gay fanfiction

Alone Together | Dragon Age Fanfiction

Word count: 2200 (5 to 18 minutes) | Rating: T | Note: Dragon Age Spoilers | Characters: Dorian Pavus, Garrett Hawke, Varric Tethras, Cole

The Inquisitor was wise to bring Dorian along on this little errand with Cole, Varric, and the dwarf’s friend. Even to this forsaken spit of land. Hawke had fought Corypheus before and suspected the Grey Wardens were vulnerable to the wretch’s influence. His instincts ought to be conceivably better than his ability to kill darkspawn. The cruelly attractive Champion of Kirkwall had connections to shed some light on the situation, and having an experienced mage in Dorian who also knew what modern amenities were made a world of difference. Or it would, once they got to the spiky and dour affair that was Adamant Fortress. Its one benefit over Weisshaupt was not being stubbornly wedged into a frigid mountain.

Until then, Dorian had to contend with the ill-dressed Cole and his barbed good intentions.

“I’m hurting you, Dorian. Words, winding, wanting, wounding. You said I could ask,” he asked, confused. Of all the times Cole insisted on prying into his life, now was particularly horrid. A handsome, talented man was in their company! Then Dorian was in the position of having to field questions about his estranged father. Hard to make that look sexy no matter how desirable the man.

“I know I did,” he acknowledged, spiteful at the tremor in his words. Trying to be patient through the pain was testing the very essence of his soul. Navigating a craggy stretch of desert with their group all pretending to be stricken deaf to awkward conversations, Dorian tried to steer Cole away from the heart of it. “The things you ask are just—very personal.”

“But… It hurts.” He tilted his head, that ridiculous hat flopping from the movement. “I want to help, but it’s all tangled with the love. I can’t tug it loose without tearing it.” The Inquisitor looked over her shoulder to them to gauge Dorian’s agony and unwittingly added to it. He only grimaced and stared off to some rubble while Cole carried on. “You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do… Oh. You are not alone.”

Wait. He wasn’t?

That caught his attention. Turning to follow Cole’s gaze, with Varric doing the same, they both settled their stare on Hawke’s back. The easy smile on his face that he always had confirmed he hadn’t been warned at how nosy Cole could be. Open emotional wounds and helping to mend them were irresistible to their friend from the Fade, and the rumors suggested Hawke was essentially a walking bastion of emotional torment.

“What? Please tell me I didn’t fall backward into some unsavory stain again.” Hawke’s optimism might have worked as a shield or diversion any other time. No such luck with Cole. Something about a person rooting around in your head, it left you utterly defenseless.

“Her bloodied body on the soil, cradled by Mother one last time. ‘How could you let her charge off like that?’ Says nothing when only I return and not my brother, how could I let him die? She falls to her knees and sobs, shattered, sorrowful, scarred. My fault.”

Piece by fragile piece, that beautiful smile came apart to a truly haunted facsimile. The shame was that he remained quite attractive through it. When he also slowed to a stop, the rest of them did the same without a word of protest. What else could anyone do? The situation had caught everyone rather off guard.

Cole hadn’t said enough to make the painful memories perfectly apparent. It was oddly a comfort for Dorian to know that, from the outside, the inner workings of the mind and private history were not laid so horrifically bare as it felt. It was only due to Varric’s novel that he knew the finer details at all. But that comfort was small and guilt-riddled next to the recognition furrowing Varric’s brow. As if Hawke looking so near to cheerily shattering wasn’t agonizing enough.

“Her eyes clouded with death like starlight; she is dying, always my fault. I’ll be fine, I lie, and she lies back, but her last words mean the world.”

“Cole—” Varric started, soft with him as always. He’d taken a shine to Cole and didn’t have the heart to stop him from getting carried away.

In that ethereal quality his voice took on when recounting memories, he forged on. “My little boy has become so strong. I love you. You’ve always made me so proud.” The silence hung thick as they all waited. Cole shook his head again, worrying his hands. At last, he made eye contact with Hawke and seemed all too aware of how much he’d hurt them both. “But she wasn’t lying. Why do you both choose—”

“Kid, uh…” Varric walked over to Cole and patted his arm. He’d become quite the father, that tender-hearted storyteller. “Why don’t you take it down a notch?”

Cole glanced from Varric to Dorian to Hawke and back to Varric again. Whether or not he learned a single thing from that visual trek, they’d find out soon enough if Cole asked more invasive questions. More likely when he did. The boy was a curious delight and part of the ragtag family of the Inquisition, but he was not tactful. Which had to be a grave state of indiscretion indeed if Dorian said so.

”I’m sorry. I keep making it worse.”

“No,” Dorian half-whispered, emotionally exhausted. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hawke agreed, then walked ahead alone.

The return to Skyhold after that unmitigated disaster of a mission was honestly a relief. Dorian didn’t complain once about the cold or that swill at the Herald’s Rest! A trip to the Fade in person was momentous and he would never stop being enthralled by all he saw there—well, most of what he saw. Could have done without the nightmare spider part. All the same, the sight of those frostbitten peaks encasing an unsightly collection of boxes these people called a fort was a genuine improvement.

When he did clean up and set out for the Skyhold tavern, Dorian was surprised to see Hawke still there. He had to set out for Weisshaupt. There had to be an overwhelming list of tasks to undertake first, and he assumed Hawke would want to spend as much personal time as possible with his dear friend from Kirkwall. How two men of such arguable taste lived in such a shithole and held fond memories of it was a mystery… Although not as enigmatic as Hawke’s presence there. He had a difficult day to say the least. His Warden friend sacrificed his life in the Fade for them. The remaining Wardens had been absorbed into the Inquisition. Cole had rifled about in his mind before one of the single worst adventures the so-called Herald of Andraste brought them on. And, to finish it all off, he’d have to leave Varric again shortly to go to a place notably less pleasant than Skyhold.

Dorian shuddered to think how all those serious Wardens would drag Hawke down. Normally, he was a right ray of sunshine! There was a reason Varric called him Chuckles. He did have a way with nicknames, however begrudgingly Dorian had to admit that. He deserved better than an icy mountainous lair for terminally somber Wardens.

“You going to stand there all night?” Krem’s lighthearted jab took Dorian from his thoughts, where he had apparently stopped immediately in the doorway.

“Please do accept my deepest apologies,” Dorian joked back, stepping aside in the direction of the bar. “I sometimes succeed in my willful amnesia of this place, and I must suffer anew its subpar existence.”

“You arse,” his companion answered with a chuckle and washed that down with a swig from his tankard.

