CREATURE

・chapter 26・

'Careful of the supporting knee!' James called from the other side of the Clore studio. 'And on the music, please.'

Roman watched the class of teenage boys attentively from where he stood in the front of the studio, glancing up at the clock above the doorway. It was just past five in the afternoon, and they were teaching a technique class to a group of White Lodge students who were due to perform in the company's Nutcracker in two weeks. Down the corridor, Katherine and Nala were teaching a pointe class for the girls, while James and himself handled the boys. The afternoon session served as a welcome break for their regular teachers, and naturally, taking a class from two famed male principals was an equally enticing event for the students.

'Not bad, boys.' James said as they finished their petit allegro combination. 

Prior to the class, the two of them had agreed that they weren't going to actively set out to brutalize the poor teenagers, but still try and make the session challenging enough that they'd actually learn something. The boys seemed to be managing alright, although they were struggling to pick up combinations quickly and execute them correctly on a first attempt, something school curriculums often didn't stretch enough. That, and they were probably going to leave dragging their feet, drenched in sweat, and with a better understanding of what it takes to satisfy the eye of an experienced male dancer.

Roman nodded to James and moved to the center of the room to set them their next exercise, a grand allegro combination. The boys scurried to the sides of the studio, most of them watching him with wide, apprehensive gazes.

'We'll do glissade, jeté, glissade, jeté, repeat three times.' he explained, marking the exercise's arm placement for them. 'Coupé, jeté, coupé, jeté, saut de chat, and jeté, jeté, three brisés, repeat three times. Finish en face, yes?'

He watched their expressions in the mirror, seeing their heads spinning while they marked it out with their hands and memorized the combination of steps. Nodding to the pianist, he held up three fingers to indicate the tempo he wanted, and counted them into the exercise.

He regarded them with a critical gaze as they attempted the combination in groups, throwing out some corrections while James tried fixing their transitionary steps. He'd received the bulk of his training at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy, and it was somewhat interesting to observe the difference in training methods. