I've been meaning to write some Ferdibert for a very long time.
For Ferdinand, Hubert has always been an absolute eyesore.
Lurks about dubiously, is rather gruesome when times call for it, looks a little bit like the back end of a starved vulture. The man doesn't even like tea— which, honestly, is where Ferdinand draws the line when it comes to just about anyone. He doesn't trust those who dislike tea. But Hubert is a particularly special case because of how much he frustrates Ferdinand just by existing.
At first, it was his devout vassalage to Edelgard. In Ferdinand's (not-so) humble opinion, a leader is only as strong as their brethren who oppose them. Ferdinand's drive to question her motives and rise above her only fuels Edelgard to be swift in her keen thinking, and astute in her methods. So far it's worked in everyone's favor. For the most part.
But then war spread and things shifted, and everything's different now. Hubert included. Their first meeting after five years goes entirely wrong. Ferdinand expects to laugh haughtily in his face as he always does. Instead, he becomes tongue-tied and unable to think, and he has no idea why.
Later he figures it out: his insistent and lingering stares; how he can't get Hubert out of his head; how his fingers linger just a little bit too long when they're in close proximity. Ferdinand has never had much luck with romance, but this just might be the worst curse of all.
Being in love with Hubert, that is. And there's nothing that Ferdinand can do about it, because Seiros above, he's tried just about everything.
Ferdinand eventually just accepts his doom, which isn't as terrible as he'd first considered. War is difficult, more so when it's against old friends. And even if they aren't together in the way that his heart yearns for, his newfound fondness for Hubert does wonders to warm him on those worse-off days.
Which brings him to his current dilemma: roasting coffee beans.
There are many reasons why this is a terrible idea. Ferdinand doesn't know the first thing about cooking; the sight of the beans makes him gag; Hubert will absolutely hate whatever he produces—
But Ferdinand is in too deep and way too determined because fuck everything if he gives up now.
He'd tested the waters before opting to put himself out there, of course. He isn't entirely daft. Ferdinand procured the most expensive roast he could find and gave it to Hubert, fully expecting a spectacular rejection.
This'll be the end of it, Ferdinand had thought. Hubert will laugh with absurdity, toss these right into the trash and my heart will break into one thousand pieces. And then he could blessedly move on.
Ferdinand was wrong. Hubert accepted them with far more than just quiet propriety— he'd gotten Ferdinand a gift as well. Entirely unprompted and out of character. And damn, if it wasn't the best tea Ferdinand has ever had, loathe he is to admit it. Hubert, who thinks of tea as 'Soggy, wet grass', somehow has a palate for it.
Which makes this festering love even worse, because now it seems like Hubert might return the damn feelings, judging by the way his cheeks had pinked and stayed flushed their entire chat thereafter.
And so, the beans, expertly produced and very difficult to order whilst neck-deep in a war. Worth the astronomical cost, because Ferdinand values people. Even Hubert. Especially Hubert.
Ferdinand sighs, dragging a hand down his face, and dumps his second roasting attempt straight onto the ground.
The camp is probably the worst place to attempt this, but Ferdinand's been in the field for nearly two months and has few other choices. Garreg Mach will be a lurking, hulking thing in the distance sooner than later, which leaves Ferdinand a twitching, nervous mess. For many reasons.
Will Edelgard be pleased with their advance? Will he settle into his bed only to be sent right back out?
Has Hubert missed him as much as Ferdinand has missed his stupid and somewhat emaciated face?
Ferdinand stokes the fire, adding more wood, but keeps the pot high enough to help control the heat. He burned the first batch. The second too.
"Third time's a charm," he murmurs to himself, pouring a generous amount of beans into a pan.
The pan is hot and the beans are green like a spring morning. Ferdinand tosses them around, using a metal spoon to swirl them. After a few minutes, some crack, a satisfying sound in the soft murmur of the camp around him.
"So far, so good." Further than his first attempt, surely. Ferdinand keeps it up, stirring the beans as they darken and darken. Another crack signifies a medium roast, if Ferdinand's books hold the right secrets. He pulls the pan off the heat and dumps the beans into a sieve.
Once they're cool, he sets about separating the cracked husks from the beans for brewing. The chaff comes away easily.
Ferdinand then surveys his work carefully, tipping the beans towards the fire for a better look. "Not half bad," he says to himself as he gives them a toss. They're delightfully brown, and smell a little like cat piss and dirt. "It's definitely coffee," he finishes, his nose wrinkling.
Hubert will likely hate it.
Perfect, thinks Ferdinand instead.
#
When Hubert greets Ferdinand at the gates of Garreg Mach, Ferdinand settles for an awkward shoulder pat instead of pulling him close. Never thought he'd miss him so much, but Ferdinand is relieved to see him okay.
"Hubert—"
"You're safe," says Hubert quietly, pressing a hand against Ferdinand's chest, looking worried for a moment too long. Then he must realize the slip in his demeanor because he composes himself and pulls away. "As to be expected, of course."
"Of course," repeats Ferdinand. Because Ferdinand is, above all, a survivor of things; even a pesky romance with a dubiously-inclined, mostly unconfirmed murderer.
"Ferdinand—"
"A gift," cuts in Ferdinand suddenly. Hubert blinks, surprised. "Uh, for you. I've— well, you liked the last batch of coffee that I brought you, so I've procured more."
Hubert smiles then, and though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, it's more genuine than Ferdinand's used to. "Tonight then," says Hubert, "For dessert. We'll share a pot under the gazebo."
"Yes, yes," says Ferdinand as they break apart.
Hubert takes his leave and they follow him into the gates. It's only when Ferdinand drags a hand through his grimy hair that he realizes just how his company was staring at them in amusement the entire time.
#
It's too late for coffee, but Ferdinand shows up to their not-explicitly stated date, despite the tired ache in his bones.
"How very… quaint," says Hubert, eyeballing the rough-worn sack as he takes it from Ferdinand's hands.
Ferdinand huffs. "I'll have you know that I roasted those myself."
Something in Hubert's demeanor changes at the confession. His posture relaxes slightly as he cocks his head to the side. Hubert's mouth tugs slightly at the corner and his eyes narrow, half-slitted. Ferdinand doesn't think he's ever seen him so amused.
"Then I certainly can't wait," says Hubert, setting about a small kerosene burner alight.
"Don't hold your breath," says Ferdinand. "Took me three tries to get it looking decent, and I didn't taste it."
"No matter." Hubert brews the coffee with his usual expertise, and then pours it into two cups— one for himself and one for Ferdinand.
Ferdinand thinks it smells a little like a rank battlefield, but coffee is the sort of thing that fills him with dread. Hubert, though, brings the cup close to his face and takes a deep whiff. Then he sips generously, holding the coffee in his mouth and letting it wash over his tongue as he savors it.
Hubert doesn't immediately gag, which is a decent sign. Ferdinand hasn't entirely fucked it all up. He smiles gently as he takes his own cup into his hands. Might as well get a taste of his hard work. He immediately spits it out the moment it touches his tongue.
Hubert watches him, amused. "Certainly a unique brew," he says.
"It's absolutely foul—" Ferdinand cuts himself short as Hubert drains most of his cup and then grabs the carafe to top it off. "More? How on earth can you manage it?"
"It's your roast." Hubert says it with the sort of flat tone that implies it should be obvious. And maybe it is. "It's been carefully crafted, even if the taste leaves something to be desired." The words seem teasing, though, instead of harmful.
Ferdinand's never seen Hubert drink a second cup of coffee in one sitting. Nor has he ever seen such a strange smile grace his lips. Hubert doesn't go out of his way for anyone that isn't Edelgard. Certainly not him.
Proof enough, thinks Ferdinand, even if he's still too chicken to properly address it. Hubert isn't the unfeeling dastard that Ferdinand (mildly) assumes him to be. He likes Ferdinand enough to force the horrific coffee down.
And Hubert doesn't like it; Ferdinand can tell by the minute twitch of his mouth. But Hubert persists, draining the entire cup.
Ferdinand is speechless.
Hubert thanks him by asking him to dinner.