That freed Dorian to approach Hawke. His idle smile made a half-hearted appearance to what he recognized as an attempt to cleanse pain with enough alcohol. Cleanse or drown out, whichever happened first, really.

Dorian set himself down on the unforgiving imitation of a stool beside Hawke and offered his finest grin for the lovely friend Varric had been hiding. After all, what made misery seem further away than a profile as gorgeous as his?

“Care for company?”

“That depends on the company,” Hawke teased, waving the barkeep down for a drink regardless. It had to be for Dorian based on the fact that the one in his hand was presently full. And that precious discovery did add some sincerity to his grin. Somewhere in that embarrassing march to Adamant, Dorian had endeared himself to the Champion.

“I plan on getting rather drunk tonight, and I detest doing so alone,” he presented a small fib. Who was keeping track between them? If that night went as planned, there would be far more important events to remember. Presuming they recalled anything whatsoever. “So I am choosing to take your answer as a yes.”

“It’s that or I intend to drink with a tankard in each hand. I’d say you’ve made the right choice,” Hawke said with a wink and raised his drink in a toast for Dorian. Special attention was always a short path to Dorian showing off that silk dance he so loved, and he had to admire Hawke’s astute initiative in extending it so swiftly. Before taking a long gulp of his drink to get the night of drunken stupor started, of course.

His plan to wrap himself up in Hawke, a rare athletic mage with his own roguish charms, had gone swimmingly. Dorian was so fortunate as to have a clear memory of the highlights, as it were.

Hawke had an arm around Dorian as they rested naked beneath the sheets in the late nighttime hours. Perhaps early morning. How relevant was that when Hawke was warm and welcoming long after they’d both had their pleasure? More than once, in fact. They enjoyed themselves so thoroughly that they’d had to stop once to put the drapes out. Pesky fire magic had a way of intruding at the most inopportune occasions.

Much like Dorian’s decidedly unsexy insecurities invaded his mind post-coitus. That was how he ended up voicing unnecessary questions while he lounged against the firm pectoral of one Garrett Hawke.

“Do you suppose Cole was right?”

“Hm?” Hawke’s hum rumbled in his chest, a dangerously soothing sensation for Dorian. There happened to be a certain domestic quality to it that reminded him of what it meant to hope for a real love. A fool’s errand, more often than not.

Too late to retreat from it now, Dorian figured.

“That we’re not alone?”

He frowned when Hawke laughed, turning to place a kiss to his head between impish chortles. Why, oh why, was he always drawn to the mischievous ones? What ever became of ‘opposites attract’?

“Well, you’re here, I’m here,” he listed, the smile obvious in his bright tone. That made it markedly more difficult to be cross with him for treating this so lightly. “I think he may be on to something.”

“Oh, ha ha,” he deadpanned, sitting up. Hawke propped himself up on an elbow, watching him with something dangerously like affection. Arousal, Dorian could handle! There was no blaming him for that when he had the honor of witnessing his sculpted form in glowing candlelight. “You know what I meant.”

“Most places I go, people want to kill me or have me kill something for them. That’s basically all it’s been since Kirkwall.” For a second, Dorian kicked himself mentally for introducing a subject that detracted from the honeyed bliss of Hawke after many rounds of exceptional intercourse. Worse, it unveiled another common ground they shared. Dorian was only too familiar with the double-edged homesickness that made Hawke’s smirk wane. “I didn’t realize how miserable I was until I met up with Varric again. And then there’s you.”

Dorian’s heart did this strange flop and stutter as he was transfixed by Hawke reaching for his hand with a tender squeeze. His stay in Skyhold had been brief. The Inquisitor’s marvelous ability to stretch herself thin to serve the myriad crises across the land delayed him long enough to enamor Dorian, it seemed.

“Sinfully attractive,” Hawke flattered him, “with that sexy, tortured look that gets me weak in the knees.”

“Oh, please,” he made a flimsy attempt to dismiss what he knew to be feelings. Dorian decided against taking his hand away even so. The callouses on the Champion’s palms against the back of his properly moisturized hands felt entirely new. He would miss it when he departed. “Your knees haven’t been weak a day in your life.”

“Maybe not,” Hawke yielded with a one-armed shrug. “But if that dark day did ever come to pass, it’s good to know someone would understand.”

Oh. When reading Tale of the Champion in haste, Dorian attributed the suave style of Hawke’s dialogue to Varric. A wordsmith and a liar who obviously bore great love for his friend, Varric did strike him as likely to twist reality in his companion’s favor. Then Hawke had to go and make a sappy remark like that.

Dorian laid back down beside him, partly to cozy up to him for more warmth, but also to avoid meeting those fond eyes. He could only contend with so much sincere love and empathy in one night.

“You make the whole nasty business less awful for me too.”

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To the Path Ahead | FE3H Fanfiction

Word count: 2300 (5 to 17 minutes) | Rating: T | Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers| Characters: Ferdinand von Aegir and Hubert von Vestra (Ferdibert)

Hubert was willing to agree to a large ceremony befitting of Ferdinand’s opulence, but he was surprised to find his soon-to-be husband agreed to the relatively small affair. Even Bernadetta accepted once she saw the short guest list. The wedding was held in Aegir territory, naturally. He wanted to give his vows on the shores where he grew up, running barefoot in the sand. It was also convenient for Her Majesty to attend as a member of their combined marital party, standing alongside Dorothea, Petra, Lorenz, and Caspar. Linhardt thanked them soundly for not involving him in that much standing.

All in all, the event went as anticipated. Hanneman wept as they exchanged their vows, likely pushed on by Manuela’s own sentimental display. Shamir and Byleth refrained, expressing their support instead with faint smiles. Preferable to Hilda’s animated cheering that Mercedes felt inspired to support for whatever reason. From the Ashen Wolves, a gift arrived by messenger on account of the sunny shores not agreeing with Constance and the timing not agreeing with Yuri’s schedule. No reason was given for Hapi, who insisted on referring to him by her nickname for him, and Hubert was too generally relieved that Balthus didn’t come to be troubled by it.

By the time everyone had retired for the night, Ferdinand still had energy enough to grin at Hubert while they walked to the marital suite. The Aegir estate had changed drastically since Ferdinand resided there as a child, mainly by becoming more open in its design at the behest of the new Prime Minister. Smothering extravagance was gradually replaced with inviting décor featuring large windows that could be opened to allow in ocean air. What was now the suite had once been for hosting political guests before it was repurposed as a private residence within the surrounding estate.

Hubert gave him a smirk, hand already in his from the moment they started walking. “And what’s that look for?”

“Could it be that I am overjoyed to have you to myself at last, my darling husband?” Ferdinand stepped closer to Hubert, his ribboned braid swaying with him.

