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When the beast, once known as Archbishop Rhea, is felled, all Hubert can offer his Lady is a victorious smirk. This war has been won; our other war is to begin, communicated through only a show of teeth. She returns his smile.
Then Byleth falls.
Hubert finds himself incapable of describing the emotions he felt as Edelgard fell to her knees at the Professor’s side. He could only anticipate the grief she would experience—that all their comrades would inevitably experience—as Her Majesty listened for an absent heartbeat.
Hubert was afraid.
Then, a heartbeat. Heard. Restarted.
Trusted with another of the Empire’s secrets, Hubert leaves their reunion, allowing Byleth to comfort the Emperor.
In a clear lapse of judgment, Hubert seeks out his own comfort. (He needs to know that Ferdinand is alive.)
Hubert’s eyes trail across the battlefield, lingering on his recognized allies in the midst of fire still blazing. He directs his battalion to help put out the flames, dismissing them from his side for the night. Come the morrow, they will have work to do. But he will not take their celebration from them tonight.
Hubert passes over the destruction at his feet. His general demeanor keeps him outside of the physical touch of celebration happening in the battalions around him. As such, Hubert is undeterred on his path to his allies. He sees orange-haired Annette in the air, lifted by Caspar, Mercedes giggling at their side. He notes red-headed Sylvain laughing as Marianne cries in relief, and Lysithea sighs in fond amusement. This is as far as he gets seeking out hair against the burning backdrop, when Dorothea finds Hubert first, her arms wrapped around his neck as she says, “Hubie, we won!”
He will not tell her the fight is not over. He will not take her laugh from her, not yet.
When she pulls away, Hubert feels a fondness overtake him at the drag of her sleeves following her movement. Fond of her unconditional support over the years, even if it was so misplaced in the beginning. (Like he could have admitted the truth, then. Blinded as he was to the concept of sharing devotion.) Fond of the viewpoints she has drawn out of him, simply because she saw him as a friend before he could ever admit to her being one. Fond of her sentimentality, the empathy she bears despite the trials she suffered through. Hubert is fond of her wielding words as knives, able to deftly cut to the truth of a matter if a threat throws an insult in the wrong direction—she is fiercely protective of all those she loves. He is honored to have served at her side. With the swell of platonic affection, Hubert is finally moved to participate in an act of physical celebration: he draws Dorothea into a hug. When she laughs, he spins her, just to repeat the music of it.
Before her, he had never cared one way or the other for the opera. To have enjoyed it would have been to give into everything his father raised him to be. A false concept of nobility Hubert was raised on and hated. He is honored to have been by the singer’s side when her concept of nobility changed at the hands of an optimistic, ever-buzzing bee, and an industrious princess spending more time in the air than in jeweled thrones. They both hate the nobles that once were (both bearing skills to end them where they rule), but they have learned not to hate the concept of nobility as Ferdinand presents it.
Hubert finds Ferdinand by his laugh before his hair. Petra smiling at the cavalier’s side. Hubert stops thinking, faced with the evidence of life in the exuberance of Ferdinand’s joy, of light in the blaze of Ferdinand’s hair. Hubert leaves Dorothea’s side after looking into her green eyes and finding encouragement. Her affection is riddled with amusement, and as always, her support.
(Dorothea is observant enough to know where he’s heading. She has been fighting at their sides for years. She is glad she caught him before Ferdie did; she’ll brag and tease for years to come. So, she watches on.)
For the first time in years (that he has allowed), Hubert feels exhausted, overwhelmed with relief. And yet he knows he has to reach him. Seek out his warmth to ensure they are alive. Erase the vestiges of fear Hubert has been repressing for years by pressing himself against Ferdinand’s armor. Hubert’s patience dissipates. Hubert lifts the robes at his feet and picks up pace.
“Hubert?” calls Petra’s concerned voice. He does not turn his attention away from his target, watching as Ferdinand catches sight of Hubert’s approach. Hubert would typically laugh at the noble’s loss of composure as panic pushes Ferdinand forward without hesitation, but Hubert is not in a state to feign haughty pretense.
“Hubert,” Ferdinand calls out, a mix of emotions swirling in a single word. Hubert almost tumbles, stumbling over the weight of the emotions that fill him; his heart pounds. Alive, alive, alive, with every beat.
“Hubert!” Ferdinand audibly panics at Hubert’s near trip. Hubert comes to a stop, and laughs. Ferdie still rushes to meet him.
Hubert is not really listening as Ferdinand’s lips spill concerns over Hubert’s well-being and erratic behavior. There is blood in Ferdinand’s hair (rusting red against vibrant orange) and splattered against his armor and spilling from his temple so Hubert steps closer and casts a heal before assessing the rest of the damage. There is bruising across Ferdie’s jaw and armor open at his arm, dried blood exposed as evidence of a healed-over wound. Hubert desires to catalogue every injury he has yet to see: every bruise mixing into or contrasted with Ferdinand’s natural coloring, every scratch exposed by Ferdinand’s musculature and exacerbated by its usage, every scar paling against freckled skin. This is not the first time he has felt this desire, but it is surely the first instance he allows the emotion to wash over him and fully accepts it.
Hubert has grown to love listening to Ferdinand, despite his current inattention. The cadence of his voice. His contrary opinions. Sharing gossip or passions or arguments. Hubert enjoys learning Ferdinand’s thoughts, perspective challenging what Hubert once thought he knew.
Hubert once thought he knew he would live his life in shadow, disappearing from the public eye to wage another war in anonymity. Now, he wonders what it would be like to stay at Ferdinand’s side, bickering their way through public policies and political agendas as they both serve Edelgard. Ferdinand has dragged Hubert’s goals into sunlight smiles and citrus-spun locks and tea parties. The tension has been brewing between every slipped compliment and every lingering glance since they exchanged gifts. Hubert knows Ferdinand returns the feelings, building tension with every coy smirk and fluttering eyelash. Neither has acted on it.
In this moment, consumed with desperation, Hubert acts on it. Hubert removes his gloves and stops Ferdinand’s ceaseless rambling by bringing hands to face, skin-to-skin, and kissing him.
Their history is riddled with sharing passions. A hatred elicited from each other at the beginning of their academy years defied self-imposed expectations of control and composure. Hubert out of emotional restraint; Ferdinand out of responsibility, graciousness and kindness and love for the others around him. (Hubert’s perspective of Ferdinand von Aegir has dramatically changed since his youth.) The edges of their bickering have since softened into something fond. Hatred grew into camaraderie and respect shaped over years of shared experiences and forced common spaces. Now, Ferdinand meets Hubert’s passion here, too.
Ferdinand’s gloves rest against Hubert’s lower back, supporting him steadily while still desperately pulling him closer.
Hubert feels calm, steady, alive, even when he pulls away from Ferdinand breathless.
“Coffee still tastes terribly bitter,” Ferdinand says, which would seem a non-sequitur were it not for Hubert’s choice of drink prior to the battle. “I appreciate the absence of the muddy texture, however.”
And Hubert cannot help but to laugh.