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It’s not something Asbel has ever done intentionally.
When they were young, Hubert could even appreciate the spontaneity of it. Sure, Asbel was usually physically dragging him into trouble, but it was difficult to deny his more enthusiastic displays—a hand wrapped around Hubert’s wrist, that wide, gleeful smile of his. Nose to nose with Hubert, saying, “C’mon, it’ll be fun!”
“Fun” was all the excuse Asbel ever needed to do something, even when it left him scraped or bruised or, that one time, bedbound for weeks on strict orders to not so much as bend one of his legs (not that that had stopped him from trying, though he had gotten in plenty of trouble for that, too). Hubert had always been the more analytical of the two of them, running the risks through his head on the precipice of every new opportunity; but it was hard to commit himself to his concerns when his brother was so set on convincing him not to. A simple touch could too often unravel his anxieties completely. A reassuring hand on his shoulder. Fingers laced through his, an unspoken promise in the warmth of their connection: Protection, safety, the knowledge that even when Asbel got hurt on their little misadventures, he had never—would never—let the same happen to Hubert.
But that hadn’t been enough.
Their reunion hardly left room for sentimentality. Rather than give into the old desire to let Asbel reach out for him, Hubert sent him away. He came back, of course, tenacious as ever; but even then, Hubert was waiting for any attempt at touch and was prepared to swiftly step away from it. The hand on his shoulder never connected. Asbel, at least, had the good sense to try to hide his disappointment, though he had never been particularly good at doing so. But, resolutely, Hubert refused to feel bad for him. Even if some small part of him felt a little colder at the absence of his brother’s touch.
Asbel was being careful. Hubert could credit him with that much. Sometimes, the hand never connected because Asbel hesitated and pulled back first. Whether it was gratitude or something else entirely gnawing at the inside of Hubert’s stomach every time it happened is another matter entirely; but his feelings for Asbel had always left him too soft, too lenient, too caring. These were not things he wanted to be anymore, for anyone, let alone for the person who left him in silence when he needed him the most.
The first time, on their way to Fendel, that Asbel’s hand reached his shoulder, he flinched. Asbel pulled back right away. He looked upset, though Hubert could not meet his gaze for long enough to ascertain exactly why. He continued the conversation, determined to ignore whatever had just happened, preferably for the rest of their earthly lives.
It was the first time, but hardly the last. Each time, it lingers a little longer before Hubert awakens to his logic and shakes him off, usually with a glare or a huff to impart his irritation without having to outright say it. He does want Asbel to stop, except he does not want to hurt his brother’s feelings beyond what damage he has already done. It did not feel good to send him away from Lhant. It did not satisfy him to see Asbel bend beneath his blade. He can only assume it is because Asbel is so pathetically expressive, it feels somehow akin to kicking a lost, starving puppy.
The unintended side effect of this is that Asbel, as dense as he is, does not get the hint at all. If anything, his overtures only become more brazen. And Hubert knows, has always known, he does not do it on purpose. After everything that’s happened, it’s almost reassuring to see him light up enough to reach out for Hubert. It happens after they return from Fodra, preparing for what they all can only hope will be the end of this. One moment, Asbel is quiet and pensive, and then his hand is wrapped around Hubert’s wrist with such force he feels momentarily arrested by it. And before he can even open his mouth in protest, his brother is dragging him to another vendor’s shop. Bypassing materials and equipment entirely.
“I had no idea they still made these! We used to have one just like this, remember?”
His free hand is pointing to something on a table behind the vendor: a small, wooden clock, clearly designed for children. Hubert does remember: it doubled as a music box, but there was a trigger that would only allow the music to play exactly on the hour. Asbel hated it; he felt there was not much point in having a music box if it could not play music when he wanted it to. Hubert suspects it was the goal of their parents to teach him some patience, but instead he had begged Hubert to help him take it apart and, as he said, “make it work properly.” All that had really happened was they had managed to dissemble it but could never quite get it to work again. Hubert always considered it a failure, but Asbel’s smile now suggests he doesn’t see it that way now, if he ever even did.
“I bet that would be nothing for you now,” he says fondly. “Forget making it work right, you could probably make something even better out of it.”
“It was never broken to begin with,” Hubert points out weakly. “You just refused to accept its function for what it was.”
Asbel’s lips turn down a bit. His eyes, still on the stupid clock, shutter with thinly veiled upset. Then, seemingly with no awareness on his end, his grip on Hubert loosens. But in that brief moment of weakness where Hubert should have pulled away, he hesitates. Just long enough for Asbel’s fingers to drop down and thread through his. Warmth spreads up his arm everywhere the pads of Asbel’s fingers touch his skin, passing up through his chest, his throat, setting his cheeks ablaze.