The color schemes of their outfits were shared, of course, but it was simple fact that Ferdinand wore it better. Gold trim lined the length of his black pants that matched his gold gloves. On his white blazer, gossamer fabric draped from his shoulders and floated behind him ethereally. He left the front undone hours ago, and wisps of his curly hair had freed themselves from the braid. Even so, he carried an air of easy elegance that permeated the lantern-lit halls. Such was Ferdinand.

Hubert chuckled and, this once, let himself have the unfettered lightness in his chest with a tender smile. If he couldn’t treat himself at his own wedding, well, when could he? “Eager to break in the new title, I see.”

“How could I ever not be?” With an unambiguous heat in his stare not unlike the first touch of sunrise, Ferdinand neglected to watch where he was walking in favor of affecting Hubert with that look. His success left both of them carelessly striding forward. “Aren’t you?”

They’d been flirting all along, obviously. Ferdinand insisted on spending the night before apart and admittedly, it had brought them back to the stage of their courtship consisting largely of teasing banter. When challenged to kiss one another over stacked sweet buns without toppling them, a ridiculous time-honored custom of Adrestia, Ferdinand paused beforehand to whisper that his white blazer looked dashing—and easier to remove than his usual Imperial attire. Hubert had primarily his height to thank for not knocking over the buns by accident from his reaction. Neither had abandoned the competition since then.

“Without a doubt,” he agreed, an almost foreign levity in his tone. Relatively. “Perhaps with less embellishment. I typically leave such theatrics in more talented hands.”

The innuendo didn’t elude Ferdinand, ducking his head as if he hadn’t demonstrated those talents for Hubert personally on several occasions prior. Had his hair not be tied up in red ribbon, Hubert was confident his husband would be playing with it to disperse that eager energy. His fluster and fervor over intimate acts were often evenly matched, another feat that was seemingly impossible until Ferdinand. And in fairness, Hubert himself. To a lesser extent.

That concluded their trip to the suite, or it should have. Abruptly after Hubert opened the double doors, Ferdinand threw an arm out in front of their path. A renewed gleam in his eyes indicated that the cause of it mattered to him a great deal.

“I almost forgot! There is a good luck custom in Aegir for newly married couples.” In the utmost seriousness, Ferdinand put himself between Hubert and the open doors to the suite. “I must carry you.”

“Pardon?” He chuckled at the thought—him, bridal style in Ferdinand’s arms and attempting not to be too awkward to hold—but he knew that determined look from much farther off than directly in his face. His chances of evading the amorous suggestion were slim. He had to continue reminding himself that there was nothing to gain from escaping these offers to begin with. “I can walk, Ferdinand.”

“For good fortune,” he persisted, enthusiastic as he always was with his fancifully romantic imaginings, “one partner must carry the other across the threshold of their quarters on the night of the wedding.”

“You believed you would carry me.” Angling his expression to convey dry amusement was second nature to Hubert, as commonplace as drinking water. He assumed that consistent presence caused it to be entirely ineffective against Ferdinand.

“But of course! Please, Hubert,” he bargained, dipping into a tone design to appeal to Hubert’s affections. That and putting his hands on Hubert’s were the decisive moves that secured his victory. “I’ve been dreaming of this since I was a boy.”

Not one to disappoint Ferdinand with an easy triumph, Hubert looked down on him with quite possibly the softest smirk he had delivered since he was a boy.

“What, no effusive praise for my role as your husband? I’m not sure now that you deserve it.”

That Ferdinand smirked in response, his excitement melding with his competitiveness, was a testament to how far they had come since they met at the monastery. He did not bristle at Hubert’s mockery, but flourished from his taunt.

Cradling rather than covering Hubert’s hands, Ferdinand followed the underside of his arms with his open hands. The gesture brought him chest to chest with Hubert as he traced the length of his spine. Experience proved that as a weakness of his available to Ferdinand alone. Dull threads of pleasure weaved under those fingers on his back, and Hubert kept his expression level. Pointlessly, considering his breath was actually audible then.

“Very well,” he answered, his voice nesting between them. “You’ve convinced me.”

“As I knew I would!” He took advantage of their proximity to dart up for a quick kiss before wrapping an arm around Hubert to support his back.

“You’ve settled into this rather quickly,” he noted, putting his own arm around Ferdinand to do his part. Ferdinand focused on his task over replying. Bending down to place his arm behind Hubert’s knees, he lifted him with no more strain than a stack of papers. In general, Hubert disliked it when his feet left the ground. Yet—there was a distinct quality to the experience when being picked up by the man he’d chosen to spend the rest of his days with. Particularly with such ease. He put a hand to Ferdinand’s chest, hoping in vain to determine if his was the only slightly elevated heart rate.

Those sun-washed amber eyes fixed on his, smiling radiantly, and Hubert found himself grateful to be off his feet in the face of a combination of steadily drinking all night and his partner’s charms.

“Are you ready, handsome husband of mine?”

“You’re absurd,” he teased, shaking his head. But there truly was no containing him once he was swept up in his dramatics. But Hubert had already decided to let himself enjoy that night. Stopping at the entrance of their suite seemed foolish. “Yes. I trust you.”

That was the finishing touch. Ferdinand sighed blissfully, the way he typically reserved for happy endings at the opera or a novel closed with a kiss. He glided through the open entryway with his rapt attention on Hubert held in his arms. He’d been held there plenty, of course. Not quite like this. Not on their wedding night either.

Hubert didn’t dwell on thoughts of his marriage much as a child like Ferdinand had. He pictured it as a political ceremony above all. Certainly nothing as transformative and sincerely magical as this. Even the activities they’d done time and again glowed at the edges, aloft with the promise of a full future ahead. He was undeniably self-conscious in a removed sense. Hubert, the Minister to the Imperial Household, carried across the threshold of their marital suite by his husband. Laughable. It didn’t suit a sinister figure such as him. With Ferdinand beaming at him like he was, it hardly mattered.

“I love you,” Ferdinand reminded him, in the event he had forgotten in the short time that had passed since they made their vows. He strode ahead levelly despite carrying Hubert.

“How convenient, then, that we’re married.”

“Hubert!” As opposed to the exasperated delight he expected, Hubert was met with pleased surprise. “There are flower petals on the bed!”

Ah, yes. He remembered it now. The servants were discreetly given additional flower petals over what Ferdinand had ordered for the decorations, and they scattered them on the sheets during the wedding. White apple blossom petals speckled the rich navy sheets on the poster bed overrun with pillows and a chiffon canopy. Before tonight, Hubert had often been regaled on the quality of Aegir apples and the tree blossoms on tea breaks with Ferdinand. Whether he had his keen memory or not, Hubert never would have forgotten something so crucial to arranging a thoughtful present for his spouse.

