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Cold Paris wind whips through the open iron framework of the Eiffel Tower, biting at the highest flat platform where the city sprawls below in a blur of gray roofs and winter haze. Snow dusts the wooden scaffolding, but the chill does nothing to cool the clumsy scuffle underway. Victor, his oversize coat flapping like broken wings, flails a gloved hand toward Rudi. It is less a punch and more an embarrassed shove. Rudi dodges with dramatic, theatrical elegance, swatting back with a gloved palm of his own. Neither put any real strength into it; the confrontation is a hollow show, fueled entirely by two boys trying to navigate feelings they barely understand.
Felicie steps directly between them, her jaw set and her cheeks flushed brilliant red against the December frost. "Stop! Y-you're both idiots!"
Her voice cracks on the exclamation, trembling with a mix of exhaustion and sheer frustration. Fists clenched tight at her sides, she spins around and marches toward the makeshift wooden stairs. She makes a deliberate point of digging her heavy leather boots into the planks, each stomp echoing loudly over the whistle of the high-altitude wind to ensure they feel the weight of her departure. Victor freezes, his shoulders slumping as he watches the fiery red hair disappear down the iron girders. He wipes a smear of soot off his cheek, a hollow ache settling in his chest.
Rudi steps up beside him, the mocking smirk vanishing from his delicate, sharp features. The golden-haired boy smooths down the velvet lapels of his tailored coat, his posture shifting into something surprisingly steady, mature, and unexpectedly grounded. He extends a pale, gloved hand toward Victor in a formal gesture of peace.
"Okay. Well, za bird has zpoken," Rudi says softly, his thick Russian accent smoothing out the harsh French vowels. "With no love to die her down, zhe will practice and sleep, and become a fairy."
Victor blinks, entirely caught off guard by the sudden gentleness in the prince's tone. The quiet realization dawns on him that Rudi never truly wanted Felicie for himself; he only wanted to see her soar. Reaching out, Victor accepts the handshake, assuming this strange, bittersweet moment marks the end of their weird rivalry. This is goodbye.
Instead, Rudi’s fingers tighten securely around Victor’s hand. Before Victor can draw a breath to ask, Rudi tugs him forward, closing the distance between them. Stepping close enough for Victor to catch the faint scent of expensive rosewater and cold air, Rudi leans in with an unmistakable, teasing sparkle in his blue eyes and plants a soft, lingering kiss directly onto the crown of Victor’s messy hair. Victor stands completely paralyzed, his brain short-circuiting as his face catches fire.
Rudi pulls back, his mask of aristocratic charm slipping right back into place with a sly, boyish wink. "I know of a wonderful bistro. Shall me, Breadcrumb."
Victor blinks through his stunned silence, his chest fluttering wildly. He adjusts his oversized cap, attempting to regain a shred of his dignity. "... sure, Asparagus."
Rather than be insulted by the ridiculous moniker, Rudi’s face breaks into a genuine, radiant grin that reaches his eyes. "It is growing on me," he laughs melodically.
From the same wooden slat where he fell before the fight, Mathurin finishes his baguette, watching everything unfold like a theatre play. Rudolph loops his arm through Victor's stunned elbow and leads the aspiring inventor down from the rafters into the warmth of the Paris streets.