The Dying Swan

It was 6 a.m. when Regulus stepped onto the sidewalk outside the Royal Ballet building, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. The crisp morning air nipped at his skin, but the warmth from his drink was enough to keep him from feeling the chill. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the grueling day ahead. He’d been up for hours already getting ready for the day ahead.

As he walked closer to the entrance, he spotted James before he even noticed Regulus. The man was leaning against a lamppost, looking every bit as handsome as Regulus remembered. His curly hair was a bit tousled, as though he hadn’t bothered to style it, yet somehow, it only added to his appeal. James wasn’t in workout gear, which was a bit of a surprise, but Regulus could still see the shape of his muscles under his casual clothes. He had a sweater on that hugged his broad shoulders, and the sleeves clung to his arms, outlining the strength in them.

Regulus’s gaze lingered on James’s arms a little too long, and he had to consciously pull himself together, resisting the urge to admire them any further. His eyes drifted down to the way the fabric stretched across James’s chest, the faint outline of his defined physique making Regulus feel an odd flutter in his stomach. Regulus caught himself staring, and he quickly looked away, focusing instead on his coffee. He had to remind himself that James is straight.

Still, there was something magnetic about him. The way his skin had that warm brown tone, almost as if it had been kissed by the sun, and the way his height gave him a certain presence. His features, sharp yet soft. Regulus clenched his jaw slightly, forcing himself to break the internal gaze.

God, I’m such a cliche. Regulus thought with a touch of annoyance. Here he was: a male ballerina, gay, and undeniably attracted to his bulky personal trainer. He could practically hear the eye-rolls. But what was he supposed to do about it?

James’s face lit up when he saw him, his smile wide and easy as he pushed himself off the lamppost, making his way toward Regulus with purpose. The sound of his boots on the pavement seemed too loud in the stillness of the early morning. Regulus reminded himself that James was absolutely not flirting. He had a wife, a kid, a life. He wasn’t interested in someone like Regulus.

As James approached, notebook in hand, Regulus straightened his back, reminding himself to maintain his professionalism. He was here to work, to let James understand the demands of his life as a dancer, and that was it. Nothing more. He had to keep his head clear.

Still, as James came closer, his smile widening, Regulus couldn’t help the way his stomach twisted in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge. He nodded, the best semblance of casual professionalism he could muster.

“Good morning,” James greeted, his voice smooth, warm, a tone that made Regulus want to linger on the word just a little too long.

“Morning,” Regulus replied, his own voice betraying a hint of tension. His mind kept repeating that mantra, straight, wife, kid, to keep himself grounded. James was just a man he was going to work with, nothing more.

“Ready for today?” James asked, his smile a little too charming for Regulus’s liking.

Regulus nodded. “Always.”

James flipped open his notebook, clicking his pen as he gave Regulus a once-over. "Alright, so I’ll just be shadowing you today, taking notes, observing how you move, how much strain you’re under. Just go about your day like you normally would."

Regulus nodded. "Got it." He took another sip of his coffee, watching as James jotted something down.

James glanced up. "Speaking of normal, what did you have for breakfast?"

Regulus shrugged, shifting the coffee cup in his hands. "This," he said simply.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "And?"

Regulus sighed. "An apple."

James waited, pen hovering over the page, as if expecting more. But when nothing else came, he exhaled through his nose and shook his head, lips pressed together in disapproval.

"Just coffee and an apple?" he repeated, like he needed to make sure he’d heard correctly.

Regulus arched an eyebrow. "I’m not a bodybuilder, James."

"No, but you’re an athlete," James countered, scribbling something in his notes. "And an apple and coffee aren’t exactly fuel."

Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He already knew where this conversation was going, and he wasn’t particularly interested in having it before he’d even stepped foot inside the studio. He decides not to entertain the conversation about breakfast any further. Watching his figure is part of the job, and he’s not about to justify it to anyone.

So instead, he moves.

James follows him toward the Royal Ballet’s entrance, his heavy footsteps contrasting Regulus’s lighter ones. They don’t speak, and Regulus is grateful for that. He heads straight for the locker room, giving James a quick glance before disappearing inside to get ready.

When he emerges, James is waiting just outside, leaning against the wall, notebook still in hand. He pushes off when he sees Regulus, falling into step beside him as they make their way to the rehearsal room.

The moment James steps inside, he hesitates. The space is vast, high ceilings, an open floor, mirrors lining every wall, barres running along the sides. It’s pristine, almost ethereal, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the tall windows.

James has never seen anything like it.

His eyes sweep across the room, taking it all in, but then they land on Regulus.

Regulus moves like he belongs there, like the room itself is an extension of him. He walks with quiet confidence toward the center, setting his things down before beginning to stretch.

