If you weren't born yesterday, you'd know that Redleaf is kind of an ass. That isn't to say he's not good at what he does, or that he's not likeable or defendable. None of his respectable qualities dim in light of his asshattery. But that also isn't to say that his asshattery doesn't shine a thousand suns brighter every additional season you spend with him.
He can be as reliably snide as he can be competent, as amusingly clever as he can be deadpan, as unflinchingly generous as he can be stoic.
You grow accustomed to not knowing what to expect. After all, unpredictability is one thing you should expect from the Minister of falling leaves and shifting colors, changing winds and transient time.
And you know he knows this. You just know he gets his kicks out of getting a reaction in the face of his very non-reaction.
You can't help it. You can't help your intrinsic nature from clashing with his. You can't help it that you need to have things done a certain way, or that you feel before you think about a certain thing. Can't help that, despite the look of repulsion on our face, you're more than okay with the fact he's paying you attention, that you're effecting that stupid grin on his stupid face, however smug or sincere.
You can't help it that you just want to snatch that stupid hat off his stupid head and throw it across the room, and then run your fingers through—
What is even under that hat? Hyacinth has never seen him without it. Is there hair? Is he covering up a birthmark? A giant bee sting that never fully healed? Is there just another hat? Is his skull actually made of autumn leaves? Is that why his name is Redleaf?
Hyacinth hates being sick. It makes him think silly thoughts that have nothing to do with anything he should be concerned with, and it's widely acknowledged that Hyacinth is very concerned with the "should" part of his existence. Perfection through responsibility, and a responsibility for perfection. Or something like that.
Really, if not accomplishing something productive, he should be sleeping and getting the hell better. But more importantly, not thinking about Redleaf. And his stupid hat. Certainly he can't think it stylish, especially in the summers. So does he think it mysterious? Does he think himself more compelling for such mystery? Or perhaps sentiment? Habit? Symbolism? Authority?
Can any volume of hair even fit under that thing? Hyacinth is suddenly hyper-aware of his own—always (not counting this terribly inconvenient and infuriating spell) maintained and primmed and even seasonal (with Snowflake's help, every winter). He'd be lying if he said he didn't keep it up so for the sake of appearances. He doesn't wear richly colored, carefully picked petals just for the job. He's a firm believer of outward appearances reflecting your inner expression. To wear your heart on your sleeve, as some folks put it.
But then there's Redleaf, whose asymmetrical belt has always bothered Hyacinth (he should just takeitoff). And Redleaf's stupid hat. Puzzling yet unique and sometimes distracting and concealing his eyes when he turns away from you at certain angles.
Hyacinth turns his face into his bed, catching whiff of his sickly sweet, sweat- and fever-damp hair, traces of smokey cider still lingering. His face heats up and his stomach churns. Nausea, he reasons, and lets out a groan of frustration at how, despite being very, very tired, he can't seem to get any rest.