The Dying Swan

The studio was quiet at this hour, the only sound the occasional creak of the barre beneath his fingers and the soft rustling of fabric as he moved. The city outside was still waking, but inside these four walls, time belonged to him.

Regulus folded himself forward, pressing his chest against his thighs, arms wrapped securely around his calves. His breath came slow and even, controlled, as the familiar twinge of the stretch settled into his hamstrings. It was a quiet kind of pain, the kind he welcomed, one that reassured him his body was still his to command.

He lingered there for a moment, head hanging heavy, before unfolding with practiced precision. As he rose, his right arm lifted with him, curving in a graceful arc above his head. His ribs expanded with his inhale, his spine lengthening before he exhaled and let the movement melt away.

Turning slightly, he placed one hand on the barre, fingers light against the worn wood. He inclined backward, lowering himself into a deep arch, his ribs splaying open as his chest reached for the ceiling. The stretch pulled at the muscles along his abdomen and spine, a delicious, aching burn that sent a tingle down to his fingertips.

He held there, breathing through it. This was his ritual. This was his sanctuary.

The quiet of the studio was broken by the soft creak of the door. Regulus, still holding the barre, straightened at the sound, turning his head just as Dorcas entered. A pair of pointe shoes dangled over her shoulder, the ribbons trailing down the back of her leotard. She looked at him with an amused smirk, shaking her head slightly.

“You do know rehearsals aren’t for another forty minutes, right?” she said, setting her shoes aside near the mirror.

Regulus let out a slow exhale and dropped his arm, rolling his shoulders as he turned fully to face her. “I know,” he said simply.

Dorcas scoffed, already stepping up to the barre, her fingers curling around the wood as she stretched her calf. “Then what the hell are you doing here so early?”

Regulus just shrugged. “Getting ready.”

Dorcas let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head as she eased into a side stretch. “You’re insane,” she muttered, though there was no real bite to her words. She winced slightly as she pressed further into the stretch. Regulus could tell, just from the stiffness in her movement, that her training had been different from his. Her flexibility wasn’t nearly at the same level, but her strength had a different kind of sharpness to it.

Regulus leaned his hip against the barre, watching her struggle to reach the same depth he had. “How long have you been here, anyway?” she asked, turning her head toward him.

“Forty minutes.”

Dorcas groaned. “Of course you have.” She tilted her head, giving him a once-over. “You’ve been stretching this whole time?”

Regulus hummed, moving toward the corner of the spacious room where his bag sat. “What else?” he said, crouching down to unzip it.

Dorcas smirked. “I don’t know, maybe plotting to take over the ballet world?”

Regulus let out a quiet laugh as he pulled out his thermal cup. He stood, unscrewing the lid and taking a slow sip, letting the bitter warmth of the coffee settle on his tongue.

Dorcas eyed him from her position at the barre. “What’s that?”

“Coffee.”

Regulus held the cup out in offering, but Dorcas wrinkled her nose and waved him off. “No, thanks. I’d like to keep my heart rate below a thousand this morning. Besides, yellow teeth aren’t exactly aesthetic.”

Regulus shrugged, lifting the cup to his lips again, relishing the familiar taste.

Dorcas pushed away from the barre and sank to the floor, reaching for her pointe shoes. As she adjusted the ribbons, she glanced up at him with a small smile. “By the way, congrats on the Coryphée contract.”

Regulus exhaled through his nose, setting his coffee down beside his bag. “Thanks.”

Dorcas frowned, catching the way his expression barely shifted. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

Regulus sat beside her, stretching his legs out in front of him. “It’s just a step up from the corps,” he admitted, voice even. “I didn’t come here to stay in the corps, Dorcas.”

She tightened the ribbons around her ankle, watching him carefully. “You know it’s not nothing, though.”

“I know.” Regulus pressed his palms flat against the floor and inhaled slowly. “But it’s not enough.”

Dorcas nodded, as if she understood. Maybe she did. “So, what now?”

