beans from the top of the drink and delicately popped it into his mouth. "You finally got one thing right - I do enjoy these. Because of that, I'll give you a hint." He rolled the bean on his tongue, feeling the chocolate coating melt in the warm heat of his mouth and wondering if he had imagined Ferdinand's eyes following his movements. "I don't like whipped cream, so any ridiculously frilly concoction you construct that contains it will never be anything other than an abject failure."
(Hubert does see the look of genuine frustration and sadness in Ferdinand's eyes at that, but he still misses the heart he had carefully drawn in amaretto syrup on top of the whipped-cream mountain.)
Over and over again, Hubert doesn't see.
But Edelgard does - and Edelgard has had about all she can take of her best friend holding up the line by gazing dreamily at Ferdinand and Ferdinand earning the manager's ire by buying rarer and more expensive ingredients that never actually get ordered outside of the bizarre drinks he makes for Hubert. (Plus, she ends up having to drink most of the drinks herself so that Manuela doesn't complain about Ferdinand wasting ingredients again and assign them both to work the drive-thru during rush hour on a Friday.)
And Edelgard is clever, and Edelgard is resourceful, and most importantly Edelgard is fed up with these pining idiots who she knows will never break out of this bizarre coffee-flavored stalemate unless she takes direct action.
So Edelgard hatches a plan.
V.
"Extra-dark beans from Sreng with just a touch of Brigid cinnamon and paprika, one pump of almond syrup and a topping of milk foam - NOT whipped cream - chopped up espresso beans, and shortbread crumbles." This time, Ferdinand knew he'd done it. Hours of research, a significant amount of his own pocket money to avoid more yelling from Manuela, and a rather large collection of bruises from the sparring session Petra had demanded in exchange for supplying the Brigid spices....but it would all be worth it, because there was absolutely no way Hubert won't like this drink.
He'd written down everything he had determined about Hubert's likes and dislikes in a notebook (normal, he tries to tell himself - a normal amount of research! Not obsessive at all! And if it is a little, well, that's only because he wants to see Hubert admit that he, Ferdinand, was right!) and picked out a few flavors from the rather short list of "likes" that he thought would go well together. Lots of strong, bitter flavor, with just a tinge of spicy kick to keep it interesting. Nothing too sweet. The rare ingredients Hubert had admitted to liking, such as the espresso beans. And, sure, he'd had to cheat a little bit by bothering Edelgard nonstop until she finally admitted that Hubert liked shortbread cookies, but...this would be worth it. Ferdinand had won at last.
At first, Hubert simply frowned down at the cup, as he always seemed to do when Ferdinand handed him a drink. A crease appeared between his brows, and Ferdinand imagined that he was wishing he could cast some black magic spell to turn the drink back into his beloved plain coffee.
"Take a sip," Ferdinand chided, leaning against the counter. "Your frown is cute, but I bet the smile you'll make when you try this drink is even cuter."
"M-my frown isn't..." Hubert grumbled, then quickly took a large gulp of the coffee to hide his embarrassed stammer.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Green eyes locked with amber as the Saintsbucks barista waited impatiently for his favorite customer to give his verdict.
Then those eyes widened.
"Ferdinand....Ferdie..." Hubert whispered, as though they were the only two people in the coffee shop - no, in the entire world. "It's....this is..."
But before Hubert could say exactly what he thought about the drink, Edelgard popped up from behind the counter, utterly oblivious to the moment she had just ruined. "Hey, Ferdie," she called, twisting the ends of her snow-white ponytail around her fingers in a desperate attempt to seem innocent. "A delivery came in this morning and there's this huge box that's way too heavy for me to pick up, but Manuela says it needs to go on the top shelf. Can you come back to the supply closet for a minute? I think between the two of you, you and Hubert should be able to do it."
Ferdinand sighed. He desperately, more than anything, did not want to be interrupted right now, but he didn't dare refuse - he was far from Manuela's favorite employee lately, what with all the extra ingredient orders he'd been making for Hubert's. drinks. "Fine, fine, El, I'll be right there." He gestured to Hubert to follow him. "Technically, customers aren't supposed to come back here, but nobody's around and El will bug me all day unless I get this box down. You don't mind, do you?" Hubert merely shrugged, shuffling awkwardly behind him as though at a loss for words.
When they reached the supply closet, Ferdinand entered first, followed by Hubert. The barista peered around the dim, coffee-scented interior. "Hey, El? I don't see any big-"
Click!
Ferdinand spun on his heel, colliding with a solid wall of muscle covered in a thin layer of black wool. Unconsciously, Hubert's arms shot out, catching the other man before he could go flying.
"El! Edelgard! EDELGARD!" Ferdinand shouted.
No response comes from the other side of the door - at least, none directed at them. Instead, both men can hear the sound of a phone dialing followed by Edelgard's muffled voice, faint and unusually cheerful. "Hey, 'Thea, you'll never believe, it actually-"
Hubert sighed, stating the obvious. "She's locked us in here." He wasn't surprised - Edelgard wasn't one for pranks, but Dorothea certainly was, and the last time he had had dinner with the two women they had spent nearly the whole time teasing him about the "sexual tension" that apparently existed between him and Ferdinand. As if repeatedly subjecting oneself to terrible drinks simply to prove another person wrong meant that one was ATTRACTED to them!
