◤ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔: ❛ dance of desire (reimagined) ❜ ◢

✧

         ELIJAH – JUST ELIJAH, AS HE WAS NOW, NOT KNOWING ANY DIFFERENT – HAD COME TO FRANCE ON A WHIM. Waking up without memories, he tragically confessed to her over the bar one night, he wandered around New York for answers as to who he was before meeting a woman named Antoinette who was moving to France, so he followed her, but she soon left him.

He laughed about with her, crazy and amused after four months had passed since he had seen Antoinette and five since he moved to France. But, he continued, he liked the country, surprising was fluent in the language, and enjoyed playing piano at the bar. When he asked her in return why she came, she shrugged.

"I spent time in France growing up," she told him, not particularly a lie, as some of her first century alive was spent in Paris, and in the grand scheme of things that was her growing up, "And I've always enjoyed it, so why not come back? And besides, I met you here, didn't I?"

He enjoyed that, smiling widely in a way that was so uncharacteristically Elijah, but this wasn't the same man anymore, she had to remind herself. Her Elijah didn't remember, and now there was this version who flirted openly, didn't hide his affection for her, and was not tied down by a thousand years of memories and experiences. He was new, and light, and the opposite in some ways while the same in others.

But, then she had to remind herself, that the old Elijah Mikaelson with a thousand years' worth of memories wasn't her Elijah. He belonged to his family, suffocated by their shared name and the promise of Always and Forever. She had him before, yes, but those were fleeting moments in the grand scheme of their long lives. She had known him for less than two years and had lived for more than five hundred; he was a blimp of her existence, and she the same to him.

Yet, here she was, chasing after a ghost of a man who was never hers to begin with. Maybe that old Elijah promised her another life, if the circumstances were different, if they weren't in the situation they found themselves in, or weren't the people that they were, but...

But there would never be another lifetime for them. Not while Elijah was still a Mikaelson and she was not. Always so painfully loyal to his siblings, she fooled herself into believing she was his first priority. He held her heart for too many moments and broke them every time.

And this Elijah wasn't hers either, because he was so new, so young and so unaware. She looked at him and remembered the man he used to be, and he looked at her with no recognition in his eyes from their shared past. It was as heartbreaking as it was refreshing. He was the symbol of hope for them, and she couldn't waste a moment of it.

She didn't watch him play piano every night. That didn't feel exactly right, it felt like a stalker, and though she was one, in a way, that felt like taking it a step too far. He always brightened when he saw her, though, and she waited at the bar until he finished for the night, heading over to her with a glass of wine as had become their routine.

"Marisa," his voice lightened, lifting with a joy that left her heart soaring, "You're back."

"Did you doubt me?" she asked, playful. He laughed and she couldn't stop the spread of a smile on her face.

"Never. I'm glad you came," he assured her, continuing with a certain shy nature covering his face, "I like my job more when you're here to listen."

A breath got caught in her throat. She still wasn't used to how forward he could be. Elijah confused her – he always spoke in vague senses of actual meanings, saying declarations without context then avoiding explanation after. He had been utterly frustrating and maddening, locked behind layers where he forced himself not to speak.

But this version of him, this unbound one, had no problem speaking his mind. It was easy in ways that she still got tongue-tied over because it highlighted how much a stranger he was to the Elijah she loved. Neither hers, but both enthralling.

"Then I'll come by more often," she promised.

He smiled at that, and she tried to still her beating heart. She was sure he could hear it, probably proud of himself for how she was reacting, but she couldn't stop herself. She wanted to cry at how different he was, she wanted to kiss the night away with him because he had her swooning. It was simple, so simple, but she was already in love with him before and desperate for him to love her back.

"That would be nice," he told her, "What would be more nice is if you gave me the pleasure of taking you on a date."

She blinked. It shouldn't be unexpected, but it still caught her off guard, especially when she took the time to realize that she had never actually been on a date with Elijah before. When she was young, they went to the Mikaelson balls, he invited her to dinner, and sometimes accompanied her to the market, but those were hardly dates. They were never one-on-one alone, but that didn't exist for men and women in those times. They were always public, always with people, and never what she would classify as a date.

And he never took her out in New Orleans. They worked, and they lived together, they shared the same bed, but they didn't dress up for dinner or go the movies. They dated without the date part. Oh, how that made her heart ache as she thought of her, her mind laughing at her heart because how could she think he loved her before when he didn't even take her out on a date?

And how foolish could she be now moving to France to date the same man who cast her out before? Tricking him into a relationship when he didn't have his memories because she wanted this chance so badly?

"Yes."

She said it, and she meant it, and she wouldn't take it back. It was selfish, so selfish of her to lie and to say yes, to pretend that she was really Marisa Beauchamp and they had never met before, but she was already damned enough at this point. She wanted him, and he at least her wanted her now, and she was going to take her chance.

"I'd love to go on a date with you," she sealed her fate with a smile on her lips. He shared it.

✧

"HOW IS FRANCE?" Marcel asked over the phone. She pursed her lips, looking at the instructions for the pasta dish was about to cook, thinking of a way to answer that wouldn't give him complete satisfaction.