“Are there? Unexpected.” That wry tone and smirk intentionally betrayed the truth.

“To think you believe you are not romantic,” Ferdinand complimented him, always prepared with a kind remark about him. Of all people. One would anticipate he’d run out of material soon enough if they didn’t know him better.

Proceeding with his effortless stride, Ferdinand brought him to the bed heedless of his insistence only on crossing the threshold. Hubert elected not to remind him of that and permitted himself to be lowered onto the bed. An act Ferdinand do well not to get used to, true, but it was a special occasion. Perhaps they would revisit it on anniversaries. He kept his own shoes above the sheets, swinging them over the bed’s edge to remove them as he felt Ferdinand climb on the mattress behind him.

He wasted no time tracing kisses along Hubert’s neck and shoulders in the same manner as one might scatter dandelion seeds on their breath. Warm hands brushed against his back while Hubert unlaced and removed his shoes. The former made the latter marginally more difficult than usual.

“You’d best not be wearing your shoes in our bed.” Devoid of any severity, that warning was described better as a fond request. Two thuds as they dropped to the floor from the bedside served as his confirmation.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ferdinand mumbled next to his skin, every syllable coursing over Hubert’s skin.

“Mm.” That hum was equal parts amusement and pleasure, rolling into a sigh when Ferdinand moved up to press kisses to the shell of his ear. “I missed you.”

“One night apart,” Ferdinand uttered between kisses, “felt terribly long. Did it not?”

Leaning back into his stalwart husband, Hubert turned to look at him. This situation and his affectionate expression were familiar. It wasn’t unheard of for them to review their reports and duties for the day together, curled up together much like they were then. A single evening made the hollowed chasm of its absence in his routine only too apparent.

“Excruciatingly so.” He brought a hand to graze Ferdinand’s cheek and placed a kiss to his cheek, sturdy against him. “My husband.”

Ferdinand blushed, yet had nowhere to hide his reaction in that instance. His barely restrained smile fell on the cusp of between hopeful and elated. “Could you… Say that again?”

“Anything for you,” Hubert promised and sat up to face him properly. With a sultry gaze of his own, he curled a loose strand of hair behind Ferdinand’s ear and leaned in to speak in the feathered tone he most enjoyed. “My husband.”

The unintelligible noise of glee from Ferdinand was its own reward. One that left Hubert with a smug smirk and Ferdinand still flushed and grinning. He braced his hands on his knees, a steady stare locked on his newly vowed husband.

“You make me so extraordinarily happy, I—might faint.”

“On our wedding night?” Hubert feigned surprise, undoing his red tie and tossing it off the bed. For tonight. It could be sorted out in the morning. “I suppose I could undress myself while you refrain from passing out.”

“No,” Ferdinand corrected hurriedly, reaching for the collar of Hubert’s blazer. “No, I’m quite alright.”

“Heh.” Putting his hands over Ferdinand’s and mirroring the stunt he pulled on him by the door, Hubert granted him what he sought. “I’m glad to hear of your swift recovery.”

He couldn’t be entirely certain Ferdinand didn’t merely rip the button off in his haste to take that blazer off, not with him meeting Hubert in an impassioned kiss as well. Even pulling his own arms from the sleeves was done with urgency, sating a desire for more of this, of them. At last—at long last—Hubert abandoned the baseless notion that he did not deserve his place in Ferdinand’s heart to instead devote himself wholly to remaining forever at his side.

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Lives Lost for Futures Found | FE3H Fanfiction

Word count: 2000 (4 to 16 minutes) | Rating: T | Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers| Characters: Ferdinand von Aegir and Hubert von Vestra (Ferdibert)

His partner was many things, some that contradicted and most that inspired. Among his unwavering traits was Ferdinand’s expressiveness. It wasn’t limited to his face by any stretch. There was a way that he rolled his shoulders when he was stressed that Hubert could identify without even looking, not least of all for the light sigh that typically accompanied it. The tired smile distinguished itself from the barely restrained variety, and so on. Ferdinand contained multitudes, and Hubert cataloged them dutifully.

Which was precisely why he woke on instinct—something wasn’t right with Ferdinand. As consciousness came to him completely, Hubert realized his partner’s breath came in sharp inhales and shaky exhales.

“Ferdinand,” he called softly as he sat up, not wanting to add to the alarm of a bad dream. It wasn’t near dawn yet, based on the dim moonlight in their quarters. That was enough light to see his jaw was clenched and a thin sweat clung to his skin. As confirmation of his suspicions, he could hear Ferdinand rustling under the sheets as he struggled in his sleep. Hubert rested a hand on his chest, discovering that the linen nightshirt he favored was damp with sweat. “Wake up, Ferdinand. You’re safe.”

The shift of pressure as Hubert moved closer awakened Ferdinand with a start, tensing and searching in the dark until he saw Hubert beside him. Fear dissolved to sadness and a raw vulnerability that took roost in his own heart. Before their relationship developed over five long years, nearly six, Hubert had been told routinely by Dorothea that, in a truly loving couple, one feels their partner’s suffering as their own. He pointed out then that he hardly needed to feel romantic affection to experience empathy, thinking to dismantle her argument only to find himself teased for his ‘incessant mother henning’ being a unique Hubert special. He knew it was flattery then but let her have the final word. As a generosity.

Yet he couldn’t argue that it weighed on him to see Ferdinand so affected by whatever his nightmares held. Where countless battles and challenges failed, the simple act of sleeping was posing a threat. One Hubert could not fight. Having expressly sworn to protect him only amplified the regret of his inability to make good on that. Resting his hand over Hubert’s blackened fingertips, Ferdinand propped himself up on an elbow and drew sleep-mussed curls behind him.

“Hu… Hubert?”

“I’m here,” he answered only to be immediately embraced, Ferdinand’s arms and solid build pulling them both down to the pillows again. Hubert barely had time to register the change before he noticed Ferdinand was—shaking. His breath hitched and another shiver ran across his shoulders, signaling that he was in tears before the first drops absorbed into Hubert’s sleeve. He repositioned to get his arm out from between them and around Ferdinand, settling in with his hand behind his head. “You’re alright.”

“I keep—” He started, cut off by a broken sob only to try again. Sometimes, very selectively, that persistence of his was more of a hindrance than a help. “Going back, I—”

Of course, the same interruption took the sentence from him once more. Force of will only got one so far. Even for the Empire’s Two Jewels. Hubert ran his hand over his hair to encourage him to relax.

