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"My hair already curls, why are you...?"
"They need to be more dramatic, Ferdie, to be seen at the back of the room," Dorothea informed him, pulling a lock of his hair tightly around the heated iron rod. "Relax, I won't burn you. I'm not an amateur."
"Isn't it funny that the same combination of heat and metal is used for both cosmetics and torture?" mused Hubert, running the fabric of Dorothea’s newest costume through his fingers. It was strapless and flamboyantly green, but the neckline was a much more conservative heart shape. The orange ribbons lacing the front were a questionable touch, but he wasn’t the show’s designer or director, so who was he to judge?
He was a man with eyes. He could judge all he wanted.
"You are… not helping," his husband murmured weakly.
"That dress is for tomorrow's performance. Don't ruin it," warned Dorothea, "or I'll burn you."
He'd like to see her try. Instead of challenging her, he suggested, "Burn the man coming after your fellow songstresses." He motioned to the iron rod. "Switch from cosmetics."
Dorothea giggled mischievously. Ferdinand paled.
"Please," he begged, "do not rile her while she has hot metal near my face."
"Very well. Let's get back to the matter at hand." Hubert prompted, "Dorothea, do tell us about the attacks from the last three nights."
Dorothea hummed. "Can you work on his makeup while we talk, Hubie?" she asked. Carefully, she unwound Ferdinand's hair, the lock springing into a perfect ringlet. The rod went back into the fire briefly before she extracted it to start another curl.
Hubert made his way to the vanity. He was fairly confident he understood the basics, having needed to disguise himself and others at various times throughout the years, but to pull off the glamor of stage makeup was likely beyond him. A solid foundation was better than nothing, though, so he got to work.
"The first girl, Ada, was an understudy," Dorothea said sadly, working more curls into Ferdinand's hair. "He beat her black and blue. When I visited her at the healer, she said he was tall, but it was too dark for her to see much else."
"Riveting. Surely you have more than that for us to work with?" Hubert groused as he puffed powder across Ferdinand's skin. It made his skin look enticingly soft, mirroring the way it appeared in the golden light of dawn on the mornings Hubert woke first.
Fingers suddenly clumsy, he dropped the container of powder, spilling it across the floor.
"Oh!" exclaimed Ferdinand with a jump.
"Hubert!" Dorothea hissed. "You don't get to sass me and then spill my things!"
"That's fair enough," he conceded dryly.
Because Hubert married a saint, Ferdinand redirected the attention from him by asking, "Will I even fit into your costume, Dorothea? We are shaped very differently."
"I had a cheaper version rushed for you this morning. Hubert gave me your measurements."
"When…? I suppose I should know better than to ask."
Hubert confirmed, “Truly. Now, as you were saying, Dorothea?"
She frowned delicately as she finished Ferdinand's hair, setting her tools aside. Waving Hubert away, she moved in to finish his makeup.
"Lottie's hardy. From the streets, like me," she explained. "Got crafty and escaped. We've got our best description from her."
"Do tell," Ferdinand said, leaning forward to listen.
"Careful. You don’t want this to smudge," Dorothea chided. "She said he was dressed nicer than any man she's seen wandering Enbarr's streets at night. He's—allegedly—attractive, with light hair and a youthful face. He bruised up her arms with a wooden cane, but Lottie thinks he doesn’t actually need one. It’s specifically to hurt others."
"A minor lord with too little to do," Hubert mused, "or a brute pretending to be one. Either is just as likely."
"It would be so like a nobleman," she muttered.
"I must beg to differ!" Ferdinand protested. Dorothea drew back, ducking away from his indignant motions. "It is the responsibility of those with power to aid those without! To so blatantly disregard that responsibility and misuse that power… It was inexcusable when my father did it and it’s inexcusable now. This affront will not—"
"Stand?" Hubert finished with a smirk. "We know, love."
Dorothea remarked, "That's why you're the prime minister, Ferdie. You'll look out for us."
"What a vote of confidence!” he exclaimed, pressing a hand to his chest just over his heart. “It seems like just yesterday that you were cursing my name!"
"Don't push your luck. Now, hold still so I can finish."
In Ferdinand's obedient silence, Hubert asked, "And the third attack? Last night's assault."
Grimly, Dorothea stated, "Ina's dead."
It wasn’t that they didn’t need to know, so Hubert didn’t regret asking, but he wished the atmosphere of the dressing room hadn’t been sucked dry of its levity. It seemed an injustice that Dorothea, who wilted under the war’s constant bloodshed, would be further stamped into the earth by this purposeless violence just as her heart was healing.
"We'll have your murderous little chauvinist dealt with after rehearsal tonight," he promised. "You will mourn no one else."
"Thank you," Dorothea said gratefully.
As if they wouldn't have cleared entire days of their schedules to help her. The bonds tethering the Black Eagle Strike Force were stronger than that.
The conversation lapsed. After a long moment, Dorothea finally stepped back, waving Hubert closer.
"Take a look at your man now, Hubie. Between the 'Two Jewels', he's far outshining you," she declared proudly.