"Beautiful this time of year, but I've always loved to visit France every few decades. Really all European countries," she said.

He sighed, and she knew he was shaking his head at her, "That's not what I meant and you know it. How are the people?"

"Eh, French people. A little bit rude, a little bit judgmental, but isn't everyone?"

"Marisol."

"Marcel."

"Stop avoiding the question."

"I'm not avoiding anything," she feigned, dumping her pasta into the boiling water, "You haven't asked me the question you want an answer to, but I have answered every question you've asked me."

"Fine then. How's Elijah?"

"Good," she responded easily, because he was. He was good, and he had a good life and a good job, it was all very mundane and peaceful, perhaps not something he deserved after the life he's lived, but it was good to see. She thought he deserved it, and more than that she wanted it for him. He looked utterly content here, with no weight of Klaus and his troubles resting on Elijah's shoulders.

"He's really good, Marcel," her tone grew a little sad, because while he was good, everyone else remembered, and she knew there was suffering with remembering. All the Mikaelsons forced apart from each other to save Hope's life, Klaus kept from his daughter and then there's Elijah who forced amnesia on himself.

"But he doesn't remember," he guessed, adding onto the only sadness she felt.

"Not a thing. Looks at me without any hint of who I could be," she swallowed, "Which is good. It's what he wanted from you, and it's what he got. He's just...he's so different now, some of him is still the same, but he isn't the Elijah we knew."

"And how are you holding up?"

"I'm fine. Sometimes it hurts looking at him, but I'm trying to enjoy it while it lasts. It's not like I have forever," she joked a little, trying to lighten her mood on the subject, "But really, I'm okay, Marcel. I have Magnus with me, and he helps."

"You know I'm always going to worry about you, but if you say you're good..."

"I'm good. Seriously."

"If you're ever not, I'm only one plane ticket away, alright?" he stressed.

"Alright. If I ever need to, I'll take you up on that offer, okay?" she answered with an amused smile on her face. There was a period of time after that they didn't talk. It was radio silence in the wake up Hope's supposed death, and when she confronted him on if he knew when word spread that Klaus Mikaelson's heir lived, she shut him out.

It hurt knowing that everyone she trusted, who she thought trusted her just the same, lied to her about Hope. It hurt believing for so long that another child died because of her only for it to be a lie. Not only that, but to be the only one excluded while everyone else knew the truth. She was lied to and cast out of New Orleans like she had done wrong, and Marcel – who she thought of as her best friend – did nothing. Continued the lie, didn't stop them from kicking her out, and looked her right in the eyes when saying that Hope was dead.

At least Elijah never had the curtesy of looking at her when he told her.

But years had passed, and though she held grudges for much longer, Marcel was genuinely remorseful and never stopped reaching for her forgiveness, proving himself worthy of it. They had only seen each other a handful of times since getting back into contact three years ago, what with her refusal to ever step foot in New Orleans again, but their relationship had slowly been regrown.

"I'm always here for you if you need me. Day or night."

"Same goes for me," she told him seriously, "I'll let you go now, but I'll talk to you soon."

They traded final goodbyes and she hung up the phone, cooking herself for dinner, setting the table with Magnus walked through the door. He joined her at the table, sitting while she ate, and she soaked up the moment.

✧

THEIR DATE LED them back to Elijah's apartment. An expensive dinner, both dressed nicely, his adorning a suit she so closely tied to his person and her in a nice dark blue dress. The suit made her heart ache more than anything; he looked exactly like Elijah Mikaelson without actually being him, and she wanted to run away from him, but she smiled and accepted his hand when he offered it.

"I don't know if I'll be good," he started, pulling out his phone and putting on some classical music that seemed so Elijah, "But it feels right to dance with you, if you want. I know that this might not be the traditional date experience."

His eyes were genuine and light, oblivious to the past, and she found herself unable to refuse. He took her hand and it slotted perfectly, replicating the past and she found herself fighting a whirlwind of memories. Her first Mikaelson ball in the dress he bought for her, the finest piece of clothing she ever owned, twirling her around in the dark while others looked. A lord with a peasant. Now, it was her who held the power, who knew more about him and was older in experience and memories.

He didn't move the same way, didn't have the memories from before, but it still took her breath away. Not as graceful or practiced, a little rusty and out of place as if searching his mind for reasons why he knew the dance she thrust upon him, but it sparked a smile on her face.

In this moment, in the quiet of his apartment, alone in France and far away from his family, it was just them; Elijah and Marisa, looking just like Elijah and Marisol. They mirrored the past while being strangers, and he looked at her conflicted as if he should know her while not being able to place her, and she tried to guide her eyes from revealing how well she used to know him.

The dance ended and he held her close to him, his hands traveling to her cheeks and pulling their faces closer together. "Can I kiss you?" he whispered, as if anything more would destroy him.

Her heart pounded in her chest. "Yes," she answered selfishly, another damning reason against her, closing her eyes and drawing him in, his lips meeting hers. He tasted the same; he tasted right.