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It is a bitter day. Hubert sits with his briefcase on the seat beside him, to preclude any irritating persons from thinking they are allowed to sit there. The bus window he looks out from is streaked with heavy raindrops, pelting down upon the roof hard enough to leak over the luggage tray behind the driver. Under the inclement weather most seem to have withdrawn to the security of their cars, as Hubert would’ve much preferred to do if he hadn’t been foolish enough to let Edelgard drive his own last week. The damage from the bollard was minor but the auto repair wasn't giving it back to him until next week. Just an excuse to suck him dry with their exorbitant fees, no doubt.
His second year of university, Edelgard’s first. He passed the whole of the last two semesters wandering campus alone, timing his departure where possible to see Edelgard after college ended each day. A lack of motivation for his studies meant he'd hardly taken more than a few subjects—all by design, of course, to ensure he could fulfil Edelgard’s request of joining her first-year classes now. He has no interest in a politics course, but he need only pass.
The bus jolts and beeps aggressively as a tradesman’s van pulls in front of them without warning, spurning a cacophony of horns honking throughout the traffic. They swerve back into the bus lane for an abrupt stop outside the local town hall. Outside, the rain turns briefly to hail. Hubert recoils into his seat.
Of all people. There’s a hiss as the bus doors close and a few dinging sounds from people touching on their travel cards. His lip curls in distaste on instinct, and then he thinks better of the situation and turns his face away completely. Staring hard at his reflection in the window, he wills the universe to spare him this sufferance. He's good at sinking into the shadows. The unfortunate arrival does not even look his way.
A head of surprisingly long red hair affronts him from the row of seats five ahead of his own. He oughtn’t be surprised. He knew in college that they lived close to one another, and that neither Edelgard nor he planned then to tolerate anything less than the city’s most prestigious university education. He’s certain Edelgard must have mentioned the fact at some point. He was simply… unprepared.
Anyone in their senior school block would have been a living miracle had they not known the name Ferdinand von Aegir. Hubert can still see him, strutting about in his immaculate grey blazer, criticising his peer’s inattention to the uniform rules at the gate even before he was voted house prefect. Prefect of the same house to which Hubert had most regrettably been assigned.
Could it really have been a year? Ferdinand appears so disturbingly different from college. Hubert never imagined him with hair longer than the collar limit imposed upon them by that awful institution, a law he never cared to follow himself. When he realises he’s been staring he turns back to the view outside, and its sleek rain-soaked streets, stretching north towards the church spire at the end of the promenade. He should pay no attention, and yet... He wonders if Ferdinand still remembers the many occasions on which Hubert had humiliated him in advanced literature.
The bus empties itself at the university stop, in the shadow of the old limestone law building. He creeps off last, taking care not to catch Ferdinand’s eye. It would be an easier task if only Ferdinand did not seem to be walking the exact same way as him, as though their destinations were identical.
Hubert stifles a heavy sigh and accepts his fate in fractions as he watches Ferdinand enter the school of political sciences ahead of them, the collar of his navy wool coat turned up against the weather. Had he any genuine belief in the existence of divine retribution, he would count this as his punishment for a litany of subversive deeds. Like Edelgard, Ferdinand was well known to be the son of a significant political dynasty—unlike Edelgard, he had never once shut up about it. Well, he pities whoever their poor tutor for this subject turns out to be.
Distracted by a message from Edelgard, he unfortunately fails to see he has arrived at their classroom until he's right outside the door. He jumps back to avoid a face full of hair—and that is another thing, who on earth allowed the most up-themselves individual to grow so tall? As if his figuratively looking down his arrogant nose at the world was not enough, now it must be literal.
“Hubert?” Ferdinand is staring at him with some mixture of shock and poorly disguised distaste. He was never good at hiding whatever inane thoughts were on his mind. “Please, look where you are going! You gave me a serious fright.”
“There’s no need to be so rude,” Hubert says darkly, feeling the weight of the whole corridor’s attention as they turn towards the fuss Ferdinand is making. “Where's that charitable Aegir spirit I remember so well?”
“I do not recall bothering much with charity where you were concerned,” Ferdinand replies. “I learned very quickly not to trouble myself.”
“Do you two know each other?” a girl with long brown hair and sharp eyes near them interrupts, clutching the strap of her pretty red leather bag over one shoulder. “Wait, I recognise you!” she exclaims, grabbing Hubert’s forearm. “You're that friend of Edie’s. Hm… Hubert, wasn't it? But,” she adds with a churlish wink, “I suppose I'll call you Hubie for short.”
“That won't be necessary,” he tells her, bothered by how little deterrence his usually effective glare seems to be to her smiles.
“I am Ferdinand von Aegir,” Ferdinand announces, holding out his hand for the girl to shake. “You are an acquaintance of Edelgard's?”
“Yes, we were at school together, in the same homeroom. It’s Dorothea,” she answers. Hubert supposes her face is rather familiar. Like someone he saw once at a gathering of irritating teenagers whom he despised and did not wish to talk to, sparkling in the centre of the room while he stood alone with his eyes on another.
The bell tower tolls out for ten o’clock and the previous class files out of the room, allowing them to end their awkward hovering in the hall. Hubert regrets it the moment his foot crosses the threshold. Now Ferdinand and Dorothea are walking together to the nearest table, chatting politely about their schedules, while he stays there by the door, caught between two evils. A semester on the same table as Ferdinand von Aegir, or deny Edelgard the chance to sit with this apparent classmate of hers. How tiresome life is.
“Come on Hubie, sit with us,” Dorothea calls, waving him over. “We’ll save Edie a seat for when she finally decides to show up.”
If necessary, he could just drop out. At least Edelgard will not be entirely without familiar friends. His feet move unbidden, drawing him ever closer towards hell. When he sits down beside Ferdinand, he feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle with discomfort. A year, and he still can't stand the feeling, the weight of Ferdinand’s nosy, brash attention, suffocating him.
“It has been a long time since we last met.”
He looks at Ferdinand: the faint smugness, the egregiously expensive clothes, the ghost of that arrogant boy who thought himself better than everyone—and the perfect section of hair falling across his brow like some sort of final insult to his address.
“You don’t appear to have changed much,” he remarks. He does not add the obvious caveat, unfortunately.