Regulus flexed his feet, feeling the tension in his calves. His jaw tightened slightly, determination settling in his bones.

“Now,” he said, glancing at her, “I train harder.”

Dorcas chuckled softly, her tone light and teasing, as she stretched her legs, carefully pulling one up to her chest. “You know, you really have to be patient with yourself. You’re only 25, there’s still time. Principals don’t just happen overnight; they’re built, piece by piece.”

Regulus let out a frustrated sigh, his body still in a perfect first position as he prepared for his warm-up. "I know," he muttered, more to himself than to her, his fingers lightly tracing the barre in front of him. "But I’m 25 already... 15 more years at most before it’s all over. I don’t have time to wait. I need to make the most of every second." His eyes lingered on the floor, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Time was a cruel thing for dancers, always slipping away.

Dorcas, not missing the weight of his words, smiled softly, though her expression was kind and understanding. She didn’t try to argue. Instead, she let the silence settle, knowing all too well the urgency that came with a dancer’s ambition.

Regulus shook his shoulders, clearing the tension, then began his warm-up. He started with slow, controlled pliés, lowering his body in a smooth, fluid motion, his knees bending deeply as his toes stayed firmly on the ground. As he sank lower into the plié, his back was perfectly straight, his pelvis tilting just enough to engage his core, feeling the stretch all the way down to his calves. His arms extended out like the wings of a bird, wide and strong, but with grace, as he slowly rose back up, pressing through his heels and lifting his torso with a subtle but firm strength.

His feet were always the focus, his arches defined, his toes pointed to their fullest. He moved into grand pliés with more speed, pushing through the floor and then rising effortlessly again, the grace of the movement creating an elegant rhythm as his body flowed through each position.

Regulus shifted into a series of tendus, sliding one leg along the floor, pushing through the balls of his feet, the action sharp but fluid. His arms followed the same crisp lines, pulling away from his body to create beautiful, long lines. Each tendu was controlled, a precise extension that felt like an extension of his soul, the stretch of his muscles stretching far beyond the physical.

Across the room, Dorcas was settling herself into her warm-up with a more methodical approach. Her arms were held lower, more rounded in their positions, as if she were always cupping the air around her. Her feet, though pointed and perfectly aligned, didn’t have the same lengthened reach as Regulus’s, her movements were more compact, a sense of lightness in her every motion.

Dorcas’s grand plié was gentle, her body gliding down to the floor with a softness in contrast to Regulus’s power-driven motion. Her rise wasn’t as forceful, and when she extended her leg into tendus, her arms stayed soft, gently shaping the space around her rather than cutting through it. The difference between them was clear, a beautiful contrast: Regulus with his sharp, precise lines, and Dorcas with her effortless grace.

As Regulus paused to catch his breath, he watched her with a slight frown, noticing the quiet contrast in their movements. Dorcas caught his eye and smirked, seeing his silent observation.

“It’s really beautiful, though, don’t you think? The Vaganova method? It’s so strong, so controlled,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever really dance it. My body’s just not built for it, not like yours.”

Regulus turned to her, his brow furrowed as he spoke with an uncharacteristic softness in his voice. "I really like your Bournonville style. The way you tilt your head, it adds something special. It makes everything seem so graceful, so approachable." He gave her a small, encouraging smile. "You’ve got the talent. Don’t doubt that."

Dorcas gave a half-laugh, shaking her head. “I wish I could believe that.” She bent her knee, testing her leg’s extension as she rose into a smooth relevé. “But I’m not built for that power. The grand pliés, the sharp lines, you’ve got that, not me. My style’s more fluid, less about raw strength.” She shrugged lightly. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate how stunning the Vaganova method is.”

As Regulus and Dorcas continued warming-up, their conversation was cut short by the sound of the door creaking open. The unmistakable thud of boots on the wooden floor echoed as the choreographer entered the room, followed by the rest of the dancers who were trickling in. The man had a presence that seemed to fill the room even before he spoke, tall, with sharp features, and a voice that was more of a bark than a greeting.

