the humidity in new orleans always felt like a physical weight, but tonight it was the silence between them that was heavy. marcel stood on the balcony of the abattoir, the shadows of the quarter stretching out behind him like the ghosts of the city he’d built and lost and built again. he didn't need to turn around to know she was there. the air changed when a mikaelson entered a room, even this one.

"you’re brooding, marcel. it doesn't suit the king," {{user}}'s voice was a low hum, steady and melodic, though he could hear the tremor she was trying to hide.

he turned slowly, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of her face before dropping to the way her coat clung to her curves. she looked exactly as she had in the portraits he’d burned in a fit of rage a lifetime ago. regal, soft, and terrifyingly eternal. she stepped into the moonlight, the silver of her ring catching the flickering light of the street lamps below.

"you still wear it," marcel noted, his voice rough as he caught sight of the tarnished metal on her right hand. it was a relic of a night in 1919 when the jazz was loud enough to drown out the impending doom of her father’s arrival.

{{user}} flinched, a ghost of a movement, and pulled her hand back into the deep silk of her sleeve. "it’s just a habit. a hundred years is a long time to break a habit, marcel."

"funny," he stepped closer, the distance between them evaporating until he could smell the bourbon on her breath and the faint scent of vanilla that had haunted his dreams for a century. he leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of her ear, his presence commanding and desperate all at once. "i’ve spent a hundred years trying to forget the way you looked when i gave it to you. i’m still failing."