Hubert loved Ferdinand—they’d married, after all. There was so much to admire about Ferdinand that he feared he himself would one day retire and spend the last of them as a poet, putting all of his ardent thoughts into ink on so many pages. Ferdinand was unfathomably handsome with a personality so bright it made the sun jealous, he’d write. He was brave to step willingly into Hubert's shadows to stand by his side and intelligent enough to keep up with the Empire's cutthroat politics, both above and below the board. Most importantly, Ferdinand was a survivor, standing strong and reliable in battle and coming out alive. All these traits made him more than desirable.
To say Hubert was attracted to him was an understatement.
The makeup didn't undo any of that. Honestly, Hubert hadn't expected it to do anything. Yet, with powdered skin, red lips, and orange pigment lining his eyes, Ferdinand was a phoenix personified, his gaze burning into Hubert’s and threatening to set them both aflame.
"Well? Do you think our menace is gonna fall for our ruse?" Dorothea asked.
"I think my shoulders are too big," Ferdinand opined with a pout, as if the heated moment between them never happened.
"They're not," Hubert rebutted quickly, speaking gracefully despite his tongue's best efforts to tie itself in knots. He felt his control slipping, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating.
Dorothea's eyebrows rose. "...Right. I'll give you two a moment before we squeeze Ferdie into his dress. Although, we may have to wax his chest first."
"Excuse me?!" he sputtered.
The door shut behind her.
Hubert sighed. “What an impertinent woman," he commented before turning back to his husband.
Ferdinand was studying him, the fire returning to his eyes. "Am I so beautiful that even you, the most prudent man I have ever met, have finally lost your senses?" he asked coyly. His fumbling had been noticed.
Ignoring the taunt, Hubert leaned in to take a closer look at his face. His thumb reached out to brush across his lips, soft and crimson.
"Red is very much your color," he said tenderly.
Ferdinand was unimpressed. "The last time you told me that was during the war and I'd just come fresh from battle."
"Stained by the blood of the enemy, I remember."
"Positively wretched," Ferdinand admonished. It felt like praise.
"Speaking of wretchedness, I won't let this degenerate harm you," vowed Hubert.
"I am certified as a great knight," he replied confidently. "I thank you for your protection, but we both know I will not need it."
Hubert wanted to kiss that fearless grin, but didn’t want to risk smudging the lipstick, so he smiled, small and soft, and said, "That's the man I know and love. Now, let us summon Dorothea. Say your last farewells to your chest hair, I'm sure we'll both miss it."
The Two Jewels were popular with the people of Enbarr, but Hubert figured that was because they didn't know everything. They didn't know he spent his boyhood days sneaking through shadows and plotting against the Empire's rotten and corrupt. They didn't know that during the war he plagued battlefields, forsaking honor for ruthless efficiency and laying waste to so many lives.
They didn't know that if given the choice to continue in this vein or stand in the light next to his husband, Hubert would maintain his position time and time again. He thought he and Ferdinand were immaculately suited to their roles—there was no light without shadow and no shadow without light. They were in perfect balance.
Most of the time the shadows were metaphorical, but now he waited in the dark blindspot of a nearby building, watching the opera house, the moonlight falling on its doors like a beacon. Moments later, they swung open, groups of girls leaving to scurry home after rehearsal. Dorothea and Ferdinand exited last.
"You're fine by yourself?" Dorothea asked with false concern. When Ferdinand nodded, she said, “Here, wear this. It’s going to be cold in that dress.” She settled a white shawl over Ferdinand’s bare shoulders, making him look small and fragile.
What a clever ploy.
Dorothea took a deep breath and announced, “Okay, I’m going home. Good night, Helena!”
From his position, Hubert watched her leave and did not worry, knowing just how capable she was of defending herself. The departure left Ferdinand—Helena—alone, leaning against the opera house's doors with a heave of a sigh. Helena must have been tired after such an arduous rehearsal, after all.
The night was growing cold when Hubert picked up on approaching footsteps, a light, puckish cadence to them. It didn't take long for the moonlight to highlight the sandy blonde hair of a tall man in a red crushed velvet waistcoat. In his left hand, he carried a polished cane made of sturdy wood, bouncing its ferrule against the cobblestones like a toy.
Dark magic smoked at Hubert's fingertips.
Ferdinand caught sight of the stranger, too. He took slow steps away from the opera house, tightening his fingers into his shawl. He was pulling off the part of a cold, quiet target well, but Hubert knew he would not be caught unaware as he watched them cross paths.
The crossing was almost without incident, but then, viciously and without warning, the man turned on his heel and swung his cane at the back of Ferdinand's skull.
The heavy smack of the cane hitting flesh echoed in the empty street, but it wasn't because Ferdinand had been brained—he was too good to let such an unskilled strike connect. He’d spun, the green skirt of his dress twirling out around him like summer leaves in a whirlwind, and caught the cane in his hands. It hit with a raw sound—like bodies hitting the dirt, like a blow hitting somewhere soft and vulnerable—but, to Hubert’s relief, he was unharmed.
