Work Text:
"Your Majesty, might I have a word?"
King Richard looked mildly surprised by the request, made as they travelled through Strahta Desert Ruins, but answered, "Of course, Hubert. What would you like to talk about?"
Hubert cleared his throat. "I believe it would be best if we discussed that in private. It is a matter of a somewhat . . . delicate nature."
The moment his sentence had concluded, it was clear his words had caught the attention of the every other person in their group. Though most of them had the grace to pretend otherwise, that wasn't universally the case.
"Oooh, Little Bro's got a secret!" Pascal singsonged and danced her way back along the path to his side. "What is it? What is it? Are you in loooove with Richard? Ooh, what's Asbel gonna think?"
One of these days, he was going to strangle Pascal with her ridiculous scarf.
"I-I am not!" he contradicted. "What a preposterous idea!"
"Whatever you have to say, Hubert, you can say it in front of everyone else." Smiling that smile Hubert had come to distrust, His Majesty spread his arms. "I have no secrets from any of you."
"Very well. . . ." He pushed his glasses up his nose, to give himself time to collect his scattered composure. "It's about your attire, Your Majesty."
He heard Cheria sigh hard but avoided her eyes.
"Oh?" King Richard asked. "What about my attire?"
"How shall I put this?" Entirely without his consent, his gaze was pulled to the offending part of the king's outfit; it was with real effort that he returned his eyes to Richard's face. The amusement he saw there yanked the words out of his mouth: "Those boots are completely inappropriate!"
There came nothing but silence in response. He was being stared at, he knew he was, but he refused to turn away from His Majesty's studied look of puzzlement. If he did, he might lose his focus yet again as his eyes traced the slim line of King Richard's well-shaped legs—ugh! No, he simply had to concentrate on the matter at hand.
"Are they?" King Richard inquired, and Hubert could only hope he was unaware of his turmoil. "I had thought them quite fashionable."
"They are indecorous for a man in your position!" he retorted. "They will not inspire respect in your subjects—quite the contrary. After all, you know what they are called."
Now King Richard mimed deep thought. "No, I don't believe I do. Perhaps you could tell us, Hubert."
Too late, Hubert saw the trap into which he had fallen. Vainly attempting to contain the rise of his blush, he caught his brother's eye. "You're his partner—you tell him!"
". . . Thigh-high boots?" Asbel offered with a bewildered frown, and honestly, he should have known better.
He whirled. "Cheria!"
Cheria flailed her hands before her, her face scarlet. "M-Me? No way, Hubert!"
"How odd," he heard Captain Malik muse, and quite suddenly, the situation had become as dreadful as it possibly could be. "Don't you wear . . . "thigh-high boots" yourself, Hubert? I'm surprised you're so adamantly against them."
"Th-That's completely different!" Hubert yelped. "These boots are a part of Strahta's military uniform and are for entirely practical purposes!"
And then, just to give the finishing touch to his humiliation, Sophie finally spoke up. "Asbel, why doesn't Hubert like Richard's boots?"
"Beats me." Asbel shrugged. "Hubert gets funny about clothes sometimes—kind of like when he didn't like Cheria's skirt."
"Ohh." Sophie looked thoughtful. "Does that mean he needs some 'alone time'?"
. . . He had been wrong. Now the situation had become as dreadful as it possibly could be.
His face buried in his hands, Hubert stopped stock-still and waited for everyone to pass him on their way. Perhaps if he stood here like this for twenty years, the shame of having his niece ask such a question would leave him.
And perhaps—just perhaps—in twenty years, everyone save the oblivious trio of said niece, his brother, and Pascal would have stopped laughing.