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Dawn begins to peek, ever-so-slightly, into the tent Eliwood and Hector are currently sharing. This is, unfortunately, a cue for Hector to wake, shuffling slowly and steadily out of their cot in an attempt to not wake the redhead currently huddled against his chest. He almost gets away with it, too, he thinks as he tugs on the first pair of breeches he sees, until a small cough alerts him that his getaway plan Has been foiled. Damn it.
"I know, I know, but I'll get scolded by Oswin if he finds out. It's not befitting of Marquess Ostia to fraternize with his comrades as you are, you know how it is." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to his friend--nay, lover--'s forehead. There's an odd look on Eliwood's face, one that he can't quite place, almost like he's about to protest something, but before Eliwood can say anything, he is immediately coughing. That makes sense, he thinks. The winter breeze doesn't do well for anyone's constitution, but especially him, and the fact that they both didn't seem to want to dress last night after their, ahem, activities helps no-one.
(Hector is doing fine, though, if he's being honest. His training must be paying off, too--these sleeves are getting a little too tight on him, and his armor is awfully light!)
Tucking the thick quilt a little tighter around Eliwood, he opens the flap of the tent, just low enough so as little morning light floods the interior as possible, tucks his weapon against his side. "I'll see you in a bit, yeah?"
"Hector--" He hears calling behind him, but it really is getting to be morning, he thinks as he looks outside, and he really cannot risk another lecture from Oswin. The light is awfully bright, maybe a little too much, and the scenery looks far different from what he remembered when they set up camp last night, and hey, wait, where the fuck is camp.
Uther and Oswin are standing directly across from him, sharing that same odd look Eliwood was giving him before. Uther, of all people, the one they literally just buried a few days ago, dead in the ground, saw the corpse, had been sick for gods knows how long, that Uther, is standing probably one Armads' length away from him, cheeks full of colour in a drastic contrast to the absolute pallor Hector saw the last time the two were both alive and in the same room, maybe somehow looking more confused than he currently feels? What is up with that? He reaches behind his back, pinches himself to see if he's dreaming, and shit, that hurts, what are the implications here that this still hurts, he
"Hector," Uther starts, bringing him back to what he has to assume is reality, "Why are you wearing the Pheraen boy's clothes."
Denial sets in much quicker than actual realization. The huh? The what? The who's clothes now? The what's who's when's who's what now? Pardon? Pardon him? Pardon? Hello? He looks down, noticing the striking blue of the armor--the colour Eliwood said he loved, said it reminded him of him--then the robes, the boots, and how did he fuck up the boots, and then the sword?
"My clothes...were...wet?" Yes, Hector, wet clothes completely explain why Durandal, you know, the legendary blade, Durandal, is currently sitting diligently on his side in its hilt. That explains the gods damn circlet , how did he fuck up this badly, on what planet--
Hector has lied to Oswin and Uther more times in his life than anyone could reasonably count. Some of this has been the simple follies of childhood, the no, I didn't rip the book that I didn't want to read, it just fell apart on its own or the I ate every vegetable, ignore the pile on the ground, and some has been the I am going to just go make sure Eliwood is okay, I will be back in less than a week. (Not that Uther has any business calling people out for lying.) They at least tend to pretend to go with the lies, usually, but in this case, there is clear doubt. Not disappointment, he will at least say, just doubt.
"Your clothes were wet." Uther echoes, silently giving him permission to back away from that statement, if he so desires. To say something normal, even.
"But Eliwood had...extras?" Ah, yes, Eliwood, famous for his dubious constitution on the best of days, carrying a full second set of armor with him. (Eliwood is in the back of his mind, saying something about how I am perfectly capable of doing so.) Eliwood, someone Uther knows incredibly well. Great job, Hector.
"And what were you doing to make your clothes so wet?" This is not a new interrogation tactic. He feels like he's seven again, pretending like a gust of wind from somewhere, definitely not him running around like a madman, knocked over some priceless heirloom. Think, Hector, think, what's something for a respectable, newly-minted Marquess Ostia to have been doing?
"Tax...es...?"
Oswin sighs. Loudly.
"Hector," Uther starts, "It is unbecoming for any future Marquess Ostia--" the future in that really twists the proverbial knife, "--to act in this manner. You should--"
"I know, I know. Spare me the lecture." He sighs, takes the moment to close the Armads' length (Durandal's length?) between them to throw an arm around his brother. His living, breathing, not obviously dying of some sort of consumption brother. "It's good to see you well." He hears a huff, then feels an arm wrap around him, as well.
"It's good to see you well, too, Hector."