“You have not changed at all,” Ferdinand replies. He shuffles his chair closer as Edelgard enters the room at last, clearing space on the table beside him—and that is so rich, to think Edelgard would want to sit there, though of course she will accept with grace despite how undeserving her subject. Ferdinand’s shoulder brushes his own, the sleeve of his pale cashmere sweater transferring a single tangerine-hued hair from one arm to the other. Hubert picks it off his shirt and frowns, seeking the will to let it float to the floor where it belongs.
Ah, and there it is. The reason he dreaded every house meeting, scorned every literature class he could manage without failing attendance, the most shameful secret that not even Edelgard knew, could never know, if he wished his dignity to be preserved. A mere flicker, of course, a minor fixation born from too much time spent dwelling on that which was rightly below his notice. A crush. He’s not overly familiar with the phenomenon. He had thought it was long gone.
“So,” he says, trying to gather himself, glaring at Ferdinand’s lost hair as it sinks slowly through air towards the ground. “I suppose this course represents your first step towards continuing your father’s glorious legacy in national cabinet?” He makes it sneering as possible, under his breath so neither Edelgard nor Dorothea nor the strange cohort of fellow students who have settled at their table can hear.
“I- I would not say so,” Ferdinand replies, rather stilted. “That is, my father and I do not hold very similar views. I am looking forward to sharing a different perspective in this subject.”
“Really?” It surprises him. “Well, our class debates may be more interesting than I expected.”
“You will not win them,” Ferdinand warns, so self-serious. His eyes are much warmer than Hubert remembers—brown specked with gold and pale green, visible in the morning winter sun that peeks through the shades over the nearest window. Vulnerable now, enough that Hubert knows one more adequately cruel remark would break their resolution. But he doesn’t have it in himself now. It’s too early in the day.
“Hm, we’ll see,” he sighs. “I wouldn’t count your victories too hastily.”
“I can only dread to think what you are plotting,” Ferdinand shudders.
“Nothing contrary to the laws of academic integrity, of course.”
Ferdinand regards him with something that is almost a smile, perhaps an exasperated one, and Hubert realises how much he has missed it. Having a… rival. For the first time in more than a year, it will not just be him and Edelgard alone, besieged by a world of fools and incompetents. And even if the interloper happens to be one of the most obnoxious, preening examples of the elite this city has yet to offer, at least it may provide some light entertainment in his life.
And he will not be distracted by irrelevant feelings.
“That is not very reassuring,” Ferdinand says. “What about the laws of the state?”
“Why, what do you think I have in mind?” he asks, unable to stop himself.
“Theft, blackmail, defamation…” Ferdinand counts the crimes out on his fingers as he goes. “Serious bodily harm…”
“Murder?”
“Even you would not go that far,” he disagrees, shaking his head. “At least, so I would like to think.”
Hubert busies himself with removing his scarf and gloves to give his hands some task beyond resting awkwardly on the desk. Ferdinand’s hand is intruding on his section of the table with no regard for basic etiquette, the sleeve of his coat hanging over the back of his chair lolling onto Hubert’s thigh. A pale, cornflower blue wool coat, as luxurious as his cream sweater and leather dress shoes, still rain-specked from walking in the deluge outside.
“I would advise you not to test my patience and risk finding an answer to that question,” Hubert says, “but I can’t imagine it would deter you.”
“Probably not,” Ferdinand admits. “You are far too provoking.” The sun, inflamed by the pollution of a tired city sky, leaves him burning—that bright halo of hair that surrounds his youthful face, a natural disposition of positivity and charm that Hubert always found so sickening. It seemed saccharine, childish, nothing like the mind he knew he must inhabit in this so unforgiving and unfair—for Edelgard, and the dreams she tends to still.
“Well then, we seem to have reached an impasse,” he mourns.
“Do not worry, it will not be long before the victor emerges.” And as Ferdinand says it he fist pumps the air in a ridiculous way that draws the attention of the whole table and makes Hubert chuckle, though he stops himself when he notices his instinctive amusement was not from derision, but from more awful, unwelcome to his senses. A familiarity.
*
His fingers itch with anticipation. Ever since the bus rounded the last corner and turned onto the high street, lined with cafes and bare elm trees in plantations down the centre, his nerves have been on high alert. He will have his revenge upon the auto repair shop.
Ferdinand stands on the curb sheltered from the light shower by his umbrella—Hubert sees him from a mile off, a foreboding blight on the dreary landscape of the city. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide but the dirty and worn floor of the bus, and Hubert is not debasing himself like that, even for the sake of his sanity. He sits rigid in his ugly orange-print upholstered seat, merely counting the horrible seconds until those eyes meet his own. Ferdinand taps on his travel card with a smile to the bus driver, tucking his umbrella under one arm. Why is he so cheerful so early in the day? It’s objectionable.
The displeasure he expects to colour Ferdinand’s features when he looks up never arrives. No, this is far worse. Ferdinand is waving at him. Not smiling, at the very least, but still waving and walking his way, stumbling a little as the bus pulls back into traffic. Hubert shudders, eyes shut, as a weight sinks down on his row of seats. A soft flurry of air brushing his cheek, a leg just touching his own and retreating politely. The comfort of his solitary space disturbed, and an apprehension, so conscious of every tiny movement. With a deep breath, he dares to look.
He had forgotten some of the finer details since class last week, such as the few small freckles covering his otherwise unmarked cheeks, free from all the blemishes that had cursed their peers in school. And that innocence he carries about everywhere with him—an openness absorbing all the warm colours of the world, jejune and overly sweet.
He glares. “Why are you sitting next to me?”
After a particularly painful silence, Ferdinand responds. “Is there a reason I should not be?”
Hubert leans closer to the window, away from the cloying warmth of Ferdinand’s body wrapped up in its down puffer jacket. “I can offer several,” he says through gritted teeth. The inside of the bus is stuffy, humid, filling his lungs with worthless air. “First of all, bound as we may be by our mutual acquaintances, I don’t particularly like you. Secondly, you have made it clear on many occasions that the feeling is mutual. If that isn’t sufficient, I could also bring up how-”
“I think that is quite enough,” Ferdinand interrupts, pink in the face. “Clearly, I have offended your delicate sensibilities. Would you like me to move?”
“No,” he replies, far too quickly. Seeing Ferdinand’s confusion, he adds harshly, “you will only cause more of a scene than you do simply by existing.”
“Very well.” Ferdinand sniffs haughtily and turns away, occupying himself with no doubt more amicable interactions through his phone. Hubert watches as he flips it open and begins to write out a message to a contact he’s certain out of the corner of his eye reads Dorothea Arnault. The girl from their class, Edelgard’s school friend. She had insisted their table all share their contacts so she could make a chatroom for them and organise the end-of-semester group project. Previously, he had only Edelgard and a few other—irrelevant—numbers saved. Now a very strange array of random names and numbers clogs his contact list, glaring at him from the top of the page: Ferdinand von Aegir.
“Did you do the reading?” he asks, speaking before he has the chance to stop himself.
“Of course,” Ferdinand replies, though he doesn’t look up, his eyes and fingers still glued to the mobile. “I found it to be a very long-winded and ineffective explanation of the author’s view.”
“Indeed? I’m surprised you didn’t enjoy his diatribes, given how reminiscent of your speech they were. “
“You must be joking,” Ferdinand exclaims, at last turning to look at him. “I do not express myself like that at all. I consider the imprecise speech popular amongst politicians and social commentators to be a great blight upon academia. I always say what I mean.”
“One of your more regrettable flaws,” he agrees. “But I suppose I can’t fault you on your criticism.”
“We may have more similar opinions on such matters than you think,” Ferdinand says. “I do not believe our conclusions in literature were ever so different, we merely arrived at them through different methods. Of course,” he adds, “one was superior.”
Hubert smirks. “Perhaps.”
He walks from the bus stop to class two paces behind Ferdinand, one earphone in to distract him from his thoughts through the fuzzy audio of an old MP3 player he has neglected to replace. When the rain starts again Ferdinand waits for him to catch up, holding his umbrella out above them both, and he has really no choice but to comply. They’re similar enough in height now.
“Do you think Edelgard would be interested in joining the history society?” Ferdinand asks him as they cross the lawn, avoiding muddy patches. “I am considering signing up.”
“Maybe you should ask her yourself,” he points out. He doesn’t like the idea of Ferdinand sucking up to Edelgard as he will no doubt attempt to do now they are out of college and there is no joint-school captaincy to compete for. But Ferdinand is unlikely to understand such social boundaries. He has a habit of inserting himself into situations where he doesn’t belong.
“I do not wish to bother her if it is something she would dislike,” Ferdinand says. “And I believe you are more closely acquainted with her tastes than anyone. I will ask her today in class. You… you also ought to attend the next meeting, if you would like.” It’s an awkward addition, hardly adding an encouragement to an already unappealing prospect.
Hubert has no interest in societies, historical or otherwise. But if Edelgard is inclined to join, he guesses he must too, if just to act as a shield against Ferdinand’s intellectual advances. No other reason.
Their tablemates are already gathered when they arrive just a minute before class begins—this time Hubert insists on a seat beside Edelgard, escaping Ferdinand’s weight pressing in on him for a moment. Aside from Dorothea, there are two boys from Ferdinand’s grade in college whom he vaguely recognises, one who looks likely to spend all of class time half-asleep and the other who is already using it to draw sports team logos on his exercise book. A mouse of a girl sits at the chair closest to the classroom’s back wall, the hood of her jumper pulled up over her head. She scribbles fervent notes even now when the tutor isn’t saying anything. Next to her sits an international student with a far more serene manner and a gym bag at her feet. They’re the strangest collection of people Hubert has ever interacted with in his life. He accepts he is a part of that oddity.
“You came on the bus again?” Edelgard inquires. “Did something else happen to your car?”
“No, but the manager at the auto shop seems to believe he will succeed in extorting me to hand over funds for unnecessary tune-ups if he refuses to return it on the date that was promised.” The ugly man had taken one look at Hubert and undoubtedly decided he had an easy target. Unfortunate for him how wrong he truly was. Besides, he had happened to overhear some of the shop workers jeering and muttering something about the goth, so his vengeance was already assured. He will make sure they regret their audacity.
The bulky boy with the sporting fixation—Caspar, if he remembers correctly—leans over. He’s wearing a football jersey over his long-sleeve shirt, creating something of a fashion statement even greater than his boy-band bleached and dyed hair. Hubert can only assume he has no mirrors in his house.
“What? Some guys are holding your car hostage?” Caspar demands. “Tell me who they are, and I’ll sort them out for you! Linhardt, remember when that guy tried to steal the stereo and I beat him up until he gave it back?”
“Hm? Yes, you also broke the stereo,” the other boy sighs, waking from his stupor.
“The violence of this country is very concerning,” the international student remarks.
“I quite agree,” Edelgard sighs. “I'll have to rely on you, Petra, to be the voice of reason.”
All the conversation seems too much for the shy girl tucked away by the back wall, who pulls her hood over her eyes and sinks so far down she may as well be under the table.
“The group aspect of this subject’s assessment should certainly be interesting,” Hubert mutters.
“I am sure once we have pooled our collective talents,” Ferdinand says, so close to his ear he almost jumps out of his skin—he hadn’t thought anyone was paying him the slightest bit of mind, “we will have no trouble achieving success.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of something generally referred to as an inside voice ,” he grumbles.
“I do not suppose you have heard of what most would call basic human politeness,” Ferdinand snaps back.
Hubert is just opening his mouth to deliver an even more devastating blow when their tutor calls the class to attention and he is forced to keep it to himself. Ferdinand is as infuriating as he is saccharine and it truly boils his blood, in more ways than is perhaps wise to indulge. Sometimes, simply seeing his face, he'd like to shake some sense into him, though that might fall under Edelgard’s edict against violence. At other moments he feels a disturbing lack of hatred, which he prefers to put down to the general spectacle of Ferdinand’s character rather than anything else. Fondness would definitely be much too strong of a term.
He watches Ferdinand take notes as the tutor talks, not bothering to listen himself. Ferdinand’s penmanship is appropriately cursive and elaborate, like something from a past century, sprawling across the whole surface of the page. At least he doesn't use a fountain pen. That said, he certainly didn't purchase that thing from any office supply store. Hubert wouldn't be surprised if it was engraved somewhere underneath the clutches of his elegant grip— F.v.A.
It bothers him how changed Ferdinand seems since their time in college together. He has the miserable suspicion that most of the people sat around this table like the heir to the glorious line of Aegir—only, of course, because they didn’t have the misfortune of knowing him well enough before now. The most ridiculous, posturing, repulsively beguiling… That is what he does his best to remind himself of when his attention lingers for too long on Ferdinand’s handwriting, which is not improving anyway.
He wonders what would’ve happened if, by chance, they had ended up in separate tutorials. He suspects Ferdinand would have found some method of weaselling back into his otherwise peaceful existence either way.
*
He has no idea what he’s doing here. In fact, since the moment he woke up this morning, almost every action he’s taken has been completely unjustifiable to the sane mind. First he stood for a strangely long amount of time before his shadowy closet, scanning shelves and hangers of black for anything acceptable, without success. Then he’d put his coat on over the same combination of collared shirt and trousers he always wears and walked right past his car now sitting in the street outside his home. His feet seemed to have a will of their own. He walked with the frosty wind at his back, fists clenched in his pockets, until he arrived here. The bus stop.
He could just turn around, change his mind. Yet he remains rooted there on the tired asphalt, anxious and irritated, waiting for the bus to come into view. He watches it crest the hill at the end of the street with dread. There is no excuse for this. Immediately, the sound of chatter and the driver’s radio assaults his already frayed senses. The day ahead does not entice him.
The past week of his life has been… social, one might say too much so. There was the awful meeting of the history society to begin with—Ferdinand rudely inserted into a second hour of his schedule, with Edelgard’s company not much to make up for it. And then drinks with some of their classmates so kindly organised by Dorothea, which mostly resulted in him standing cold in the park while the boys enjoyed themselves rolling around on damp grass. Dorothea too, by the end drunkenly picking twigs from her hair.
So he really can’t account for being here. Why, given the horrors already inflicted upon him over the past few days, would he be on this bus, looking expectantly towards the footpath, waiting for a familiar face peeking out from behind the parked cars and street signs. The bus pulls to a stop and two travellers alight, but no one gets on.
Hubert turns his attention to his lap, feeling foolish. He had no reason to expect that someone like Ferdinand would be well-ordered enough to take the same bus each week. Perhaps he was a little too harsh during their last debate at the history society meeting and his presence is being avoided. Frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if Ferdinand was too ashamed to show his face after that takedown.
Still, he can’t help being somewhat… disappointed. Why, is hard to determine—he has nothing in particular to say to his rival, he doesn’t even want to see him, at least no more than necessary. His mind is on the weekend. Ferdinand was leaning against an electricity pole on the road outside the bar, under the glow of a streetlamp with his arms tucked inside his jacket. He was looking at Hubert and laughing like something was funny. He dropped his scarf on the tram lines when they were crossing to the park and Hubert had to go back and get it. It was cashmere as well, in navy blue.
He stops for coffee on his way to class. The girl behind the counter has red hair in two buns and a bright, freckled face, and even that merest physical resemblance serves as a reminder of a visage he’d rather erase from his mind. It’s becoming unconscionable, but he can’t seem to stop himself from this childish behaviour, dedicating every spare moment to daydreams. He cannot tell Edelgard. Not only because he would rather die than suffer such humiliation, but because many years ago, when she was in the hospital looking so frail and distrusting of the world, he made her a promise he isn’t willing to break.
He doesn’t have a crush. He doesn’t like Ferdinand von Aegir. He never shall.
Dorothea explains it once they’ve settled down in their usual seats, the one between him and Edelgard conspicuously empty. She sets her red patent handbag on the table and flicks her hair back from her face. “Ferdie sent me a message this morning saying he couldn’t come, he’s too sick.”
“Huh? I didn’t think he drank that much,” Caspar says, louder than really necessary.
“Not from a hangover, silly,” she replies. “He has a cold.”
“Oh yeah, that makes more sense.” Then he groans and rocks back so far in his chair he risks falling right off. “Damn, I can’t believe he’s gonna miss football practice.”
Hubert didn’t know he played for the university team. For the first time this semester he bothers to retrieve his exercise book from his bag, lacking his usual subject of interest to fixate upon. Perhaps Ferdinand had picked up his current disease at the bar—it had been disgustingly crowded with at least one too many coughing and sneezing individuals in the vicinity. In that case, he can’t be really ill. It’s as Dorothea said, just a cold.
Still, even by the time he’s behind the wheel of Edelgard’s scratched and dented sedan driving her home, Ferdinand’s absence is on his mind. It’s not like him not to make a grandiose announcement in their newly minted chatroom. The moment they get home from university to their computers he’s usually logging in to barrage them all with cheerful messages. Could something be going on between him and Dorothea? Surely not—she seems far too intelligent to fall for that.
“Are you alright, Hubert?” Edelgard asks suddenly, jolting him out of his thoughts. “You’re far away from here.”
“Of course, I’m quite well,” he answers. “Yourself?”
“No, nothing’s the matter,” she says, “so long as you’re being honest. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If there was anything I could do to help?”
He wouldn’t, but her heart is too good to understand why. Nodding in a pithy act of reassurance, he turns the car into her avenue, a leafy suburb even in the winter, filled with terrace houses and the occasional small mansion. A family inheritance, solely her’s now she has come of age, though Hubert has been escorting her home here for years. First on the tram, taking any opportunity to escape the clutches of her guardians, and later when he had a car of his own, driving two and from college with a tape playing through the stereo. While Edelgard gets out of the passenger seat he walks around to get her coat and bag out of the boot of the car.
“You can drive it back to your house,” she offers. “I can trust you, at least, to bring it back in one piece tomorrow. More than I trust myself.”
“I would prefer to walk,” he replies without thought.
“If you're certain. I’ll see you in two days at the history meeting?” She smiles, shouldering her bag. “Try not to argue with Ferdinand so much this time.”
“I will attempt to do as you ask, but unless he restrains himself from making so many unfounded assertions this time, I have doubts about my success.”
“Always so dramatic, Hubert. You know,” she adds, “seeing you in the same room, I can't help but think you two have always had more in common than you'll admit.”
