dernière danse

part one

Authors Note- Hey, y'all! I hope you enjoy this! It's based on the prompt from the Open Novella Contest and I had a lot of fun writing it!

Prompt: "This is our last dance, my dear." "Then make it our best."

 The honeymoon suites of Sacher were overbooked, a plethora of tender love and hope filling its gates. It was the final ball of the season after all, with its ball gowns, sweetheart couples, and pretentious guests. For the Duval's though, it was the pinnacle of their love story, the fernweh of their souls leading them to the city of dreams. It was tradition to have every dance like their first, even if it would be their last. So they were here, in Austria, to sway the night away one more time.

They had booked out the 6th floor of the auberge for the occasion. It was partly for all of the deja vu, and partly because it was Bette's favorite number. With an abendrot slowly flooding the horizon, the clock rushed them inside to hastily slip into tightly knit apparel from the modiste, with Bette applying red maquillage to her lips to woo and Dion courting her with roses hanging from his fingertips.

Staring at them was almost pitiful for everyone else. They were old - definitely in their late 50's - but their essence was ever so young. Both were walking their pasts, a mix of heartbreak, anger, disdain, love, romance, and happiness brushing into their auras. It was a tragedy to watch them. To see how her arms perfectly fit in the crevice of his; to see how he'd kiss her hand before taking it; to see how he'd carry her when the heels caused calluses on her feet. To see a golden arch around them, but to see that it wasn't all perfect, to see that the arch wasn't complete. To see how Bette's eyes reeked of a lackluster oddity, and to see the lies spinning under her skin was the reason it hurt.

The smaller hand of the lobby's clock moved over to seven, inciting a rush of shapes out of the hotel lobby. The Duvals came down the two-way staircase, surprising each other with a final cherry on top. (For this year at least.)

Bette was wearing a flirty red dress, fitted to her waist, and riding down to her upper thigh. It was simple, yet beautiful. She'd paired it with a pair of diamond-studded earrings that hung to her shoulder. A red pouch roped her fingertips, along with a black cardigan around her elbows. Dion on the other hand wore a black suit with a dainty tie, a pair of silver cufflinks from their 2nd anniversary on his shirt. He'd sprayed on the complimentary hotel cologne and parted his hair down the middle.

Taking her hand, he left a delicate kiss laced with oenomel on Bette's lips, placing her gloved metacarpals onto his elbow, and gestured for a bellboy to get the keys to his Bel-Air (another gift for the Mrs).

The petrichor of the freshly manicured lawns drew her in infinitely, clotting her thoughts while her husband started the car. He opened the door for her wandering eyes, pushing her into the seat, before closing it on her dress. Bette didn't care enough to fix it.

They were off, the ambiance of their hotel disappearing into the darkness. It helped that Mrs. Duval always hated the sun out, her soul plagued with the tendencies of a nyctophile because the only word she could plausibly use to describe the city at this time of day was perfection. The air was foggy, with leftover dewdrops hanging around the air. The wind blew enough to ruffle a few strands of her perfectly placed bun, the red locks falling out of place.

"I'm lucky to have you, darling," he muttered, brushing a hand onto Bette's thigh while keeping his eyes on the road.

"And I'm blessed for you," she responded, taking that hand and kissing it, clutching it to her chest.

Watching as the street vendors placed platters in front of people, as the old men wagered their bets on futile games of chess, as night slowly seeped into this city, she reminisced. It all just took her back to the letters, to the secretive glances, to the lies, the mistakes, the abductions. It took her back to her first love.