And James? James is mesmerized.

He’s worked with plenty of athletes, trained bodies to their limits, but he’s never seen flexibility like this. Never seen someone fold into stretches so effortlessly, like his joints are made of silk instead of bone.

Regulus bends forward, pressing his chest flush against his legs, hands flat against the floor. Then he lifts into a split, his body sinking down with perfect ease. James can’t look away.

He watches, almost in awe, as Regulus moves through his stretches, his muscles taut yet fluid, his motions precise, controlled.

James knew ballet required strength. He knew dancers were athletes. But watching Regulus now, watching him bend and twist in ways James didn’t think were humanly possible, he realizes he had no idea.

Regulus shifts, arching his back in a way that makes James stare. His spine curves impossibly, his chest pushing forward, his arms floating behind him as if they’re weightless. The stretch is deep, controlled—something James wouldn’t have thought the human body capable of. It’s almost unnatural, the way Regulus moves, the way his flexibility seems to defy anatomy itself.

James swallows. He knew ballet required discipline, but this? This is something else entirely. He can’t look away.

Regulus moves through his warm-up, his body falling into rhythm, and that’s when the door opens.

A girl steps inside, all long limbs and quiet grace. She’s dark-skinned, impossibly lean—so lean James is sure if she held her breath just long enough, he could count her ribs. She carries herself with an elegance that reminds him of velvet, soft yet undeniably present.

She glides toward Regulus, her movements refined, every step purposeful.

"Morning," she greets, her voice smooth.

"Morning, Dorcas," Regulus replies easily, barely glancing up as he continues stretching.

James watches as she sinks to the floor beside him, extending her legs in front of her. He watches as she folds herself forward, her flexibility impressive, though not quite at Regulus’s level.

Then, mid-stretch, she tilts her head toward James, eyes sharp with curiosity.

"Who’s the weirdo with the notebook?"

Regulus barely glances up. "That’s James," he says. "My personal trainer."

The girl raises an eyebrow. "Personal trainer?" she echoes, her skepticism clear.

James can see it on her face before she even speaks. Ballet dancers don’t typically train the way athletes do. Strength training isn’t exactly standard, especially not for someone like Regulus, who moves as if he weighs nothing at all.

Regulus exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he switches stretches. "I hired him to help me put on muscle."

Dorcas stops mid-movement. "What’s wrong with your physique?" she asks, frowning.

James finds himself wondering the same thing.

He looks at Regulus—really looks at him. The tights he wears highlight the length of his legs, the way they extend endlessly, the precise lines of his calves. His arms and chest have an almost awkward, juvenile quality to them—not quite boyish, not quite fully defined. It’s… endearing.

James likes it.

Regulus, however, doesn’t seem to share that sentiment.

"I spoke to Mr. Mikhailov," Regulus says suddenly, his tone light but edged with something bitter. "He all but told me I’d never be a principal dancer unless I looked more like a man."

James frowns, but before he can process that, Regulus straightens up, clears his throat, and drops into an exaggerated Russian accent.

"A man in ballet is supposed to look like man," he mimics, voice gruff, words clipped. "Und you, Regulus, you look too tvinky for major roles. No one vill take you serious like zis."

Dorcas snorts, but James doesn’t find it funny.

He glances at Regulus, then back down at his notebook, trying to keep his expression neutral. It’s messed up, the way people think. What’s wrong with looking soft? What’s wrong with femininity?

He doesn’t say anything, though. Just presses his lips together, pretending not to be there at all, and keeps writing.

James leans against the wall, pretending to focus on his notes while his eyes follow Regulus and Dorcas as they move through their warm-up routine. Dorcas laces up her pointe shoes with practiced ease, her fingers swift and sure, while Regulus continues his stretches, his movements fluid and precise. James had never seen such control, every shift of muscle seemed intentional, every motion seamlessly connected to the next.

Not even half an hour later, others begin to trickle into the studio. James quickly notices the overwhelming number of women compared to men, their chatter filling the space as they stretch and prepare. They’re animated, some greeting each other with light laughter, others already deep in conversation. James jots down a note about the gender imbalance, something he'd suspected but hadn’t fully realized until now.

Among the dancers, James notices another man approaching Regulus, and the familiarity between them is clear. They exchange a few words, standing close, and James notes how at ease Regulus seems with him. His body language is different, more relaxed, less guarded. James taps his pen against his notebook, curious but saying nothing.

His eyes flick to the bottle of water Regulus had set by his duffel bag. Barely touched. James frowns, making a mental note. For someone who was about to spend the next several hours pushing his body to its limits, Regulus didn’t seem nearly as hydrated as he should be. James bites his tongue for now, but that was something they’d be talking about later.