“Please don't say such a thing,” he says, shuddering. “You didn’t go to school with him. You have no clue as to the depths of his iniquity.” She laughs a little at that, but she may soon come to regret her mirth once she realises the truth in his words. He’ll have to redouble his efforts of ridicule. Though… if Ferdinand is ill enough to miss class and risk his participation grade, he might be gone all week. That would be a shame—Hubert will have no chance to destroy him in debate for the second time.
Pausing on the corner of the main road, he takes out his phone.
[TO: Dorothea Arnault] Dorothea, do you have Ferdinand’s address?
[FROM: Dorothea Arnault] sure, y? 30 hawkhurst ave
[TO: Dorothea Arnault] It’s not important. I will see you in our next class.
He knows vaguely where the street is, perhaps a block away from their shared bus line. It’s only a small deviation from his journey. Not that he particularly cares, but he supposes it would be a better pretext for dropping by to deliver some food as he used to do for Edelgard, when she wasn’t well enough to leave home. There is one issue, though. Unlike with Edelgard, he has no idea what Ferdinand’s tastes are. Not as refined as his own, he suspects.
He peruses the display of the bakery across the street and settles on a sweet pastry and a bagel. Why on earth he’s voluntarily spending money on such an individual is beyond him, but at least it doesn’t look like he’s being very generous. He only wishes the bakery hadn’t gone so overboard with their artistic brown paper bag and handwritten label—this is bread, after all, not a birthday present. He stuffs it into his own bag out of sight before he can regret his decisions too much.
The walk provides him with plenty of time to do just that. It would be fair to say that for the past two weeks, he hasn’t been acting entirely like himself. He blames Ferdinand, of course, but more than that he blames himself for falling into old habits with such ease. He knows his feelings are deceptive, and that his behaviour is irrational, and that Edelgard is the sole person he will ever be capable of caring for. Everything else is just a distraction. And Ferdinand’s charm is fleeting, it will crumble as soon as his fragile positivity collides with the cruelty of the world he has thus far been lucky to avoid. It wouldn’t matter if they were better working as one than apart. Ferdinand will remember their mutual hatred before long.
Perhaps that’s what unnerves him most. Ferdinand spats with him as they have since the day they first met in school, but he’s too friendly, too free with his smiles. And he can’t decide what’s worse.
Ferdinand’s house is at the very end of a no-through road, a huge double-fronted terrace house freshly painted white and grey with the absurd choice of cherry red for the door. He passes through its wrought-iron gate in something of a haze, loathing each step. There’s a security camera above the door and a gold plate affixed to the wall with an old family crest engraved in polished metal. The door knocker is a huge brass eagle head, wreathed in loose feathers and vines. He presses the bell instead.
The seconds pass torturously, agonising enough to make him consider giving up the task and making a hasty escape. But then he hears footsteps and the unlatching of a chain lock on the other side. Running is no longer an option.
Ferdinand stands on the threshold. He looks sick, at least. His face is flushed and feverish, drowsy as if he’d just been sleeping. The most worrying thing, though, is his attire. A t-shirt— Hubert does not think he has ever seen Ferdinand wear a t-shirt in his life, nor, frankly, did he ever ask to. His bare arms are crossed over his chest to shield against the cold air, stronger and broader than they seem when covered up by thick coats and cashmere jumpers.
“Hubert!” Ferdinand blurts out, taking a step back. “I- I mean to say, I did not expect it to be you.”
“Apologies for the disappointment,” he replies.
“That is quite alright,” Ferdinand mumbles. He doesn’t seem to know which way to look.
Hubert allows him to stew in the awkwardness of the moment for a little while before reaching into his bag. “I brought you the notes from today’s class,” he explains, tearing the page of notes from his own book. He won’t be needing them himself, anyhow. “The exercise for next week will be in the chatroom, I expect, unless Dorothea chooses to abandon her duties.”
Ferdinand accepts the leaf of paper with a degree of fumbling. “Oh, I see,” he says, “thank you, that was very kind. You did not have to come all this way, I hope it was not inconvenient. As you can see,” he continues, covering up a sneeze, “I am not at all well.”
“Yes, so I’d heard,” Hubert remarks, grimacing at the display. “Much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I have little interest in sharing in your disease. Here… Dorothea asked me to give you this.” He holds out the paper bag from the bakery. “Personally I would’ve let you starve, but alas.”
When Ferdinand reaches out to take it, he tries to imagine the foul germs crawling from that skin into his own as their fingers brush. Unfortunately these thoughts are overrun by the weight of contact, stinging every nerve. He's not sure what's going on, or why Ferdinand is waiting so long to take the bag, or why his own hand seems not to be letting go.
“Well,” Ferdinand says, a little hoarse and jittery. At last the paper bag slides from Hubert's grip and into his arms. “Please tell her I said thank you. I am sorry I am so ill, otherwise I would invite you in.”
To do what? Sit and drink tea with him? Talk about the weather? Hubert peers down the hall over his shoulder. “You're home alone?”
“Y-yes,” Ferdinand answers. His fever looks to be increasing. Hubert probably shouldn't have kept him here so long, standing in the cold. “I am most of the time,” he adds. “So when I have recovered, you ought to return and I will give you a tour.”
Hubert does not need a tour of Ferdinand von Aegir’s mansion. “You want me to come here again?” he asks. This whole interaction is becoming more bothersome by the second.
Ferdinand simply shrugs and turns away to shield him from a cough, which isn't a helpful response.
“Then I'll leave you to… recover,” he concludes.
“Yes, until next week,” Ferdinand agrees, waving goodbye from his safe distance beyond the door. “Please take care of yourself.”
He doesn't know why Ferdinand cares so much about his well-being. They don't get along.
*
He's sitting on the bus next to Ferdinand von Aegir. Their shoulders are fully pressed against one another, half of Ferdinand’s sports bag resting on his thigh. His senses have narrowed in fury to that line of contact, objectionable in every way. There’s a sheen of sweat sticking to the back of his neck. It’s a cramped vehicle.
Ferdinand has been chatting since the moment he sat down, needing little more than the occasional monosyllabic reply to encourage him. He talks slightly too loud for Hubert is far too caught up in his own spiral of thoughts to contribute much more either way, lungs crushed under the weight of the thick, muggy air between them. Part of it is the crowded state of the bus, the result of a few cancelled services in a row. Part of it is the fact that Ferdinand is tucked in so close he may as well be on top of him, and he does not like the way that makes him feel.
He is not an idiot, after all, unlike certain individuals. He's had plenty of time over the past week to consider this developing issue. The endless humiliation is nothing compared to his disappointment in himself. He only wishes it did not sting so much that Ferdinand has spent at least the last five minutes speaking of the girls in their class. What does he find so special about them, anyhow? He admits all their peers are reasonably intelligent, but there are far superior candidates. Discounting Edelgard, of course, who is far above them all, and thus well out of Ferdinand’s league. He snorts at the mere thought.
“I spoke with Dorothea yesterday,” Ferdinand begins again suddenly, louder than before.
“Yes?” he replies, irritated to hear her name in conversation once more. Really, what is Ferdinand’s obsession with her affection? Three weeks ago he'd probably never even heard the name. “What did she have to say?”
“She did not tell you to bring me baked goods when I was ill last week.”
He pauses. “Did she?”
“Hubert.” Ferdinand turns to face him properly, something of a feat given their position. “Why did you lie? I am not too proud to accept a gift from someone with whom I was once at odds.”
Once. Is that what it is? Ferdinand thinks their enmity is all in the past and what, they're now friends? He doesn't consider himself to be someone with much interest in friendship. Or anything more.
“...Hubert?” Receiving no reply, Ferdinand seems to finally give up, falling back with a sigh. “You are truly impossible. I never understand what is going through that scheming mind of yours.”
Looking down, he sees their hands resting mere inches apart—Ferdinand strikes him as the sort to always want to hold hands or something equally sickening. He imagines a slew of kisses goodbye and embarrassing public displays, everything his attachment to Edelgard had protected him from in more vulnerable times. Not to mention his general disposition and appearance, crafted to be offputting to many if not most. There was a time when Ferdinand, his classmate, so willful and arrogant, had hated him for it more than anyone, or so he thought.
“Would you like a hot drink to take with you?”
Ferdinand’s query invades the turmoil of his head, no less uncomfortable than it was before. Like an open wound. Water trickling over it with a sting.
“Since coffee is the only method through which I can endure this class, yes.”
“Then I will buy you one to repay you for visiting me when I was unwell,” Ferdinand promises, already taking off towards the coffee stand close to the bus stop gate. Hubert doesn’t even have a chance to protest—which he would, vehemently, if Ferdinand gave him the chance. Who does he think he is? Hubert stalks over to the coffee counter just in time to hear his companion make some unnecessary quip about the weather to the barista.
“What would you like?” he asks, turning to Hubert expectantly.
“A small, strong black coffee,” Hubert responds, addressing the barista instead. “That’s all.”
“Very well,” Ferdinand says. “And I will have a medium hot chocolate, thank you.” He reaches for his wallet like there’s nothing more to say, retrieving a note crisp from the bank.
“I’m quite capable of paying for my own,” he interrupts before the poor girl behind the counter can take the money, catching Ferdinand by the wrist.
“Hubert, I am paying,” Ferdinand insists. “It is only fair given you made a purchase for my benefit last week. I am serious, you do not get a say in the matter.”
“I have little interest in being in your debt. It will only come back to increase my suffering later on.”
“Whether you are interested or not is not the point.” Ferdinand evades him with a clever fake-out and forces the banknote into the barista’s, glaring out of the corner of his eye. “There, please take that. You may keep the change.”
“I apologise for my friend’s behaviour,” Hubert tells her, only a little incensed by Ferdinand’s childishness and his cloying fingers on Hubert’s sleeve to keep him from intervening in his chivalrous gesture. “He’s impossible to talk sense to.”
Ferdinand does not look impressed. “That is certainly one way of framing the situation.”
“You can wait over there,” the barista suggests, pointing to the next window of the cart. She is no longer wearing her cheerful customer service smile.
“I can’t believe you ordered a hot chocolate,” Hubert mocks as soon as they have cleared the order window. “Are you a child?”
“I do not like coffee,” Ferdinand replies. “And I prefer brewed tea, which is not easy to acquire in a takeaway form. Seeing as I am fond of sweet drinks, it is the appropriate choice.”
Not surprising, but still. Hubert laughs under his breath. He has Ferdinand’s profile in the edges of his vision, smiling back at him. He’s had ample time to think about that too. It’s not only Ferdinand’s manner that has altered since college, but his… looks. He would be a fool not to notice it, though it has no effect on his feelings, of course. But Ferdinand’s expression is so much older, his features finer and his chest broader. The extra few inches are the least of it. It isn’t quite his type, obviously, but he will acknowledge there has been a minor improvement. No doubt he’ll manage to gather a variety of admirers across his university classes, at least until they really know him.
The barista calls their drinks and Ferdinand goes to collect them both, handing Hubert’s over as though it’s only natural. It’s an old-fashioned kind of gallantry, utterly pointless. But it occurs to him that having so few friends, he’s not in the habit of receiving favours. He supposes it’s not the worst thing in the world, and though he prefers to be alone, he could still live with this. Ugh, the companionship of Ferdinand von Aegir. How did he even manage it? Ferdinand walks closer to him than necessary on the quiet path through the herbarium garden towards the politics building, his scarf flapping against Hubert’s arm in the breeze.
“I prefer your hair like this.”
“What?” Hubert clutches his coffee tighter, feeling the heat of the liquid burning through the thin takeaway cup and into his skin. “What did you just say?”
“Your hair,” Ferdinand repeats. “It is quite different to how you wore it in school—I almost did not recognise you on the first day we met. Do you… style it like that?”
Hubert reaches for his collar where the longer parts rest, curled around his face. Some of the end bits are slightly crisp from the heat damage. “What do you think?”
“Well, I do not know!” he exclaims. “I am often asked how I style my hair, when in fact this is its natural appearance.” That has got to be a lie, given how perfectly that single lock falls across his brow, but Hubert is reticent to argue the point. Any provocation might cause Ferdinand to start complimenting his appearance again, which is something he does not need at this moment.
“Shall we take the stairs?” he suggests, dreading the thought of surviving twenty seconds of this company in the elevator. The stairwell smells of paint and musty carpet.
“Only if you race me to the top,” Ferdinand replies. His smile is so… boyish. Sweet. He covers the lip of his takeaway cup with one hand and makes a run for it.