“You can tell me in a moment. Let yourself grieve.” He knew the hypocrisy of it. But Ferdinand had been waking up in tears more often in the moons that followed the destruction of Shambhala. As Hubert’s own workload lessened relatively, Ferdinand’s increased. Nobles scrambled to retain some semblance of power in Her Majesty’s united Fódlan. Claude corresponded with Lorenz over the border of Almyra, and he often received updates on a potential treaty on that front. Petra returned to Brigid as its leader and acted as a representative between her home nation and the new Fódlan, with Ferdinand as her contact.

The time had come for all the dreams he had envisioned, complete with a public education system to ensure all children received the necessary tools to succeed. The finest among them would be provided additional education appropriate to their capabilities as a replacement of what the noble class should have been. First, buildings needed to be established for them across Fódlan, and professors needed to be gathered, interviewed, and selected. That process had to be overseen closely to ensure the institution remained securely in place for future generations. Furthermore, their design must resist corruption so these academies were not simply overrun by similar oppressors as the Church or abuses comparable to those of the former nobility.

He was proud to do it, naturally. Ferdinand von Aegir was destined for greatness, and this was his time to substantiate that claim with action. But the strain was taking its toll.

Ferdinand, with a deep breath, wound down from restrained sobs to idle tears.

“There,” Hubert reassured him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Would you like some water?” The pitcher waited on the nightstand with a washcloth and tankard at its side. As the nightmares increased in frequency, Hubert took care to bring them in for easy access in the night. Cool water was refreshing after sweating through a horrific dream, and that was one comfort. But drinking water steadied breath intuitively. The human body wouldn’t simply let itself drown, so the introduction of water would force calmer breathing no matter what frenzy the mind had stirred up. A genuine feeling of at least physical peace often followed.

“In a moment,” Ferdinand said, curling closer to Hubert still.

He permitted the silence to speak for him. Words were unnecessary at this point in their relationship. Ferdinand understood, slipping his foot between Hubert’s and draping an arm over him in a loose hug. Being shorter allowed Ferdinand to nestle into him as though he belonged there. Their shared opinion was that he did, clearly. Even so, his comparable strength to Hubert was obvious. He still had his horseback ride at dawn routinely, and it showed in his thighs. Hubert’s longer, lean limbs could not resemble a mage’s more by their direct comparison to his partner’s cavalryman build. They had slept much like this on the evening after Shambhala fell and the Black Eagle Strike Force emerged alive. That recollection of the first in many nights to come only brought a slow smile to Hubert.

It would be the Great Tree Moon soon, and the frogs by the pond beyond their walls signaled the approach of warm weather. Between that and the comfort of their proximity, Hubert felt Ferdinand’s breathing level off further. Almost to where he thought he might fall asleep again.

“I still hear them,” Ferdinand revealed his waking state. “The people in battle.” He brushed his fingers through the hairs at the nape of Hubert’s neck, looking distantly at the ceiling as he continued. “I always discover I am on the Tailtean Plains, where Dimitri fell.”

Ah. That would do it. In their monastery days, before Ferdinand knew what was to come, he had grown rather close with Dimitri. Hubert hadn’t thought anything of it before, but he honestly should have. Ferdinand’s natural disposition was to befriend others where possible, and he didn’t have the necessary knowledge not to seek companionship with those he might meet on a battlefield later. While Hubert had the fortune to see all of the Black Eagles stand with Her Majesty, Ferdinand had friends on all sides of the war. Lorenz was the only friend of his that Hubert gave consideration to, and his territory’s proximity to their borders had guaranteed his fealty to the Empire.

“Had he lived, do you think he could be happy?”

Reports showed that Dimitri had died in Dedue’s arms, as close to happiness as the late King of Faerghus was going to be—and had been in many years. In hindsight, it was only logical that Ferdinand took an interest in him. He carried himself in the refined fashion Ferdinand aspired in his youth, and he had a troubled nature that the Imperial Prime Minister obviously found alluring. Hubert had not been so well acquainted with Dimitri. He had intelligence on the Kingdom’s heir, but that was scarcely interchangeable with personal familiarity.

“I didn’t know him well,” Hubert admitted, well beyond trying to seem all-knowing in Ferdinand’s eyes. “But I do know his opposition to Lady Edelgard was manipulated.”

Coordinated by Those Who Slither in the Dark with the hopes of mutual destruction for two veritable opponents, Dimitri’s hatred of Edelgard was not a willful one on account of the misinformation behind it. That left only one conclusion. Hubert would have preferred to make eye contact when delivering his answer, but he compromised on staying as they were. “If he would have believed that Her Majesty was not involved in the Tragedy of Duscur, I believe he could have found a place for himself here.”

An unsteady inhale indicated that the revelation was hard on Ferdinand, bringing him back to tears rather than away from them. Hubert kissed his forehead lightly as he felt Ferdinand hold tighter onto his nightshirt.

“Is it wrong to mourn him? To miss him so horribly when he stood firmly against us to the very end?”

 “Not at all.” His response came without hesitation, not least of all because the thick sorrow in Ferdinand’s voice was difficult to bear. To be trusted with emotions outside of his usual optimism was an honor Hubert was proud of. Still, he felt compelled to lessen his pain wherever possible. “He was dear to Lady Edelgard as well. In no small way, he set her on the path she walked to unite Fódlan. That it ultimately claimed his life…” Ferdinand sniffled against Hubert, collecting himself amid reassurances that his grief was far from a character flaw. “Remorse for his loss is only natural. Perhaps you would like to memorialize him?”

“Hm?” His grip loosened, and Ferdinand drew back to get a better look at Hubert in the relative darkness of their bedroom. He could see his partner was red-eyed from crying, which led him to reach for his face to wipe away stray tears. Yet Hubert also recognized the curiosity brightening in his eyes through the despair.

“A memorial to King Dimitri of Faerghus might provide some closure to you and others who mourn him.” As he spoke to him, Ferdinand put his own hand over Hubert’s and leaned into his touch. He was very tactile and with that, Hubert found he wasn’t so different himself. Not with the people he cared most about. He ran his thumb over Ferdinand’s cheek and smiled at the quiet hum of contentment that earned him. “I should think Her Majesty would be rather receptive, in light of their bond as children.”

“It is a beautiful thought.” Ferdinand admitted, clearly with more on his mind than he was saying. His hand gradually slid down Hubert’s arm as those heavy thoughts weighed on his brow. “But with all my work, I—”

“Let me handle negotiations with Claude and Petra going forward. Your well-being has value, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand chuckled, amused more than anything else, although a twinge of sadness still endured below that warmth. “That should be my remark to you.”

