A/N: Written as a birthday gift for epwhales and based on a lovely comic of his (which you can find on his tumblr!).

He bought her the kite at half price, in the late-autumn cold, from an unsavory street merchant who blinked at him in surprise: the purchase was terribly out of season, and they both knew it.

Christine, however, had insisted it was a sign. After all, had they not just discussed their lack of destination for the evening's walk? Not to mention the kite matched her favorite red scarf! And besides, Papa had never been able to afford a kite, and Erik would certainly not deny her such a simple pleasure, would he, now that she had the money?

He still insisted on paying for it himself.

The kite trails beside her as they head for the river. The air along the Seine is thick with waste and manure, the odors stronger than anything near his underground prison, so strong even his prosthetic nose cannot ward them off. But she is here, eager and seemingly oblivious to the olfactory nightmare, so he swallows his nausea and watches her run the length of the nearmost bridge.

He can tell from the start that it's a wasted effort, but there's a brightness to her eyes that he would not extinguish for the world.

The day's bluster has simmered to a quiet breeze. Christine runs herself ragged trying to catch it, thick winter skirts constricting her legs, the kite lagging behind like a recalcitrant puppy on a leash. Her eager grin fades a little more with each sprint, until finally she lets her arms hang limp. She trudges off the bridge and over to the Tuileries, kite scraping against stone.

He finds her collapsed on the brittle lawn. Her cheeks are rosy, and the night air condenses her heavy breathing into steady puffs of white.

After a moment's hesitation, he lowers himself beside her, his joints protesting all the while. Together they gaze up at the night sky.

Her fingers are so close he could touch them—and oh, does he want to—but her thoughts are too far away. Should he have dissuaded the purchase? Suggested they reschedule the activity for a more suitable night? Tried to fly the damned thing himself?

Regardless, he determines, it is up to him to salvage the evening. He sits cross-legged and begins to strip the red paper from its wooden backing.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Nothing of consequence," he murmurs, and he hears her shifting behind him. "No, no, don't look yet. Patience, little dove."

She sighs, and a resounding thump signals her return to the ground. Only when he's finished does he allow her to see his handiwork: two rectangular paper lanterns, waiting to take flight.

They light and release the lanterns on the bridge. The lamps ascend with a red glow, pulsating like warming embers—like his heart, in that very moment. She hooks her arm through his.

It is hardly the first time she has done so, but this occasion feels…different. Softer. As though the last trace of formality between them has dissolved and she is melting into him, her head against his shoulder, and he struggles to breathe as he is reminded of the ferocity of his affection.

Affection. As though such a word could contain his depth of feeling.

"I hope the lanterns come upon another couple," she says, "farther down the river. What do you suppose they would do?"

He struggles to quell the fluttering in his stomach at the word couple. She didn't mean it like that—not in reference to herself and present company, at any rate. Still, he finds himself asking, "What would you do?"

"I—" She looks up at him, and he cannot make heads or tails of her expression: lips frowning, but eyes…hesitant? Hopeful? Something shifts in her face, and she claps a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Erik, your mustache!"

His hand flies up to find the fake mustache dangling from his prosthetic, the adhesive having worn off. Grumbling and grateful she can't see the color of his cheeks, he yanks off the hairy thing and shoves it into his pocket. "You, ah, were saying?"

She is staring at him even more intently now. Her arm shifts and then a small, errant finger finds his thin mouth, newly exposed to the elements, and without even thinking he presses his lips to the cold skin.

"Erik," she whispers, and it is all the encouragement he needs.

He pulls her hand to his heart and kisses her, knowing full well she can feel the mad pulsation of that instrument beneath his ribs. There is no better way for her to understand how it beats singly for her, not even as his mouth slants against hers.

She keeps her hand at his chest when they part, even as she scans the sky, smiling all the while. Up above, the lanterns press together to ascend into the heavens.