“You must be joking,” he snorts, though his pace does quicken just a little. He isn't trying to win. He just… He skips the penultimate step, finishing just below a triumphant Ferdinand, smug delight plastered across his face. Something gives him pause—some particular glint in Ferdinand’s eye. Its intensity worries him, but he doesn't lean away, even if he knows he should.
“See?” Ferdinand says. “I won.”
“Only in that incomprehensible version of reality you call home,” he retorts. “Were you expecting a prize for this minor athletic feat?”
“Why? Do you have one to offer?” Ferdinand hovers only a few inches above him, gaze so certain and unwavering.
Hubert doesn't trust the direction this conversation is heading in. He doesn't feel in control of his words anymore—he never was, in Ferdinand's presence, always brought to fury and bitterness, now to something else.
“I can't imagine what you mean,” he says quietly. It's too early in the morning. The stairwell is so silent.
A hand touches the side of his face, just tracing his jawline. “Hubert, I hope I am not misreading this…?”
There are no articulate thoughts left in his mind with which to answer, only a heat just below his skin’s surface, a counterpoint to the cold frost of winter filling his throat and lungs. He opens his mouth a fraction, trying with all his might to summon the cutting phrases that would keep them both at bay. But his will seems to have deserted him. He leans in. Ferdinand’s warm breath flutters against his brow.
When Ferdinand kisses him, he doesn't move away. The sweetness of chocolate lingers there, creeping into his senses through the soft swipe of Ferdinand’s tongue against his lips. His free hand leaves the balustrade and comes to rest in the folds of the grey wool coat before him, too cautious to reach for flesh and bone. His mouth stays just open enough for a hint of Ferdinand’s affection to reach him, brushing the hair back from his eyes for a better angle—that hand, cradling his cheek.
The sound of a door and footsteps above shoves them apart, a sudden panic as Ferdinand flinches away and looks up towards the intrusion. He breathes out only as Ferdinand pulls away. He can still taste the chocolate, balanced by the bitterness of coffee in the back of his own throat. Ferdinand is looking at him with so much frank hope and delight, as though they had not just broken some grave and unspoken law that should’ve existed between them. He doesn’t understand his own instincts. The footsteps recede and he
“Why?” he asks.
Ferdinand’s expression falls, effectively crushed, and he feels an unusual pang of regret.
“I believed our wish was mutual,” Ferdinand says, wavering. “But if it was not, I sincerely apologise. It is difficult for me to explain how I have come to view you over the past few weeks. After the last time, I felt there was something more between us, but of course I will respect your feelings.”
“My feelings are irrelevant,” Hubert interrupts.
“I see.” Ferdinand avoids his gaze, clutching at the strap of his bag. “Please forgive me for making you uncomfortable. We will not speak of it again.”
He leaves, the door at the top of the stairs clanging shut, its echoes bouncing off every plastered brick wall until they finally settle below him on the basement floor where the corners are thick with spiderwebs and a blanket of dust.
*
He doesn’t go to the meeting of the history society. Not even for Edelgard, who calls his landline but makes no attempt to pry, her low voice carrying in fragments over the phone. He remains at home, reading without interest or passion, not bothering to turn on the lights when the sun sets and the pages begin to strain his eyes. One week since the most terrible, miserable mistake of his life—allowing his heart to fall victim to pointless whims
He detests Ferdinand von Aegir. For pretending to have any true interest in him, that he wouldn’t be disappointed within a week, for pretending their years of rivalry were nothing now when they were the thing Hubert had clung to for so many months, the only way he could defend his own disloyal heart. Ha, now he’s even beginning to think like him. When did he give up reason for the sake of flowery poetics?
His mobile chimes an hour before the class he has no intention of attending, its display just visible in the low light of his room as he lays in bed, ruminating. If he hadn’t been able to see from his current position that the message was from Edelgard, he probably wouldn’t have bothered.
[FROM: Edelgard von Hresvelg] Ferdinand is asking if he can have your address
[TO: Edelgard von Hresvelg] Why?
[FROM: Edelgard von Hresvelg] He’s concerned, he told Dorothea that he’d offended you badly and wants to make amends.
Of course he does not understand. Why would Ferdinand consider this anything other than another chance for his usual melodrama? If he bothered to consider the matter for more than a moment, he would perceive the true reason their paths ought never cross again. Ferdinand is a hopeless fool, he will make the mistake of falling in love, he will break his own heart, and Hubert will be the cause of fracturing those social alliances so necessary to Edelgard’s future. Whether it is Ferdinand or his dastard father who’s of more use to her, either way he must not falter.
So his feelings are irrelevant. His wishes are only passing moments in the scheme long-constructed even when all of them were yet born.
[TO: Edelgard von Hresvelg] You may tell him.
That means he has to get out of bed.
His apartment is already clean, obviously , but he does take the time to move a few things around, making the bed and opening the blinds a crack. Then he collects the newspaper from his doorstep and sits at the kitchen counter scanning the comment pages for targets for his derision, with the occasional flip over to the cryptic crossword.
He’s not sure what he intends to say to Ferdinand. After twenty minutes the answer has still yet to spontaneously arrive, nor has he found it anywhere in the puzzle section or in the captions of the cartoons. There’s a knock on the door and he rises mournfully, hesitating
Ferdinand looks like he’s shown up for a funeral. His white collared shirt and black cardigan are barely visible behind the strange array of tributes piled up in his arms—a bouquet of ferns and white flowers, an unmarked paper bag, a double-cupped takeaway coffee still steaming in the frosty air. His cheeks are pink from the cold, his hair tucked behind his ears.
“What’s this?” Hubert asks.
“A gift for you,” Ferdinand replies, seeming rather like a kicked puppy as he offers out his burden. “Or… several gifts. I did not know what you would prefer so I brought you a variety.”
“So I can see. Is there a reason why?”
“May I come in?” Ferdinand requests. He looks so sorry and pathetic that Hubert doesn’t have the heart to refuse, stepping aside to allow his guest to enter and dump his bizarre token of apology on the table. “I should think you know why,” Ferdinand says, not meeting his eyes. “I have clearly upset you quite grievously with the declaration of my feelings last week. I should not have taken advantage of the offer of friendship you have made these past few weeks in such a way.”