Ferdinand wrenched the cane away from his attacker, his strength far outclassing his opponent's. The man launched forward like a rabid dog despite that, clawing for his weapon, and Ferdinand used it to sweep his legs out from under him. Unceremoniously, he hit the ground with an impotent growl.
Hubert's lips curled into a smirk. Watching Ferdinand disarm and shame this worm of a man was a visual treat. He had to step in before he forgot where they were and kissed him senselessly.
"You're outnumbered," he called, moving into the light. "Frankly, I expected more. Dorothea will be embarrassed she asked for help in the first place."
"Your days of terrorizing the innocents here are over," Ferdinand declared icily to the man at his feet.
"How dare…! Do you know who I am?" The man bellowed at them, spittle flying.
"No," Hubert said easily. He grabbed the man's waistcoat and pulled him to his feet. Ferdinand held him steady as Hubert rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a handkerchief with a coat of arms stitched into it. "With this, I'm sure we'll soon find out what minor house you're from—if you’re from one at all. That you don't recognize us is rather telling. Should I bother asking why you did it? Do you even have a reason? Or are you just a beast with more bloodlust than brains?"
"Piss off!" He spat, lurching forward. His aim was poor, the headbutt slamming clumsily into Hubert's jaw. "On what grounds do you think you can speak to me that way? I am Lord—"
Pain sparking across his face, Hubert shoved him to the ground with an aggravated hiss, hands burning with dark magic that ate away at the blackguard's expensive coat. Ferdinand wrenched his shawl off his shoulders and twisted it thin, using it as a makeshift rope to bind the man's arms to his torso.
He protested his arrest with an animalistic howl.
"Shut Lord Irrelevant up," Hubert ordered, pressing his fingers to his jaw and rubbing away the ache. "He's loud, violent, and stupid. A dangerous combination."
"When you wake," Ferdinand said to his struggling captive, "you will be in no position to bring harm to anyone else. On my word as the prime minister, your trial will be fair."
And if that trial fell through, Hubert would take care of it.
He didn't watch, but he heard Ferdinand's knockout strike. The silence afterward was heavenly.
"He truly didn’t recognize me. Do I really look so different dressed like this?" Ferdinand murmured after a minute of quiet contemplation.
Hubert turned his head to take him in. There had been little time before to admire him in his dress, but up close like this, he could see how the green velvet shimmered in the moonlight and how the strapless design left Ferdinand's arms and upper back exposed, the beautiful, wiry muscle on full display. It hugged him intimately, emphasizing his chest and waist. He was positively stunning.
Still, no matter how he dressed, Hubert could recognize his other half as clear as day. "You look unmistakably like Ferdinand von Aegir."
From Hubert, it was a compliment of the highest order.
Ferdinand squinted. "And what does that mean?” he asked. Perhaps he hadn't recognized it as such—yet. In time. They only had the rest of their lives, after all. “Oh, wait, you've got a little something…" He pointed at the corner of his mouth.
Hubert brought his fingers to his mouth, scrubbing at whatever was there. He felt the sting of a cut and winced, pulling his hand away. His glove came back bloody. The headbutt must have caused him to bite his lip and he hadn’t even noticed.
"Has it smeared badly?" he questioned, resigned and annoyed.
"Ah, I'm afraid so," replied Ferdinand. Then, he smiled brightly enough that Hubert could have been fooled into thinking the sun had risen early. "Worry not, because it is as you say!"
He stepped in close to brush his fingers across the smear of blood.
"Red is your color."
Ferdinand leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to his lips, the red of his lipstick mingling with the blood. When he pulled back, he looked exceptionally proud that he'd been able to turn Hubert's words back on him so successfully.
Hubert was proud of him, too. Unfortunately for his husband, Hubert also enjoyed having the last word. "Do you know what color is not yours? Green."
Ferdinand gasped, reaching down to clutch at the fabric of his dress like it was an heirloom and not a cheap replica stitched together as quickly as possible by a harried seamstress in the gray hours of the morning.
"Dorothea said it looked good!" he cried.
Hubert grinned. The trap was sprung. "It would look far better on the floor of our bedchamber, don't you agree?"
Dorothea had applied blush to Ferdinand's cheeks, but it held no candle to the real thing, traveling prettily down his neck and chest.
"That is not…! That is to say…!" he stammered. "You are… very forward tonight."
"Perhaps. Do you find it disagreeable?"
Laughter flashed across Ferdinand's eyes. "On the contrary," he said. "I find it most agreeable."
He made to step back, perhaps to lead them away, but he stumbled. At their feet, their unconscious captive groaned.
It certainly put a damper on the flames of their flirting for the time being.
Hubert chuckled darkly. "We should deliver him to a cell before anything else. Or perhaps to Dorothea? I'm sure she has plans for miserable men who hurt her sisters."
"A cell will do. We’re too public to promote vigilantism."
"Then let us hurry," Hubert said, reaching down once more for fistfuls of ruined velvet and hauling the cur onto his shoulder. "I'd like to return home before long—I want to see you flush such a beautiful red all over."
Ferdinand stepped in to take some of the dead weight. "Ah, but what if I have you blushing first? A gentleman's competition! Then we'll see whose color it really is."