He was Russian, with a thick accent that made every word he spoke feel more clipped and urgent. His eyes scanned the room quickly, landing on each dancer as they moved into position. “Hurry up! Get to your places! We will begin now.”

Regulus, already in his spot at the barre, exchanged a quick glance with Dorcas. She shrugged slightly, tightening her pointe shoes, but both of them were on edge. They knew what kind of rehearsal this would be.

“Today, six hours!” the choreographer continued, his eyes narrowed in frustration. “I want perfection. We have no time for mistakes, no time. This performance will define you.”

The dancers shuffled around, adjusting themselves into their proper places. The room felt suddenly smaller as everyone quickly fell into line, the air thick with anticipation and tension.

Regulus could feel the weight of the long rehearsal ahead already pressing on him. He forced himself to focus, trying not to let the choreographer’s anger affect him. Beside him, Dorcas’ face was a mirror of his own, nervous but determined, ready to power through.

The choreographer’s sharp gaze swept across the room, landing on Dorcas for a moment. “You!” he barked, pointing a finger in her direction. “Your arms, too low! Get it right this time.”

Dorcas winced but nodded quickly, immediately lifting her arms with more effort, trying to adjust to the demanding standard. Regulus could hear the strain in her breath. It wasn’t just about executing the steps, it was about pushing your body beyond its limits. And the choreographer made sure you felt it.

Regulus stayed quiet, his eyes focused forward as he prepared for the first combination. He could feel the heat rising in the room as the tension built, his own heart rate increasing with the anticipation of what was to come. But there was no space for hesitation. This was the kind of environment where you either pushed through or broke.

The music started, and the dancers launched into the first combination. The room was filled with the sound of pointe shoes brushing against the floor, the rhythmic pounding of jumps, and the occasional sharp inhale as muscles strained under the intensity of the movement. Every step was precise, measured, and under scrutiny.

Regulus moved through the steps with practiced ease, his body flowing through the demanding sequence. But it wasn’t enough.

"Regulus!" the choreographer barked, his voice sharp and cutting through the music. “Don’t just stand there, show me power! I don’t want to see weak arms! No softness!”

Regulus didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened. He’d heard that criticism countless times, but the sting was always there, always felt in his bones. He pushed his arms higher, determined to give the performance he was expected to. His legs were already burning from the long pliés, but he held himself steady.

As the rehearsal went on, the choreographer’s anger became a constant hum in the background, his pacing around the room, his eyes glaring, the way he would snap at anyone who seemed to slip even for a moment.

“Again! Now!” The choreographer’s voice broke the silence again, making Regulus flinch slightly, but he didn’t allow his nerves to show. He began the combination again, pushing himself through the exhaustion, his body moving almost on autopilot as he hit each step with precision.

The hours dragged on, and every movement felt like it was under a microscope. The room felt more suffocating by the minute, the heat of their sweat mingling with the tension that hung thick in the air.

At one point, Regulus caught a glimpse of Dorcas in his peripheral vision as she stumbled slightly during a jump. He heard her let out a small grunt of frustration but didn’t have the time to check if she was okay. The choreographer was already moving toward her with a scowl on his face.

“Why are you falling?” he demanded, his tone icy. “Do you not understand the importance of this? Every misstep is a failure, and you cannot afford to fail.”

Regulus swallowed dry. Dorcas stood straighter, though her face was flushed with frustration. She didn’t speak, but Regulus could see the tension in her shoulders as she straightened up and tried again. The choreographer didn’t let up, moving to another dancer in an instant, demanding the same impossible perfection.

By the time they took their first break, two hours into the grueling rehearsal, Regulus could feel his body screaming for rest.He wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for his water bottle, the heat of the room making him feel light-headed.

Dorcas, too, was taking a breather by the barre, her pointe shoes now discarded as she rubbed the balls of her feet. She looked over at Regulus, offering him a quick, tired smile, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and defiance.

“This is madness,” she muttered, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “I swear, he’s trying to break us.”