....Not only subjecting oneself to terrible drinks, but coming daily to see them at their place of work...
...entirely forsaking one's usual coffeehouse in the process...
...and spending ENTIRELY too many hours in front of the mirror crafting the perfect insult with which to demean their latest concoction...
...and daydreaming at one's desk, unable to focus on work as one's brain fills with thoughts of amber eyes and reddish hair that glints with gold highlights when the sunlight hits it just right, full lips and an equestrian's strong thighs and...
...okay, maybe Hubert could slightly understand where Edelgard and Dorothea were coming from.
Ferdinand cleared his throat, and Hubert realized that he still had not let go of the barista. Instead, his arms remained looped lightly around Ferdinand's waist, the fingers of one hand splayed across his lower back while the others idly played with the strings of his Saintsbucks apron.
There was no light to speak of in the supply closet, but Hubert was pretty damn sure that Ferdinand was blushing.
"Think she'll let us out any time soon?" Ferdinand's hands found their way to Hubert's waist, unconsciously settling on his sharp-boned hips.
"Doubtful," Hubert responded, his voice low and rumbling. "Your manager isn't here, and there are few enough customers that she can handle them on her own."
Silence for a moment, neither man moving to release the other, and then:
"H-hey, Hubert," the gorgeous barista whispered, his lips inches from the elegant dip at the base of Hubert's neck. "
"Yes?"
"You...you never did tell me what you thought of my latest coffee attempt."
Hubert leaned closer, his breath mingling with Ferdinand's. "It was delicious," he admitted. "Far more worthy of a name inspired by the Four Saints than any of those glittering messes on your actual menu."
Silence for a moment, and Ferdinand thinks the conversation is over, wonders if he should perhaps get back to shouting for Edelgard to let them out, tell her that her plan had failed and Hubert wasn't interested after all.
And then...
"Want to taste it for yourself?" Hubert murmured, his lips hovering over Ferdinand's.
"Goddess yes," Ferdinand practically moaned, looping an arm around Hubert's neck and pulling the taller man in for a passionate kiss.
Ferdinand can taste the disparate elements of the drink - cinnamon, paprika, shortbread and the rich, dark, tantalizing flavor of the coffee itself - but he can at the same time feel them mixing together on his tongue, creating a heady blend that is one hundred percent uniquely Hubert. He darts out his tongue and tangles it with the other man's, memorizing this taste forever.
"Fuck," he murmured as they separated for air. "That is good." He's not sure when Hubert's hand had made its way under his shirt, or when he had slotted a knee between Hubert's thighs, or when they had ended up pressed against the door of the supply closet, but he never wants to leave.
"You taste better," Hubert said, his voice matter-of-fact and blunt.
"Better than plain coffee?" Ferdinand dared to ask.
"Yes."
Somehow, that single word is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to him. Ferdinand practically swoons before diving in for yet another kiss.
Coda.
They're somewhere around the tenth or twelfth kiss and Hubert's fingers are mapping Ferdinand's abs and Ferdinand's hands are fisted in Hubert's dark hair when Edelgard finally bothers to let them out of the closet. Of course, because both men had been resting their entire weight against the door by that point, they had tumbled into an undignified heap on the floor of the Saintsbucks employee lounge. Edelgard snaps several pictures, and it takes Ferdinand offering to cover her next three Friday shifts to get her to promise not to send them to anyone (and yet, Hubert STILL receives no fewer than ten winking emojis from Dorothea just a few hours later.)
For their first date, Hubert takes Ferdinand to the Pride of Almyra, where Khalid the barista berates him for disappearing for several weeks, but relents when Hubert reluctantly shares the story of his and Ferdinand's tempestuous coffee-centric courtship. Ferdinand orders the most flowery tea on the menu, with some long Almyran name Khalid seems impressed the other man is able to pronounce properly. Hubert orders a plain dark roast; Ferdinand insists that he will not kiss him for the rest of the day because he simply cannot stand the taste. He makes it exactly two hours and thirteen minutes before caving.
Two weeks into Ferdinand and Hubert's relationship, the barista manages to convince Manuela - who turns out to be a total romantic - to add the cinnamon-paprika-shortbread concoction to the menu. He names it the Bitter Kiss. Hubert rolls his eyes and blushes when he hears the name; it takes him a full three weeks of near-daily visits to be able to order one without stammering red-cheeked over the name.
Edelgard quickly comes to realize that seeing the two mooning starry-eyed over each other is no better than seeing them arguing over coffee every day. (Actually, she eventually decides, it's worse - Hubert is like a brother to her, and watching your brother make doe-eyes at his boyfriend is just gross.) She quits her job at Saintsbucks and instead gets job taking tickets at the Mittelfrank Opera House, where she can stare heart-eyed at her own partner instead.
Ferdinand, on the other hand, continues to work at the coffee shop until the day Hubert comes in on his break and buys his lover a Cichol-sized Cethleann topped with, not glitter and gummy Goddess Messengers, but rather a single red-jeweled ring. Ferdinand is so shocked that he drops the drink immediately and, for the second time in his relationship with Hubert, ends up covered in coffee and green-tinted whipped cream.
This time, he doesn't mind nearly as much.