“It has been, which is why I can tell you it now.” Hubert used his free hand to sit up alongside Ferdinand, moving to hold his hand in the process. It didn’t feel nearly as confidence-inducing to recount his reasons for the exchange of duties while he lounged in bed. “The removal of ruined Agarthan bases and magical sites is proceeding smoothly. I receive notices on their progress, and that is the extent of my involvement.” Cupping his face once more, Hubert held his attention with the goal of swaying his usually stalwart resolve. “Please leave this to me. Confer with Her Majesty and give your grief the attention it requires.”

Or he feared it would hound his nightmares forever. That, Hubert was familiar with, and he would not wish it on as vibrant and loving a man as the one he’d chosen to spend his life with.

“Thank you, my beloved,” Ferdinand whispered, perhaps tearing up again as he squeezed his hand fondly. They were happy tears this time, he trusted. Hubert moved closer to sit with Ferdinand resting against him and their hands clasped between.

“Always.”

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Hubert von Vestra from Fire Emblem looking down and to the side

Nightmare: Ferdibert Week 2020 FE3H Fanfiction

Word count: 2100 (5 to 17 minutes) | Rating: T (Referenced child death in the context of the nightmare and intrusive thoughts)| Fire Emblem: Three Houses Fanfiction | Characters: Ferdinand von Aegir and Hubert von Vestra

The war was over. Had been for years. Ferdinand was even better suited to peacetime than he was to war, clad in polished armor and his stately ministerial uniform and charging proudly into battle. Now he spent his days in the latest Adrestian fashions, penning letters to Lorenz and diplomats from territories outside of Fódlan. He championed the educational system he discussed at length with Linhardt and Edelgard, where several of their allies now taught—Hubert included.

He was far less equipped for peace, however. The strongholds of the Agarthans were destroyed, and any useful information was distributed to the person most suited to designing constructive inventions from it. Hubert maintained his network and his vigilance, but that demanded far less from him than active warfare with two nations and a religious power over the course of six years or so.

With less to apply his mind to, his intellect evidently chose to turn on him directly.

He was not the only one, of course. Manuela had opened an institution of healing through words commonly referred to as counseling, which Hubert had determined was a less private version of the advice box. Caspar went regularly, as did Linhardt. Most of the Strike Force, in fact. Even if Hubert wanted to go, and he didn’t, he simply could not bring himself to disclose his most vulnerable moments to either a perfect stranger or someone he knew professionally.

So when the nightmares crept in, he sat in the reading chair in the central room of their house and waited for dawn. This seat was more familiar with their two children, watching him intently as he read through Bernadetta’s latest children’s story. The last stretch of summer sunlight peeked through arched windows and across the ornate rug depicting some legend of old beneath a thin coat of Aegir hound fur.

But tonight, even though smiled faintly in the dark, it was his security post. Only bugs waited outside at present and he knew that as an unmovable fact. In the heart of Enbarr, there was no chance of an attack on the ministers’ estate. That changed nothing. Only when the first staff members came in to see to the first tasks of their day, Hubert would retire for a few hours of sleep. Lately, he’d awakened Ferdinand on his return, and he knew the conversation about where he was all night was not far off.

The candle on the engraved table beside the worn seat flickered weakly as Hubert wove thin traces of dark magic through his fingers. He opened and closed his hand around it, prepared for whatever may come in the night to threaten the peace he’d carved out for himself. There, in the late hours of the evening or early hours of morning, it meant nothing that Hubert did not have any right to the idyllic domesticity of his life. It was his, given to him by the man he loved and the children they adopted who found it in their hearts to see past his many layers to find a suitable father. He fought this far for it, and he would fight again if ever the need arose.

“Darling?”

A sensation not unlike nausea roiled in his stomach, but Hubert gradually brought himself to look at Ferdinand waiting at the edge of the candle’s light. His hair was in a loose ponytail, curls falling free to frame his face. He still had a healthy tan and a light dusting of freckles that always intensified in the summer. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as sculpted as he was when he was a general in field rather than a minister at his desk for the majority of his day… But his was a beauty only enhanced by the passage of time. His loose nightgown swept around him while he approached, resting a warm hand on Hubert’s forearm.

“My love, it’s late.” The flames danced in his eyes, melding with the open concern there. Even in Hubert’s peripheral, he could see the furrow of his brow. Even before the gentle, reassuring squeeze on his arm, he sensed that distress as if it were his own. Such was the effect of falling in love, he supposed.

“I’m aware,” Hubert answered.

“And yet you are not in bed.”

“No,” he agreed. Conversations about Hubert’s emotional state always began like this: roundabout and simple statements of fact as Ferdinand endeavored to find his way to the heart of the matter.

Correctly interpreting Hubert’s stillness as permission, Ferdinand moved closer and slid his hand up his arm and around his shoulder to have a seat on the sturdy arm of the chair. They purposefully chose it to support the children plus one of them, and as a result, it supported the two of them at once with ease. And in the gravity of moments such as these, that was invaluable. Hubert shifted closer to lean into Ferdinand’s embrace, take in the scent of him. Tea and sleep and that herbal soap Dorothea introduced him to. Of course, there was the unshakable traces of hay and horses as well. His ponytail rested over his shoulder and between them, the culprit for every stray orange strand he found on his black blazers and cloaks.

“Is there no way I can persuade you to bed, my love?”

Patient as always, Ferdinand waited in the pensive silence Hubert left. It took time to assess his mental state, determine the path he wished to take from there, and gather his words in his mind to communicate that effectively. Hubert spent years training himself to ignore the ghoulish recollections that haunted the chambers of his heart, forging ahead at any cost to himself. The safe path was meaningless to him if it endangered Her Majesty and those who allied themselves with her when she made her stand in the Holy Tomb. It was as though that was a separate lifetime, as distinct and severed from the rest as his childhood before the incident that tore Lady Edelgard from his side.

It could very well be that was where the problem found its origins.

“As a child,” he began, snaking an arm around Ferdinand as well to rest on his waist. “I dreaded the notion that the goddess would punish me for any misdeed. Failing to better protect Lady Edelgard. Disappointing my father and all the Vestras who served before me.” The very mention of such an abhorrent creature as the late Lord Vestra set him on edge. With a bracing breath, Hubert did manage to continue regardless. “Even when that was behind me in the later portion of my childhood, I feared what grudges the dead might hold.” There was no need to elaborate from there. Ferdinand knew well that Hubert was quite young when he claimed his first life.