Regulus let out a short laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. “We’re almost there,” he replied, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He could feel the pressure building, six hours of this? He wasn’t sure how much more he could take, and he doubted anyone else was faring much better.

The choreographer was already pacing back and forth, glaring at them as they caught their breath. The brief respite was just that, a brief one. They had to push through.

As Regulus took another sip of his water, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the expectations bearing down on him. He glanced at Dorcas again, her face tired but determined, and silently promised himself he’d make it through the day. No matter how hard it got.

By the fifth hour of rehearsal, exhaustion clung to Regulus’s muscles like a leaden weight. Sweat dampened the fabric of his shirt, sticking to his skin as his breath came in steady but heavy exhales. Every inch of him ached, but he forced himself to push through, it wasn’t just about stamina. It was about control. Strength. Perseverance.

“Regulus!” the choreographer called sharply, barely giving him time to recover from the last grueling sequence. “Your solo. Now.”

Regulus already knew what was coming, but hearing it still sent a rush of frustration through him. The Slave Variation. He set his jaw, keeping his face blank, but inside, a bitter disappointment churned. Of all the solos, this was the one they gave him? A showcase of technical difficulty, yes, but not one of true artistry. The variation demanded power, sharp footwork, and fast turns, it was the kind of solo meant to display a dancer’s athleticism, not their depth.

It wasn’t a bad solo. But it wasn’t the one he wanted.

Still, he stepped forward, rolling out his shoulders as he moved into position. The music started, and he launched into the variation. A controlled cabriole, his legs snapping together in the air with a sharp precision. Then a series of brisés volés, his feet skimming the floor before beating together midair. The solo was relentless, a constant demand for energy, for a sharp attack. He finished the diagonal with a tight, controlled landing, his chest lifting as he turned toward the choreographer, expecting feedback.

For a second, there was silence.

Then.

"Что это за слабость?" The choreographer’s voice cut through the room like a whip, his expression twisted with disgust and disdain. Regulus knew exactly what he meant What is this weakness?

"Это чему учат в Большом? Это твой уровень?!" Is this what they teach at the Bolshoi? Is this your level?!

The words dragged him back to his years of training at the Bolshoi, where perfection wasn’t praised, it was expected. Where anything less than excellence was torn apart until it no longer existed.

Regulus stiffened, his pulse kicking up in anger, humiliation burning beneath his skin. He wanted to snap back, to say something, to defend himself. But that wasn’t how this worked. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and adjusted his stance.

“Again,” the choreographer snapped.

Regulus nodded once, sharp and controlled. Fine. Again.

The music restarted, and this time, he danced like he was on fire. Every step had a bite to it, every jump stretched higher, every turn landed with unshakable balance. He let the anger fuel him, but not consume him. His movements were no longer just powerful, they had depth, a commanding presence, a fire that burned through every motion.

By the time he finished, the choreographer was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a curt nod, he moved on.

Regulus pressed his lips together and walked back to his spot, his heart still hammering. It wasn’t satisfaction he felt. Not victory. Just the lingering sting of knowing that better was never enough. Regulus returned to his spot, feeling the weight of the choreographer’s sharp gaze still burning into him. He barely registered the next dancer’s movements as he tried to shake off the sting in his calf.

Dorcas, however, wasn’t distracted. She leaned toward him, her voice soft but sincere. “You’re doing great, Reg. Don’t let him get to you.”

Regulus gave her a small, tired smile, appreciating the encouragement, but his eyes were drawn to the center of the room, where the prima ballerina began her solo. As the music swelled, he couldn’t help but admire the fluidity and strength in her every move.

Dorcas’s eyes lit up as she watched the woman dance, clearly captivated by the performance. Regulus noticed how her face softened with awe, the kind of expression he only saw when Dorcas truly appreciated a dancer’s talent. It was rare, but Regulus knew her well enough to recognize it.