Before he can demand Asbel unhand him—as he feels somehow glued to the spot, unable to lift his arm and just pull it away—a voice sounds from behind them: “Asbel, Hubert, what are you doing over here?”
Hubert jumps. Asbel’s hand tightens around his, holding him firmly in place.
“Sorry,” Asbel says bashfully, though he is looking over his shoulder at Cheria, not at Hubert. “I just saw something that reminded me of when we were kids.”
“Oh! You mean the clock?” Cheria’s lips twitch up at that. “I remember you used to hate that thing…but you were so sure Hubert could make it work the way you wanted it to.” She glances at Hubert, then puts a hand over her mouth to conceal a giggle she must know Hubert would not appreciate. “You know, seeing you let Asbel hold your hand like that, I can almost believe things haven’t even changed since then.”
Hubert splutters. Beside him, he sees Asbel blink, and then look down at their joined hands. His cheeks colour slightly, and then all at once the pressure disappears. The hand that was holding Hubert’s comes up to self-consciously rub against his other arm. And for reasons Hubert can’t quite explain, his glare comes to rest on Cheria, rather than on Asbel.
Her smile falters as she watches Asbel avert his gaze. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she assures him. “Um, everyone else is getting ready to go, so I came to see if you were coming.”
“Ah, right. I think we’re ready, so…”
He’s got that look again. That sad, wounded one that makes Hubert’s stomach curl in itself. Clearly, it has a similar effect on Cheria, who is frowning, now.
Hubert pinches the bridge of his nose, then drops his hand with a hefty sigh and tells her, “You can let the others know we’ll be there momentarily.”
Her eyes dart between them, and then she nods. It is likely only her own sense of guilt that leads her to tell him, “Right. There’s no rush. We’ll wait for you by the equipment stall.”
Asbel looks up at last, offering her a tight smile. “Thanks, Cheria, but we can—”
But she’s already turned around to walk away, and before Asbel can fully register this fact and follow after her, Hubert puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
It is intentional, and just as much so uncomfortable. It has been a very long time since he has had this kind of contact with anyone, let alone with his brother, but the effect is immediate: Asbel’s muscles relax under his touch. He turns, head tilted curiously.
“Hubert? Is something wrong?” He pauses. Winces, as realization washes over him. “It’s because I held your hand, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking about it. I just… Uh, Hubert?”
Hubert is barely listening to him. He takes in a deep, steeling breath and lets his hand drop from Asbel’s shoulder. It slides down his brother’s arm, until at the wrist he wraps his fingers around him to pull his hand up. Though every other instinct screams at him to get away, that one, baser instinct, which he has not fully indulged since childhood, compels him to intertwine his fingers with Asbel’s again. He cannot meet his brother’s eyes, face the annoyingly soppy look he is sure he will find there.
Unfortunately, he cannot do anything to prevent hearing all his ridiculous sappy emotion when he speaks:
“Are you really okay with this? I thought…I thought you didn’t want me to…”
So maybe he had gotten the hint. Somehow, that doesn’t go very far towards making Hubert’s gut feel less twisted up inside.
“I never said that,” he grumbles. “And I’d rather not talk about it. Now, if you can save yourself from doing something embarrassing like cry about it, we should really be getting back to the others.”
Silence, for a beat—just long enough for Hubert to begin to wonder if he really is trying to hold back tears. But stealing a glance at him only reveals a soft, sweet smile; bright eyes that are only reminiscent of their childhood in that they watch him with a sort of compassion Hubert has rarely felt from anyone else. But Asbel’s gaze is gentler than it was back then. Metamorphosized by all the time they spent apart, years of their lives unknown to one another but for all the time spent missing each other. Hubert could never admit it as fearlessly or as openly as Asbel does with even just a single look. It sends a warmth through him uncomfortable only in its lack of familiarity.
He tightens his hold on his brother’s hand. Asbel makes no word of complaint as he turns around and pulls him back towards their companions. And perhaps Cheria has said something to them, for no one else brings up their joined hands even when they stay that way long after they have left the shopping district to return to the shuttle. Hubert can feel their gazes on him nonetheless, burning and curious. It should be enough to make him want to pull away. But he just can’t do it. Not even once his palm begins to grow sweaty and itchy. After all, in spite of all the unpleasantness, there is still that warmth. That small smile Asbel cannot seem to find it in himself to hide.
For the sake of not having to see that stupid, sad look on his brother’s face again, he supposes he can hold on just this once.
It’s hardly the first lie he’s ever had to tell himself where Asbel is concerned.