Notes: This is what happens when I try to put off writing my ongoing fic. I have no idea where this came from but I decided to write it anyway. I hope you enjoy!

Just to point out, Uryuu says 'merde' because apparently it is the equivalent of 'good luck' or 'break a leg' in ballet. He is not just randomly swearing in French.

A pas de deux is a ballet duet between a male and a female.

They met each night in secret before the show.

Before the curtains rose and the lights dimmed, the young costume designer would find himself pressed up against the back of the set, the pale arms of the prima ballerina wrapped around his neck in a gentle embrace. Only a few words would be exchanged in loving whispers, for time was limited and, as he had come to learn during the months he had known her, she was not one for pointless conversation. Instead, they would exchange their mutual feelings through touch alone.

Passionately, he tasted her lips. Rich cherry; also the colour of the soft fabric gathered around her breasts and waist. Fabric he himself had stitched, lovingly crafted and embroidered to fit her delicate shape. Her skeletal frame was only a reminder to him of how hard she worked, of how the sadistic director pushed and pushed her into dancing until she could no longer stand on her broken bruised feet. At which point he would scream curses at her until she began again.

Gently, she pulled away and ran a hand down his cheek. Her emerald eyes were empty, as if she were refusing to let him past their glass walls. He had never seen any feeling within them, except for the small glints that flashed across them like shooting stars, each and every time they touched. Even now as he went in for another kiss, they remained blank until the moment their lips pressed together, where they twinkled like tiny lights before disappearing behind painted eyelids.

How he wanted to slide the straps off of her smooth shoulders, slip the tutu down her thighs and run his hands across her slender body, savouring the silky texture of her skin. She seemed softer than all the materials in his workroom; and yet she seemed more fragile, despite the inhuman strength in her limbs that carried her across the stage. As if she was slowly wearing away with each use.

How he wanted to keep her warmth upon his own flesh; how he wanted to stay pinned against the fake wooden wall until the end of time with only her and the faint plucks of untuned violin strings for company. But that hope died each night as the overture began, the audience applauded and she seemed to fade away into a bright spotlight.

Her grip on him tightened, fingers desperately clawing at the cotton of his shirt sleeve. His heart sped up as she kissed her way down his neck until her powdered nose was nuzzled into his shoulder. When they had first started their meetings- strictly professional- she had been hesitant, tensing at any contact as if it sent sparks of electricity ran through her veins. But it had been her who had softly murmured his name as he had swathed her in crimson. It had been her who had finally taken his hand in hers and led him through faux forests and ballrooms to the unassuming corner they called their own.

And now, they performed a pas de deux of their own, alone where none could critique.

Then, seemingly from miles away, a voice called her name.

"Merde." He breathed as he pulled away, brushing one loose strand of ebony hair from her faintly flushed face and giving her a reassuring smile.

She did not return the gesture as she turned to leave, with only one lasting, longing glance over her shoulder before vanishing behind the heavy velvet curtains.

His very own Coppelia.