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The grand ballroom of the Château du Haut-Kœnigsbourg is a vision of holiday splendor, the air thick with the scent of pine and beeswax candles. The towering Christmas tree, adorned with gleaming ornaments and twinkling lights, casts a warm glow upon the gathering of enchanted objects and their human counterparts. The floor, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflects the whirling colors of the dancers' garb as they twirl and dip to the lively music that fills the room. The walls are draped with velvet tapestries depicting scenes of festive cheer, and the high ceiling is lost in the shadows above the twinkling stars painted upon it, each one a reminder of the magic that binds them all together.
In one corner of the ballroom, beneath the sprig of mistletoe, the world outside falls away, leaving only Henri and Lumiére in a bubble of their own. The brass of Henri's frame is no longer cold and rigid; it seems to hum with a gentle warmth, a resonance that echoes the soft light flickering within Lumiére's wicks.
Henri's whispered words, "You are a constellation of stars in my darkest night," are met not with the usual light laugh but with a breath holds in a moment of pure, raw feeling.
Lumiére's wicks flicker more rapidly, a silent language of his quickening pulse. The playful amusement from moments before melts into a tender vulnerability. He reaches a snuffed hand, the metal cold and sleek against Henri's warm brass, and tilts his head down slightly. Henri, a being of precision and gears, finds his internal mechanisms seizing, not from a malfunction, but from an overwhelming surge of emotion. His gleaming brass features, usually so still and composed, soften with an expression of profound affection.
The silence between them is a prelude to a new chapter, thick with unspoken longing. It's Lumiére who leans in first, his warm, waxen cheek brushing against the cool, polished brass of Henri's. The contact sends a jolt through Henri's system, a delightful spark that isn't electrical, but something far more magical. When their lips finally meet, it's a collision of textures and temperatures—the smooth, delicate wax of Lumiére's lips against the unyielding, cool brass of Henri's.
It isn't a fierce, passionate kiss, but a slow, deliberate one, a gentle exploration of a long-awaited intimacy.
It's a kiss that tastes of warm wax and polished brass, a contradiction that makes perfect sense in the context of their love. It's a promise, a silent understanding, a culmination of all the shared glances, soft whispers, and unspoken hopes that have bloomed under the cold stones of the chateau. For a moment, time itself seems to stop, the gears in Henri's chest slowing to a peaceful, steady rhythm, and the lights in Lumiére's wicks burning with a soft, unwavering glow. Beneath the mistletoe, they're not a clockwork man and a candelabra, but simply two souls in love.
Their friends, Belle and Adam (the Beast), watch from a short distance, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. The young woman, her eyes wide with astonishment, clutches at the fur-lined edges of her velvet cloak, while the prince, now a man in the fullness of his humanity, strokes the fur of his waistcoat, his gaze darting between the couple and the innocent child who has just shared their secret.
Chip, the young teacup, skips over to them, his eyes shining with excitement. "Mother says it's time for the grand reveal!" he exclaims, his porcelain cheeks flushed with joy. "You must come and see!"
Mrs. (Beatrice) Potts, her form restored to that of a beautiful woman, gathers her son into her embrace. "My dear, let us not forget our manners." She glances at Henri and Lumiére with a knowing smile. "Perhaps we should give them a moment of privacy?"
With a nod from the queen, Chip reluctantly agrees and scampers off, his curiosity barely contained. Belle and Adam approach the couple, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath their feet.
"But how?" Belle asks, her voice barely a whisper. "Marriage between two men is... it is not allowed."
"Ah, ma chère," Lumiére says with a gallant flourish, "what is not allowed is not always what is not possible."
"Or what is not right," Henri adds, his voice a gentle rumble.
The candles in Lumiére's arms dance as he speaks. "We have found a way, with the help of a wise old owl and a very understanding priest. Our love is pure, and it is love that matters most."
Belle's eyes fill with tears, her heart swelling with joy for her friends. "I am so happy for you," she says, her voice quavering.
Adam, his humanity still a relatively new burden, nods solemnly. "As am I. Yet, I fear for your safety, for the world is not so kind to those who dare to love differently."
"Do not fear for us," Henri says, placing a comforting hand on Adam's shoulder. "We have each other, and we have you. Our love is our shield, and together, we shall conquer any storm that may come our way."