He felt a pang in his chest as he looked at her, at the excitement and admiration radiating from her. Dorcas was a great ballerina, Regulus knew it deep in his bones. She had already had everything it took to be a prima ballerina: the grace, the strength, the discipline. But, as his gaze lingered on her, he couldn’t ignore the truth that weighed heavy on him. Dorcas’s skin, the rich mocha hue of her complexion, would always be a barrier.

In the world of ballet, there was little room for Black dancers at the top. Even those who were undeniably talented like Dorcas had to fight for every inch they gained. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.

Looking around the room, Regulus counted the dancers as they moved through their combinations. Most of them had pale skin, smooth and uniform, almost like the same face. Except for one.

A male dancer, standing in the corner. He was the only other person with dark skin in the room. Regulus didn’t know him well, but he noticed the same silent understanding between them: that Dorcas and him would have to work twice as hard for the same recognition, for the same acknowledgment.

The realization sat heavily on Regulus’s chest as he turned his attention back to the performance. Dorcas’s excitement was still palpable beside him, but he couldn’t shake the thoughts swirling in his mind. He wished he could share his frustrations with her, but for now, he remained silent, watching the beautiful, impossible ballet unfold before him.

At the end of rehearsal, the room gradually emptied, the clinking of barre shoes and the swish of skirts growing fainter as dancers left for the day. Regulus lingered, gathering his things slowly, not quite ready to leave.

He made his way over to the corner of the studio where the choreographer was collecting his notes.

"Excuse me, sir," Regulus called, his voice low but steady.

The choreographer, who had seemed a world away during the rehearsal, looked up. His stern expression softened, and his gaze shifted to something more neutral. "Ah, Regulus," he said, "What can I do for you?"

Regulus hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "About my solo," he started, voice careful. "The Slave Variation... It's fine, but... it’s not the role I was expecting."

The choreographer raised an eyebrow, his posture still rigid. "Not the role you were expecting?" he repeated, though he didn’t seem offended, just intrigued.

"I was hoping for Birbanto’s variation," Regulus admitted, his voice tinged with hesitation. "I know it’s still a coryphée role, but it’s a bigger one. I… I thought I’d be a better fit for it. Especially considering Marco, you know him, right? He's trained in the Bournonville method, and while he's good, that style makes it harder for him to fully commit to the energy the role requires. With my training, I know I could bring more to it, especially in terms of the dynamics."

Regulus let out a breath, the frustration creeping in. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince the choreographer or himself. Marco was strong in a way Regulus wasn’t, thick thighs, wide shoulders. Everything about him screamed masculine, powerful. Regulus felt the difference deeply. He was lean, yes, but too light, too flexible. He didn't have that solid muscular build that a dancer Birbanto needed.

The choreographer listened quietly, no judgment in his eyes, just an attentive gaze. When Regulus finished speaking, the older man sighed.

"You are a talented dancer, Regulus," he said, his voice low but serious. "I have no doubt you'd do great in Birbanto's role. You could even take on Ali’s variation and absolutely nail it."

Regulus felt his chest swell with hope at the praise, but it quickly deflated when the choreographer continued. "But..." he began, the word hanging in the air like a weight, "you’re not quite the right fit for it."

Regulus frowned, unsure of where this was going.

The choreographer paused, collecting his thoughts, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Birbanto... is meant to be more... robust, more muscular." He motioned at Regulus’s slim frame. "You are... how do I put this?" The choreographer’s eyes flicked over Regulus’s body with a clinical precision. "Too skinny. Too twinky. A premier danseur needs to be lean, but muscular. Birbanto must look powerful, he has to have presence. You... don't have that yet."

Regulus’s stomach twisted with the words. He wanted to protest, to argue that his flexibility and speed should count for something, but he couldn’t. The choreographer was right. Regulus was built differently, he survided years of demanding, hyper-technical training. But no amount of pliability could make up for what he lacked in sheer muscle mass.

"I know you’ve worked hard," the choreographer added, his tone softening slightly, "but you must focus on the roles you can get now. You’ve made great progress, but there’s still more to be done."

