Jedao catches Eiffel's hand, then presses the back of it against his cheek, the gesture both startlingly affectionate and an effective way of keeping the hand pinned down.

"You can kiss me as much as you want. Whenever you want. I think about kissing you every day. But only if you both mean it."

It's a powerfully strange feeling, heartbreak without pain. Eiffel will regret it, Jedao knows with the blind certainty of old, formative tragedy. Jedao has probably already let it go too far, has made the same unforgivable mistakes all over again. He knows, with the distant certainty that medieval merry-makers knew death would someday come for them, that Communications Officer Eiffel will hate him, probably.

But he doesn't worry about it. He's just - happy he got to be Eiffel's friend for this long. Happy his hand feels so warm against Jedao's cheek, the intimate divots of his metacarpals, the notes of his knuckles.

"Lie down and let me pet your hair some more," Jedao tells him.