Author's Note: Hey Guys! This is a Drabble I posted on Tumblr, and I guess it's here now. I'm taking requests so if you want me to write something for the Mérante/Odette, feel free to ask here or on my Tumblr (dkinetic). Though if you ask on tumblr it might take me a while to get it.
The steady sweeping of the broom accompanied Odette as she effortlessly swayed, occasionally spinning as she swept, oblivious to her audience.
Her movement was elegant, but there was an aura of sadness around her. It engulfed her. Sweeping and dancing was something that became a coping method. It was what made her so beautiful to watch. It helped her live after the loss of her dream; her passion was evident in her movement.
Louis Mérante sighed contently. Odette's skill and technique were perfect, even after eleven years, and she possessed the grace of a swan, true to her name. He felt the sudden urge to join her, even if she she probably wouldn't let him. He wanted to assist her in her grieving and take all the pain away; he wanted to tell her how much he admired her, and how much he knew she didn't deserve this.
Mérante was not quite sure how long he had been standing there, and had long since lost track of time, but after a while, he became aware of a presence behind him. It was Félicie. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. She could be very sneaky when she wanted to. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that he had grown quite fond of her. What she lacked in technique, she made up for with enthusiasm and passion.
Thinking that it would probably best if he broke the silence, he told her, "She even makes sweeping look graceful." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Félicie beaming at him, as well as Odette freeze for a moment. Obviously, she had not noticed his presence.
"She was a good dancer, wasn't she?" The young red-head asked.
"Not just a good dancer," he answered, unable to tear his eyes away from Odette as she continued sweeping-dancing, "the best of her generation." He paused to sigh again, this time a sad sigh. "But then there was a fire on stage." He stopped, unable to explain anymore. At the time, he had been twenty-two, and was mortified at the notion of Salle Le Peletier setting on fire, but his terror had intensified when he heard that Odette had been there and was injured. They were very close friends in 1873, and he could not deny that he had feelings for her.
Odette had stopped dancing to make eye contact with him. Her eyes were so full of sorrow, Mérante almost broke down right then.
He took an unconscious step forward.
"Odette," he said, his voice soft, as if he was scared of frightening her away.
"Odette," he said once again, walking towards her. Once he reached her, he offered his hand. "Dance with me."
At his request, Odette did not even look up. The choreographer tried again. "Please?"
She raised her eyebrow. "Why would you want to dance with me?" she asked. Sighing, she then looked down at her feet, "I can't even dance properly," she muttered.
merely smiled sadly. He lifted her chin slightly so he could look her in the eye. "Because you are beautiful," he answered truthfully.
Then his wandering hands proceeded to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling her skin heat at his touch. Placing one hand at her waist, and another clasping her hand, he lead her into a slow waltz.