“But now, when there are few situations to speak of that could strike noteworthy fear in me, I encounter it merely by existing.” Hubert had done nothing exceptional that day to invite that nightmare into his dreams. There was no cloaked assignment to stir up memories of contacts and agents murdered in service to Hubert, or the lives he’d cruelly cut short in the name of Her Majesty.

All those who survived them may bear him ill will and the easiest, most sensible target was his family. It would be very tactical and efficiently done. They had a routine, like most families, and discovering it was an effortless task. Hubert ordered his favorite coffee from the same merchant as always, their preferred housekeeping staff had been the same since the war ended, the children had school nearly every day of the week with schedules that were readily accessible simply by pretending to be a parent. With no warning or reason to it, all Hubert could see on certain days was the various ways he could one day come home to their dead bodies—or worse.

Ferdinand would die defending their children. Against the right soldiers or simply outnumbered, he would fall. They were all out of practice and for the sake of their happiness, they should remain so. But that meant leaving an obvious risk of being outmatched by even a single well-trained assassin striking from the shadows. The children would never stand a chance.

All in all, that horrific possibility distorted to a certain, inevitable reality on those occasions when Hubert could not clear the weighted fog from his thoughts.

“Zealots and grudges of the living. If those led to my death, it would simply be reaping what I have sown.” He wouldn’t lay down and accept it, not with his family waiting for him to return safely each day, but Hubert would prefer it to the cursed visions his sleeping mind conjured for him. Tightening his grip on Ferdinand, his voice strained taut while tears pricked at his eyes. Fatherhood had made him soft. “But if anything were to happen to you or the children, I—”

He brought a hand stained by dark magic to his mouth reflexively, biting back tears as Ferdinand gently shushed him.

“My dear, it’s alright to be afraid.” This was a reminder he was familiar with. Hubert had found Ferdinand furiously maintaining retired weapons on more than one occasion, or having tea go cold in his hands as a far-off look took hold of his normally sunny husband. They all had ghosts left behind from the war, but Hubert could not just choose to see himself in the same light as the others. As if reading his thoughts, Ferdinand offered another practiced reminder with as much affection as the first time he shared it. “You don’t need to bear this burden alone any longer.”

He placed a delicate kiss to the top of his head, the curls of his ponytail brushing against Hubert’s shoulder as he did. He closed his eyes in an effort to center all his attention on only Ferdinand there alongside him. “We shall check on our little ones and the defenses of our home, and we can retire to bed when you’ve seen all is well for yourself.”

Drifting his eyes open once more, he was greeted by Ferdinand smiling down at him. Even weary from partial rest, the man was a beacon of light and warmth. That smile reached his eyes as visibly as the reflected candlelight from the table opposite him.

“Well? It’s a promising plan, is it not?”

“It is,” Hubert relented. He’d done as much himself twice that night already, but together, it may be different. There was certainly nothing better he could be doing with his evening. His eyes seared with exhaustion and now, remnants of tears that didn’t quite fall. “I’m very tired.”

“I know,” he acknowledged, sympathetic as ever while he smoothed his hair. Hubert chose to grow it out somewhat after the war and parted it to show both of his eyes at the behest of Ferdinand and Edelgard. Or more of his face, at least. Progress was progress, and they accepted his compromise gladly. “Tomorrow, we can discuss arranging a meeting with Manuela. She can help you find a counselor you can trust if you so choose.”

He almost laughed. Trust was eternally a battle for Hubert. But Ferdinand simply wanted to help him and if nothing else, he could humor the chance that such a task was possible. “Perhaps.”

“Thank you, Hubert.” He stood, drawing his arm away to trail his hand back down to Hubert’s with the goal of leading him to stand. A rather successful method, considering he took Ferdinand’s hand in his and essentially guaranteed that outcome with that gesture.

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you?”

Gently, Ferdinand pulled Hubert to his feet and bestowed another kiss onto Hubert with soft lips on the back of his marred hand. With enough repetition, the sight inspired a sense of peace in Hubert at last instead of the previous crawling apprehension.

“The highest form of gratitude I could ever hope for is your presence beside me throughout the night, side by side as we are in our hearts.”

That did earn him a breathed chuckle from Hubert. “So dramatic. But if you wish it, then… For you, I will do it gladly.”

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Recovery: Ferdibert Week 2020 FE3H Fanfiction

Word count: 2000 (4 to 16 minutes) | Rating: T | Fire Emblem: Three Houses Fanfiction | Characters: Ferdinand von Aegir, Edelgard Hresvelg, Dorothea Arnault, Linhardt von Hevring, and Hubert von Vestra

Day 1:

Hubert is still unresponsive. He never was especially fond of Lord Arundel, so I cannot help but be suspicious of this secretive procedure he performed at Edelgard’s request to save his life. She’s assured me that his white hair is a normal side effect and I should not be alarmed, but how can I not be? Hubert in such anguish, yet every inch as stubborn as usual. He clung to consciousness to order me about as though we are not both ministers to Edelgard and as such, we are equals.

I had no interest in what he had to say about the event of his death. I insisted that he would be fine as always. Hubert has overcome more injuries and adversaries than most full battalions ever will, and that is based only on what I am permitted to know. None of us ever imagined he would fall in battle. It just did not seem possible. And then he was lifeless, stained with his own blood for—

But he is alright now. Linhardt and Dorothea are both seeing to him now, and this time, there is a life left to restore. I should be grateful.

Day 5:

Excellent news! Hubert has begun reacting to his environment! Dorothea was all smiles and even hugged me as she relayed the update to me. True, it is only a glance or a nod, and he does not speak still. But he is present in the moment! He even rolled his eyes when I arrived with a full bouquet to wish him well and bizarrely, I was thrilled with that reaction.

There may have been a trace of a smile there as well. Or perhaps I had only imagined it in my eagerness to see him well, giving orders to his agents, having his morning coffee in the meeting room, even hearing that foreboding laugh of his in the halls… I have missed him terribly. I simply wish to tell him as much, whether he scolds me to be less theatrical or maybe something kinder. Over the course of the war, I have seen glimpses of his compassionate nature that is as hidden and enigmatic as the rest of that infuriatingly enthralling man.

And whether the statement is excessive in his eyes or not, his brush with death and subsequent absence while Edelgard’s uncle saw to this mysterious treatment has it made it very apparent how much I rely on him. How much we all have come to.

Not that the Empire has been greatly hindered. His agents are presently carrying out various contingency plans to uphold the network and their own assignments from Hubert while he is in recovery. How ever does he manage such far-reaching foresight? Someday soon, I hope to ask him myself.

