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“Marcel, look what I’ve got!”
Rebekah waves at him, a letter in her hand.
“We,” she continues smugly, “have been invited to the Christmas ball.”
It’s early in the afternoon, and the pale winter sun shining in on the balcony illuminates her golden hair. Marcel swallows, momentarily distracted, before realising she is waiting for a response.
“That’s great,” he manages to say.
His beauty has become more and more apparent, and his body continues to respond in inappropriate ways. He tried to suppress it, but it often takes him off guard.
Seemingly unaware of his inner struggle, Rebekah smiles happily and spins around, arms wide, as if she imagines the party around her.
“It will be a lovely evening,” she sighs.
Her smile takes on a dangerous edge.
“An evening with dancing, of course.”
“Which begs the question, Marcellus, how good is your dancing?”
Marcel’s head snaps up. He had totally missed Elijah’s entrance. The oldest Mikaelson brother is leaning against the door frame with an amused curl on his lips.
“Fine, I guess,” Marcel stammers.
Rebekah frowns.
“Well, if we are to appear in public, it should be better than fine.”
She grabs his hand and drags him past Elijah towards the courtyard.
“But there is no music,” he protests feebly, unable to resists her deceptive strength.
“Then use your inner sense of rhythm,” Elijah says from behind them. “May I suggest a waltz? It seems to have become quite popular.”
Marcel’s cheeks heat up as Rebekah places her hand on his shoulder. Unlike the group dances, the waltz is performed in pairs and in close proximity. He can understand why it has the upper society in an uproar. The warmth of Rebekah’s body burns against him, making it difficult to focus on anything else, let alone the steps.
“The man is supposed to lead,” Rebekah teases, glancing up with a knowing smile.
Elijah circles closer.
“Left foot forward, Marcel. Then slide to the right, and repeat with your right foot. Three beats per measure.”
He starts counting the rhythm, and at the right moment, Marcel does as he was told, grateful of the help. After the first few steps, his legs seem to remember the dance pattern, and his movements become more fluent. Rebekah reacts gracefully, and he smiles proudly.
“Do you remember the turn?” Elijah asks.
Instead of answering, Marcel twists Rebekah around. The first part goes as planned, but half way through he stumbles, tripping over his feet. They come to an abrupt halt and Rebekah squeaks as she falls against him, carried forward by the momentum.
“Sorry,” Marcel mumbles, mind reeling. He can feel her laugh rumbling through her chest where she is pressed against him.
“Not quite like that,” Elijah smiles from the sideline. “Try again.”
They reposition themselves and start over. The basic steps are easier now, and soon Marcel loses himself in the rhythm. He doesn’t notice that Elijah stopped counting until warm hands are placed on his hips. He flinches, almost faltering.
“Continue,” Elijah whispers in his ear, putting some pressure on his hips to urge him forward. Marcel shivers, but picks up the rhythm. He can barely breathe, hyper aware of the bodies in front and behind him.
“Now, do the turn.”
Marcel steps in again, twirling Rebekah around. At the moment where he made the previous mistake, Elijah’s hands tighten and guide him in the right direction. His feet follow automatically, and they finish the turn properly, ending back in their original position.
“Much better,” Rebekah grins as they come to a halt.
Marcel nods, but can’t form any words. Rebekah is leaning in even closer, and Elijah’s breath tickles his neck. Despite the cold, he is flustered. Their hands lie heavy on his body, trapping him in between them, and he doesn’t know on which part to focus.
“Starting the party without me?”
Klaus’ voice rings over the courtyard, and immediately, both Rebekah and Elijah step away, leaving Marcel strangely cold.
“We were just practising,” Rebekah pouts.
“Indeed,” Elijah adds, as if nothing has happened. “Although for the next round I would recommend some music.”
Klaus glares at them, but Rebekah slips into his arms.
“Come on, Brother, let’s dance,” she chirps. Klaus relaxes beneath her touch, before spinning her around with a strength that would have dislocated the arm of a normal human.
“Why not. Let’s show young Marcel how it is done.”
A spike of jealousy runs through Marcel at the sight of them gliding through the courtyard, fitting together seamlessly. As he glances away with a scowl, he catches Elijah’s gaze. Almost imperceptibly, Elijah shakes his head, expression grave.
Marcel swallows and clenches his fists. He would be foolish to believe that Rebekah could ever belong to him. Klaus would never allow it. And even if he did, why would Rebekah even want him?
But as she smirks at him across Klaus’ shoulder, his heart flutters despite himself. Maybe, there is a little bit of hope.