Regulus swallowed, the bitterness settling at the back of his throat. He wanted to lash out, to tell him that he could do it, that he wasn’t weak, that his body could be more than what the choreographer saw. But he knew better than to argue. He had to accept it. The world of ballet wasn’t kind to anyone who didn’t fit the mold.

"I see," Regulus said, his voice strained but steady.

The choreographer nodded, as if giving him a final word of approval. “Good. Focus on the roles you can do. Work your way up. Maybe next season, we’ll see more.”

But Regulus wasn’t listening anymore. The words were still echoing in his mind. “Too skinny. Too twinky.” He clenched his jaw, the frustration swirling inside him like a storm. He had to prove them all wrong, didn’t he? He had to prove that he was capable of being more than the image they wanted, more than what they thought he could be. He had to find a way.

"Thank you," he said, his voice distant now, his gaze already moving past the choreographer, already retreating into his own thoughts.

The choreographer nodded, offering a final glance of approval before turning away. But Regulus didn’t stay to watch. He needed to leave before the weight of the conversation became too much to carry.

With one last look at the studio, Regulus picked up his bag and exited the room, his heart heavy, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts.

Regulus pushed open the dressing room door, the familiar scent of sweat, perfume filling the small space. A few dancers were still hanging around, chatting softly as they peeled off their tights. He barely registered their presence, his mind consumed by the conversation he’d just had with the choreographer. He tossed his bag onto the bench, leaning back against the wall for a moment, trying to collect himself.

His phone buzzed in his opened bag. Regulus sighed, rubbing his temples before pulling it out, expecting a message from one of the other dancers. Instead, his heart sank when he saw the notification.

4:15 PM — Reminder: Tea with Sirius at 4:30 PM

He froze for a second, his stomach flipping with a sudden rush of guilt. He had completely lost track of time. His mind was so consumed by his solo and the choreographer’s feedback that he hadn’t noticed the time slipping away.

“Shit,” Regulus muttered to himself, cursing under his breath. His hands shook slightly as he tucked the phone back into the bag, already moving toward the bench. He had no time to waste. His mind raced as he pulled off his sweaty ballet tights, quickly yanking on a pair of black jeans over his legs. His dancer’s belt was still on, he didn’t have time to take it off, not now. His movements were frantic as he grabbed a hoodie, yanking it over his head, then throwing on a jacket to try and hide the rest of his attire.

He cursed again, more for the simple fact that he had once again let time slip away from him in the studio. His whole body felt like it was stuck in limbo, still half in rehearsal mode, still feeling the weight of the critique, and now rushing to meet Sirius.

He could feel the burn of frustration building in his chest as he hurried out of the dressing room. He was supposed to meet Sirius for tea, to talk about something important. It wasn’t just any casual hangout. And now he was late. The last thing he wanted was to cancel again, not when Sirius had already rescheduled three times for him.

Regulus quickly dialed for an Uber, his fingers working faster than his mind. He glanced at the app. The closest car was just two minutes away. He sucked in a breath of relief, he only hoped traffic would cooperate.

"Come on," Regulus muttered, pacing in the small lobby as he waited for the ride to confirm

His Uber confirmation flashed on the screen: Arriving in 3 minutes.

“Thank god,” he whispered under his breath, grabbing his things and heading out of the studio, the building door clicking behind him. The cold air hit him sharply as he stepped outside, the rush of energy from the earlier frustration giving way to the pressure of time.

The Uber pulled up just as he reached the curb. Regulus climbed in quickly, throwing his bag into the backseat. He couldn’t believe he’d let this happen again.

Sirius looked at his watch, irritation curling in his chest. It was already 4:45 PM. Regulus was late, again. He shifted in his seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the table as he tried to mask his frustration. Remus, sitting beside him, let out a small sigh. He, too, noticed Regulus wasn’t here yet, but unlike Sirius, he didn’t seem nearly as upset by the delay.