Hubert takes a deep breath, battling his opposing senses of exasperation and vague affection. “What declaration was that, exactly?” he inquires. “I don’t remember hearing it in words.”
A particularly pained expression crosses Ferdinand’s features, but he draws himself up and clears his throat, even when his eyes are swimming with misery. “I suspect it is obvious, but… I like you, Hubert,” he manages. “Not merely as a friend.”
“You’re attracted to me.”
“Well, yes,” Ferdinand stutters, a little wide-eyed. His blush is no longer because of the cold. “But I do not want you to think that is the only reason I have come to appreciate your company. I have a great deal of respect for your intelligence and your steadfast support for Edelgard. Even your sense of humour is not really so bad.”
“A glowing report,” he mutters. “Has it occurred to you that you might be mistaken?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been deceived. Oh, I’m sure your feelings are so very real. For now, perhaps. But imagine if I was so bold as to return them, how long do you think our mutual affection would last before you changed your mind? Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve never struck me as the sort to part ways without a degree of heartbreak.”
“Is that truly the only reason you are unwilling to accept my feelings?” Ferdinand asks. “If the fact is that you simply do not feel the same, I would prefer you tell me so. I will offer my apologies for the awkwardness and never trouble you again.”
Hubert is silent. He’s not sure why. He has no particular aversion to lying, which is usually the easiest way to ensure a decisive and optimal outcome in any situation. Perhaps it's just the plaintive look in Ferdinand’s eye beseeching him. He would rather loosen the hair from behind Ferdinand’s ears and offer him whatever sugary items remain in the back of his cupboards until he stopped looking so close to tears.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand says, reaching out cautiously to touch his arm. “You must think me far more feeble of a creature than I really am if you believe I would not be able to forgive you should things go wrong between us. I know my own heart. Regardless of the answer you give me, you can be assured of my loyalty to you and your family until my dying day.”
“You really mean that,” Hubert half-laughs, almost incredulous.
“Of course I do,” Ferdinand insists. He seizes Hubert’s hands more firmly, his fingers still cold from outside, smiling despite the great strain colouring all his features. He has… more courage than Hubert realised. It wasn’t mere bluster, but bravery in the truer sense, however ill-advised. “I know I have given you no reason to trust me. I know that you do not really trust anyone,” Ferdinand adds. “But I am willing to do whatever it takes to earn your faith.”
There is still one thing he doesn’t understand. “Why?”
“You asked me that question before,” Ferdinand says, “and I find myself as much at a loss to answer it now as I was then. I suppose it is because you have always challenged me in ways others would not. When you left college, I felt as though something was missing, though it has only been over the past few weeks that I was reminded how much I feel like myself in your company.”
“And if I break your heart?” he asks, not withdrawing from Ferdinand’s tender hold even as it seems to grow from where their hands touch to surround him, scented by the white miniature roses spilling from their bouquet onto the surface of his counter.
“Then I will simply have to break yours in return.”
Hubert can live with that. At least, he’s not willing to back down from such a challenge. Let Ferdinand try to leave his heart in pieces, he won’t succeed. Hubert may even one day succeed at besting him in love. Perhaps.
“Well then,” he remarks, affecting a smirk to pretend his heart isn’t racing pathetically. “Why are you still standing there?”
After a momentary confusion, Ferdinand blinks away his distress and jumps him with unexpected vigour. Clearly, the man has no idea about his own strength. Hubert stumbles back against the kitchen counter with Ferdinand’s arm crushing him around the neck, the weight of his whole body bearing into him. His hair tickles Hubert’s brow, breath against his ear. Then he kisses Hubert again, the same as he did the last time with his movements so light and nervous, hesitant to push too far.
Hubert has little enough experience with these kinds of things, but he suspects neither does Ferdinand. But it might be satisfying to give Ferdinand the impression that he knows what he’s doing. Dragging him in by the shoulders, he kisses Ferdinand harder and more openly, enjoying the way his subject seems to go a little weak in his arms.
A phone rings. He reaches one-handed for the back pocket of Ferdinand’s trousers where the offending object resides. Peering out of one eye he goes to decline the call, but Ferdinand snatches it out of his grasp and accepts. Hubert can just about hear Dorothea’s voice carrying over the background fuzz as he tears himself away. There is a hand creeping up his neck to run carelessly through his hair
“N-no,” Ferdinand says, talking back to her rather hoarsely. “No, I am not sure we will make it to class, since we are-”
He cuts off when Hubert’s mouth makes contact with his neck. It's only the result of mindless jealousy, maybe. Or the mere fact that he's pleased to see a little loss of composure under his influence—the way Ferdinand tips back his neck with the phone still pressed to his ear.
“Since we are already so late,” he finishes at last, immediately abandoning Hubert’s hair to slap his free hand over his mouth like he didn't trust himself not to make a sound. Hubert allows his teeth to scrape the skin under his jaw, tasting faintly the salt on his skin.
“Yes, you may reassure Caspar I will be on time for football practice,” Ferdinand replies to Dorothea’s latest query. “Obviously you are welcome to… to come. Yes. Well, goodbye.” He lets out a great sigh as he presses the button to hang up, immediately turning to peer down at Hubert with the brightest red flush to his cheeks that has yet been seen. “I expect you are pleased with yourself,” he accuses, panting.
“Delighted,” he answers as he pulls away with some regret. Even now his mind is still replaying the image of Ferdinand with his eyes closed and his hand over his mouth, behaving as though Hubert was doing something far more significant than kissing him. “What time is your precious football practice? If the offer is open to Dorothea, I wonder if I could come and watch too.”
Ferdinand twitches but manages not to get any redder. “It is not until two-thirty,” he says. “And I would like you to come, though you did not strike me as much of a sports fan.”
“I'll drive you,” he suggests. “If my car is up to your standards. I'm afraid it is second-hand.”
“I would prefer to take the bus,” Ferdinand replies, “if that is alright with you. I like being able to sit next to you properly. Since I have you, at least for now, I cannot bear to have anything between us.”
“You're truly hopeless,” Hubert sighs.
“And your hair is truly a mess.”
“Hm? I wonder who is to blame for that?”
“I am not sorry,” Ferdinand proclaims, and from the brightness of his smile—infectious, charming, warmer than the sun, all of it—he means every word. Hubert expects he can forgive him.