The choreographer arrives nearly an hour after everyone else, sweeping into the studio with an air of authority that shifts the entire room’s energy. James watches as the dancers instinctively straighten under his gaze. The man is severe, his expression unreadable, his presence commanding. He wastes no time before launching into instructions, his thick Russian accent sharp as he barks orders.

James takes notes, observing how relentless the man is. The dancers repeat the routine over and over, the music looping without mercy. There is no praise, only corrections. James wonders if this is normal in ballet, if perfection is expected without encouragement.

Regulus is paired with a blonde girl, her frame delicate. James studies her for a moment. She’s tall, but so thin that she can’t weigh more than 130 pounds. It worries him, though he reminds himself that this isn’t his place. He forces himself to focus on the movement instead.

James watches as Regulus lifts her, his muscles straining subtly beneath his fitted top. The way he supports her seems effortless, though James knows it can’t be. She floats through the air, her legs slicing clean lines against the studio lights. At one point, she’s draped over his shoulder before he lowers her, her legs extending in a breathtaking display of precision and grace.

The entire room is moving, bodies weaving through the choreography, but James only sees Regulus. Every detail is fascinating, the way his feet glide across the floor, the slight furrow in his brow when something isn’t perfect, the quiet determination in every motion.

James glances at his watch. It’s already 9 a.m. By now, Harry would be heading to kindergarten. Normally, James would be the one to take him, but today, he has to rely on Sirius and Remus. He pictures Harry’s small hand in Sirius’s larger one, the boy’s bright laughter as he chatters away. At least he’d have fun with his uncles.

James pushes the thought aside and focuses. He looks up just in time to see Regulus repeat the same movement for the seventh time. The choreographer finally nods, his voice gruff as he mutters, “Good enough.”

James wonders if that’s the closest thing to praise Regulus will get today.

James notices a shift in the room as dancers begin stepping forward one by one, performing short solos for the choreographer. Not everyone gets a turn, and James quickly realizes that some solos are longer than others. He wonders what the difference is—why some dancers are granted more time in the spotlight while others are left standing at the back, watching.

He waits for Regulus’s turn, watching carefully. When Regulus finally steps forward, James can tell immediately that this solo is something more demanding than the partnering work before. The moment the music starts, Regulus moves with controlled precision, his feet barely touching the floor before launching into impossibly quick turns. His body folds and unfolds like a ribbon caught in the wind, limbs extending, contracting, reaching. His back bends so deeply James feels a phantom ache in his own spine just watching.

But before Regulus even finishes the first sequence, the choreographer’s voice cuts through the music like a whip. “No, no, no! You are stiff, Black! Ballet is not gymnastics, it must flow!”

Regulus halts, pressing his lips together in frustration before resetting. He starts again, and James watches as he forces himself to soften his movements.

“Again!” the choreographer snaps before Regulus even reaches the end. “You must feel like flying! Right now, you look like you vill crash! Again!”

James shifts where he stands, gripping his notebook tighter. He doesn’t like the way the man is yelling. He doesn’t like the way Regulus takes it without argument, without even an ounce of visible resentment. James understands discipline, but there’s something about the way the choreographer speaks to Regulus that grates on him.

Regulus redoes the solo. And then again. And again. Four times in total. By the last, his breathing is heavier, his jaw tight, but the choreographer simply grunts and moves on without a word of approval.

James watches as Regulus walks back to his spot, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. He says nothing, but James writes something down in his notebook that has nothing to do with training.

This man is an arse.

The moment the choreographer moves on to the next dancer, Regulus walks straight to the corner where his duffle bag rests. James watches as he pulls out a water bottle and tilts it back, drinking nearly the entire thing in one go. James glances at his watch and scribbles something down in his notebook.

First water break of the day. 11:00 AM.

James tightens his grip on the pen. No wonder Regulus had downed the bottle like he’d been wandering the desert for hours. He hadn’t seen him take a single sip before now.

Regulus wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and heads back toward the center of the studio. But James notices something’s off. Regulus looks distracted.

Of course, he’s distracted, James thinks. After all that criticism? Who wouldn’t be?

James watches as Regulus walks, gaze unfocused, mind clearly elsewhere. He doesn’t even seem to notice the couple rehearsing in front of him until it’s too late.

It happens fast, too fast for anyone to stop it. Regulus steps too close. The female dancer, mid-pirouette, extends her leg at the wrong moment. The sharp tip of her pointe shoe collides with Regulus’s forehead with an audible crack.

The entire studio goes silent.

Regulus stumbles, nearly falling backward. His hand flies to his forehead, pressing against the spot just above his eyebrows. The woman, now on the floor, gasps. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

James reacts before thinking. His body moves on instinct, already reaching for the small plastic first-aid kit he keeps in his bag. He’s by Regulus’s side in seconds.