“It’s becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it?” Remus remarked softly, his tone tinged with amusement but also a hint of sympathy for Regulus.

Sirius didn’t respond immediately. He glanced over at Remus, their eyes meeting, and then back to the empty space at their table. It was difficult to say what frustrated Sirius more: Regulus always being late or the way ballet had completely consumed his life. Ever since he was three, ballet had dictated his every thought, every move, leaving little room for anything else. No matter how hard Sirius tried, his little brother always had an excuse, "I’ve got practice" or "Rehearsal runs late." It's frustrating.

Sirius had always loved Regulus, but their relationship had been slipping through his fingers for years. When Regulus was fifteen, he had left for Russia to train at the Bolshoi, determined to become a professional ballet dancer. That dream had consumed him, pulling him away from everything else, incluiding his own brother. After four years in boarding school, he moved on to a German ballet company, and now, nearly a decade later, he was finally back in London. Yet, despite living in the same city for the first time in years, Sirius still couldn’t seem to get a real moment with his little brother. All he wanted was to sit down, have a cup of tea, and share his news with his little brother without ballet dominating the conversation. But with Regulus, that always seemed like too much to ask.

Sirius opened his mouth to say something to Remus, but before he could, he saw a familiar figure hurrying towards the café entrance.

Regulus.

He was sweaty, a black duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He looked flustered, and the hint of guilt in his eyes told Sirius that he probably wasn’t too happy about being late, either. Regulus’s gaze swept the room, quickly landing on the two of them sitting at the back corner of the café.

Sirius raised an eyebrow as Regulus made his way over, his brother’s sharp eyes already scanning the space for his seat, not caring to properly greet anyone until he had settled himself.

“Hey,” Regulus said, pulling out a chair and dropping his bag on the floor with a thud. His words came out with an air of exhaustion that had Sirius frowning.

“You smell awful,” Sirius blurted out, leaning back in his seat as Regulus sat down, still winded from his rush.

Regulus, ever the stoic, gave him a dry look before replying, “Nice to see you too, Sirius.”

Rgulus’s eyes then flickered over to Remus, who was watching him with a mild curiosity. “So, who’s this?” Regulus asked, his voice casual, but Sirius could tell he was slightly unsure.

Sirius exchanged a glance with Remus, who gave him a small, patient smile. The awkwardness was thick in the air, He hadn’t expected much, but still, he and Remus had been together for years. Yet Regulus couldn’t even bother to remember his name. Typical. Nothing was ever as important as ballet to him. Everything and everyone else always came second.

“This is Remus,” Sirius replied, keeping his tone light. “You remember Remus, don’t you?”

Regulus hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing as if he were searching his memory. His eyes darted between Remus and Sirius, and then a small sigh escaped him. “Sorry, I don’t,” he admitted, the words coming out in a mixture of embarrassment and regret.

Sirius tried to keep the disappointment from his face, but it was hard.

Remus, ever the calming presence, didn’t seem fazed at all. He smiled warmly at Regulus, offering his hand. “It’s alright. I'm Remus, nice to meet you.”

Regulus blinked at the gesture, then awkwardly shook Remus’s hand, his expression softening just slightly.

Sirius took a slow sip of his tea, steadying himself. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous about this. But this was important. He was important. Their family was important. Regulus had to at least pretend to care.

He set his cup down and met his brother’s eyes. “The reason I wanted to talk to you today. t’s because of Remus.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for further explanation. Sirius glanced at Remus, then took his hand, squeezing it lightly before turning back to Regulus. “We’re getting married.”

Regulus blinked. “Getting what?”

“Married, Regulus. It’s not that hard to understand,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes.

There was a beat of silence before Regulus tilted his head, still looking at them like they’d just told him they were moving to Mars. Sirius could already feel his irritation creeping back in. Had he really paid so little attention to his life?

“For fuck’s sake,” Sirius muttered, shaking his head. “If you’d ever bothered to know what’s going on with me, you’d already know that Remus and I have been together for years.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and found the picture he’d taken just a few days ago. He turned the screen toward Regulus. “And since you’re clearly behind on everything, meet Teddy.”