Day 7:

As expected, Hubert is progressing well on his recovery! He is speaking articulately but unable to recall anyone, not even Edelgard. Although his personality does appear to be intact… He did try to conceal his lack of awareness as long as possible. Even asked directly, Hubert claimed to know who was present and did know the titles of those in his company. But he could not offer even a single birthday!

We have all been receiving small gifts and calligraphed cards discreetly on our birthdays for years. Typically, it was an item we had needed for some time and put off acquiring or was unattainable through all available to channels—to us, at least. Who else could have kept track of all that and a war while observing us to select gifts we would all appreciate? Still, no one expected him to be completely recovered within a week of his return. There is time yet!

Day 12:

Hubert was concealing more than the disconcerting state of not remembering the people dearest to him, which I suppose I should have anticipated. While he does recognize his fellow Black Eagles now, he doesn’t acknowledge his own name. He understood that people said Hubert in application to him and consciously chose to respond to it rather than recognizing it instinctively.

The discovery came gradually in several mundane events, such as when he was called out to while reading and did not even answer. No one could accuse him of being particularly friendly, but even Hubert was above purposefully ignoring someone for no cause whatsoever. Of course, he held to this ruse as long as possible as well.

When he could not any longer, he admitted to Edelgard that it was because we all seemed distressed enough as it was. Even without his memories at his disposal, Hubert adamantly placed the needs of others above his own while he remains confined to a cot. As concerning as his condition is, I’m finding myself impressed at the breadth and depth of his attentiveness to those around him. Come what may, I know now that Hubert will always be just as I remember him. And admire him, truly.

Day 19:

In a week’s time, Hubert has made remarkable progress yet again! He greeted me today before I even spoke to him, and so fondly at that. The sharp perception of his eyes has returned, and his smirk is perfectly done. This, I am confident, is no ruse! He is no longer confused by people he was close to, although he seems generally disoriented in areas too far removed from his usual places now that he can go for walks. While supervised by an upstanding ally, naturally.

We can visit the library and the specific table we usually occupied for our tea breaks, although I refuse to bring him to his office lest he be tempted to overexert himself, but the fishing pond or the stables leaves him staring at me for guidance. Or he may be hoping to ground himself in seeing a familiar face? I didn’t dare ask and risk his recuperation.

As it is, he is acting unusually despite his persistent sacrificial character. Why, just at tea today, he apologized to me! In broad daylight and plain sight and earshot of our peers! Hubert expressed his remorse for a perceived failing as a minister to serve alongside me and lead Edelgard together. He even referred to us a couplet. A couplet! I was disgracefully flustered into a broken answer to reassure him, but it did seem to do him some good.

…Then again… Oh, dear. Perhaps that was not enough. I shall just have to work harder to prove that taking time to restore his health is no failure! And when he is ready to return, we shall move forward as impressively as ever—together.

Day 23:

Abruptly, today did not go well for Hubert. Linhardt explained that magical procedures may sometimes regress sharply like that, but there was a weariness in his eyes that suggested he was despairing at this turn of events. From what I have heard, he experienced some kind of hallucination and forgot himself entirely. It must have been a horrid vision to inspire him to attack a medic working under Linhardt in a grand, if misguided, attempt to escape the palace.

He’s been restrained to his cot now, of course, and he is being kept asleep magically in the hopes that this will put his mind at ease.

Healing is a long, difficult path, and I knew this before he returned to us. I wish I understood more of what he was suffering through. The stripped clean white of his hair, the tormented hallucinations that plague him, his displacement in his own life and mind, I just… I desire nothing more than to reach out and hold him. Considering where we began at the academy, it is a relatively new impulse to protect Hubert, but how could I not? He has always been so capable and logical, regardless of how viciously we fought in our youth. Now that he is in need, it is all I can do to be at his side however I am able.

Which, at present, is shamefully little.

Linhardt theorized that his Crest’s power flared due to a weather event or celestial change beyond our understanding, something conditional like with the Crests of Lysithea or Catherine. It is Linhardt’s belief his mind is trying to reconcile the new existence of the Crest. Should that be the case, that would mean memories are stored within Crests as well, but they go unnoticed to those born with them while potentially causing madness in those granted them.

I can think of nothing more horrific than Hubert von Vestra losing his mind due to a risk we took without his knowledge or approval. Did Edelgard truly make the right choice by sending him away with Lord Arundel? Did I, by remaining silent?

Day 25:

Yesterday, Hubert was utterly vacant, and the entire medical wing of the palace had the atmosphere of a crypt. But the update that he was non-verbal and responding to friends anew has broken through that gloom like a vibrant parade. …My heart is simply not in characteristically poetic analogies just yet, but I am grateful for the joy others have found in this. All I feel is terror that we will be trapped in this loop of restoration and loss forever as punishment for our decision.

Day 28:

I went to visit today, and Hubert was extraordinarily cross at being restrained. How strange, that his glower made me beam with delight. Just to witness it reinforced my faith that he would be himself again for good this time around. The process of helping him drink coffee went more smoothly than I expected, and he did seem soothed by my reading of the latest heroic tale from my favorite author. He claimed he would rather hear the reports from his agents, of course. That soft look in his eyes spoke to the truth of the matter, however!

I dreaded that he would hate us for our choice to save him by any means. Instead, it may very well be that we are closer than ever.

…Focus, Ferdinand! Now is not the time for flightful fantasies of the heart.

Day 35:

I ran into Hubert unattended in the halls today! He dismissed an agent for assignment and greeted me with the warmest smile I have ever seen grace his expression. We walked together to the stables, and he went out of his way to confess he had no business whatsoever there but to be with me.

We spoke of how Linhardt noted that it was remarkable how quickly Hubert has adapted since the last jarring episode. There is no evidence yet to confirm if it’s the Crest acclimating to his body and vice versa or Hubert being “too smart and stubborn”.

Vastly inspiring as that is, the true miracle is what came next.

When we were alone in the stables, Hubert stood so close to me that I imagined I felt his heartbeat syncing with my own. Those piercing green eyes lingered on me in a way that revealed such devotion and admiration that I was locked in place as though I was a statue. He brushed my hair from my face so tenderly, bringing his slightly chapped lips to rest against my cheek with such lightness that I barely know if it happened or I dreamt it from moons of longing for that very act.

But I could never forget the brush of his breath against my ear as he whispered his gratitude for my support before withdrawing in a sweep of his black cloak to Goddess knows where. Saints, my face blazes just to write it out! Wherever our journey takes us next, my heart swells with pride that we will see it through together, hand-in-hand, shining for all the world to see. If our love for one another is the only deed of mine that is ever documented, I will be honored beyond measure.

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