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The brisk April air of 1891 carries the sharp scent of roasting chestnuts and damp earth through the Parisian streets. Sebastian adjusts the heavy wool of his overcoat, his solid frame acting as a silent shield against the bustling crowds rushing toward the Gare de Lyon. Half a pace ahead of him, James moves with that familiar, calculated grace, the silver head of his cane clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones. They are men of meticulous schedules, but as the iron gates of the Jardin des Tuileries loom into view, James abruptly slows his pace.
He tilts his head back, his dark eyes catching the pale spring sunlight, and turns to face Sebastian. "Do we have time, Seb?" James asks, his voice a low, melodic purr that carries the easy intimacy of thirty years of shared secrets. "Just a moment to indulge my little habit?"
Sebastian stops. At fifty, the silver at his temples only adds to his formidable presence, but the gaze he fixes on his forty-five-year-old companion is entirely soft. He steps into James’s personal space, ignoring the distant chatter of passersby. Reaching out, Sebastian cups James’s jaw with a leather-gloved hand, his thumb brushing over the sharp line of a cheekbone. He leans down and presses a fond, lingering kiss to James’s lips—a silent renewal of the vows they informally struck on a humid night twenty-four years ago, on Jim’s twenty-first birthday.
"We have all the time you require, Jim," Sebastian murmurs against his lips, pulling back just enough to offer a rare, genuine smile. "Yes. Go on."
They turn into the grand expanse of the Tuileries. The gravel crunches softly beneath their boots as they navigate the manicured paths. James reaches into his deep coat pocket, his fingers curling around a small cloth sack of dried peas and stale breadcrumbs he’d secured from the hotel kitchen that morning. His posture relaxes, the rigid brilliance of the professor melting away into something boyish and serene.
Sebastian guides them toward a secluded stone bench beneath a canopy of budding chestnut trees. He brushes a few fallen blossoms from the slat and sits, resting his large hands on the crown of his walking stick. From this vantage point, he watches James step out onto the open terrace.
With a fluid flick of his wrist, James scatters the first handful of grain. Within seconds, the air fills with the soft rushing sound of feathers. A gray cloud of pigeons descends from the statues and rooftops, cooing softly as they gather around James’s polished boots. James stands perfectly still at the center of the swirling flock, a master conductor amidst a symphony of wings, his face lit by a quiet, brilliant satisfaction. Sitting on the bench, Sebastian simply watches the man he has protected since they were schoolboys, content to let the world wait.