“Let me see,” James says, his voice firm but not unkind.

Regulus pulls his hand away, and James sees the thin, red line forming just above his brow. A small cut. Nothing serious, but James knows it must hurt. He’d heard the sound, the impact of hardened pointe shoes against skin and bone. Those things must be made of plaster with the way they strike the floor.

As James cleans the cut with an antiseptic wipe, the woman continues to apologize. Regulus, to his credit, barely reacts to the sting. “It’s fine,” he says, dismissing it like it’s nothing.

James isn’t convinced.

He places a small bandage over the cut and then digs into his plastic box, pulling out a packet ibuprofen and he handles James another bottle of water. He presses both into Regulus’s free hand. “Take it.”

Regulus hesitates but eventually pops the pill into his mouth and washes it down.

It’s only then that James notices the entire studio is watching. Dancers have paused mid-stretch, mid-conversation. All eyes are on them.

And that’s when the choreographer finally seems to take notice of James for the first time.

“Who is this?” the man demands, his thick Russian accent making the words sharp.

Before James can answer, Dorcas does it for him. “He’s Regulus’s personal trainer.”

The choreographer narrows his eyes. “How long he has been here?”

Dorcas shrugs. “The whole time.”

James doesn’t bother explaining himself. He just keeps his eyes on Regulus, checking for any sign of a deeper injury.

The choreographer watches for a long moment before clapping his hands together, cutting through the tension. “We take break for lunch. One hour.”

The studio slowly comes back to life. Dancers begin moving, stretching, chattering again. But James doesn’t move.

Regulus exhales and meets James’s gaze, expression unreadable.

“I told you, it’s fine.”

James adjusts his glasses, exhaling sharply through his nose. He’s annoyed, unbelievably annoyed. Regulus had been a brat about the whole thing, barely acknowledging James that had just taken care of his cut.

“Ice that before it swells,” James mutters before gathering his things and heading back to his spot in the corner.

As he settles, he notices movement at the door. The blonde girl, Regulus’s dance partner, returns, holding an ice pack. He hadn’t even realized she’d left in the chaos.

She hands it over to Regulus. “Here.”

“Thank you, Pandora,” Regulus murmurs, pressing it to his forehead.

So that’s her name.

James files the name away, watching as Regulus, walks with Pandora and Dorcas toward his duffle bag. James’s bag is only a few steps away, so it’s easy to overhear them as they sink down against the wall.

Dorcas sights and shifts through her own bag becore she pulls out a sandwich and starts to unwrap it.

A single sandwich.

That’s it.

After all that training?

James frowns but doesn’t have long to dwell on it before Pandora turns to Regulus. “Do you wanna smoke?”

Regulus glances at James before shaking his head. “Nah. I'm eating today.”

The words don’t register at first. Then, something sharp and ugly settles in James’s stomach.

Eating today.

It clicks.

Regulus doesn’t just smoke sometimes. He smokes instead of eating.

James clenches his jaw. It hits James like a punch to the gut. How often does he do that? How many of these dancers are pulling the same dangerous shit?

He jots something down in his notebook.

How many dancers smoke to skip meals?

He looks up and watches Regulus take out a small Tupperware container full of fruit. He eats so slowly, bite after bite, deliberate and careful.

James counts.

One.

Two.

Three.

No wonder he can’t put on muscle. He barely eats.

James rubs a hand over his face. The kid needs more help than I thought. What kind of person burns through hours of training on just some fruit and water?

He doesn’t even hesitate. He digs through his bag, pulling out a bottle of Gatorade, a protein bar, and a bag of trail mix. Had he known Regulus ate like this, he would’ve packed a full meal.

He walks over and drops the food in Regulus’s lap.

Regulus blinks. “What’s this?”

“Food.”

Regulus raises a brow. “I have food.”

James almost laughs. “You have fruit. That’s not food, that’s a snack.”

Regulus looks unimpressed. “It’s fine.”

James folds his arms. “You’ve been exercising and sweating all day with barely any water. You’re on the verge of dehydration, drink the Gatorade. And a few pieces of fruit aren’t a meal, Regulus. You need protein.”

Regulus sighs, turning the protein bar over in his hands. His lips press into a thin line. "I can't eat this, it's five hundred calories!"

James levels him with a look. Eat it and shut up.

Regulus exhales through his nose, rips open the wrapper, and takes a bite. He chews, glaring at James like it’s his fault the bar exists.

James waits. Watches him finish it.

“Trail mix too.”

Regulus groans but takes it.

James shakes his head. The kid doesn’t need a personal trainer. He needs a damn intervention.