Regulus stared at the screen. The picture showed Remus sitting on their sofa, cradling a tiny baby against his chest. The little boy was fast asleep, his tiny fist curled against Remus’s sweater.

Sirius’s voice softened just slightly. “He’s coming home with us in a few months. So, we figured, why wait? Getting married just felt right.”

Regulus studied the photo with a level of seriousness that made Sirius uneasy. After a long pause, he handed the phone back and said, completely deadpan, “Well… hope you kept the receipt.”

Sirius scoffed, pocketing his phone. “Wow. That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Thanks, baby brother.”

Regulus let out a small, amused breath. “I’m just saying. You can barely keep yourself alive, and now you’re going to be responsible for a baby?”

Sirius gave him a flat look. “Shut up.”

Regulus smirked slightly, but the expression faded as he exhaled, finally leaning back in his chair. “Well. I’m happy for you, I guess.”

Sirius took another sip of his tea, still irritated he barked “Good. Because you’re going to be a groomsman. No backing out.”

Regulus’s nose wrinkled slightly. “I don’t know if I should, though. I'm getting ready for...”

Sirius waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t have a choice.”

Regulus sighed, clearly resigned. “Fine.”

The air between the brothers was thick, and Remus could feel the weight of it. He cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension. “Thanks, Regulus,” he said softly, his voice warm. “It would really mean a lot to us, having you there.”

Regulus glanced at him, his lips pulling into a half-hearted smile. It wasn’t much, but it was the closest thing he could give. The truth was, the news had caught him off guard. He’d never pictured himself, or Sirius for that matter, married or raising children. Not after the mess their parents had left behind. Regulus had always thought they had an unspoken agreement, a pact of sorts, that they would grow old and alone, together. And now, Sirius had a husband, a child, a family that didn’t have space for him.

"Is everything okay with you, Regulus?" Remus asked gently.

Regulus hesitated for a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to share the real source of his frustration. Instead, he shrugged slightly and muttered, “Sorry, I’m just frustrated because I didn’t get the part I wanted in the ballet my company’s presenting.” It wasn’t a complete lie, at least not technically.

Remus gave him a knowing look, as if he sensed there was more beneath the surface, but he didn’t press. “That’s rough,” Remus said quietly, offering a sympathetic nod.

Regulus couldn’t help but let out a quiet, almost defeated laugh. "I wasn’t muscular enough," he confessed, his voice low. “That’s why I didn’t get the part.”

Sirius, who had been silently simmering since Regulus’s earlier comment, immediately snapped his head toward his brother. His eyes narrowed, and a frown pulled at his lips. “Who said that?” he demanded, his voice edged with growing anger.

Before Regulus could answer, Sirius was already shaking his head, his frustration mounting. “That’s ridiculous. Have they not seen you? You can balance your whole body on your toes, Reg, for god's sake.” Sirius’s tone had shifted from annoyance to outright disbelief. “I’ll give that person a piece of my mind. How dare they say something like that about you?”

Regulus, in spite of himself, let out a small laugh, the tension in his chest easing just a little. “It’s fine, really. You know how ballet is,” he said, glancing at his brother, his voice growing quieter. “There are certain... rules. The male figure has to appear strong, like a pillar. It’s just how it works.”

Remus, who had been listening carefully, spoke up with a thought. “If it’s just muscle you need, then maybe James can help,” he suggested.

Sirius, his anger still simmering but now directed at the unfairness of it all, nodded, his face softening slightly. “Yeah, James would be a great help. He’s brilliant with this sort of thing.”

Regulus tilted his head slightly, a confused frown crossing his face. “Who’s James?” he asked, clearly intrigued.

Sirius gave a small, affectionate smile as he answered. “James is our best mate,” he said with warmth. “He’s a personal trainer. He can help you get those muscles they’re apparently so obsessed with.” He paused, a teasing glint in his eye.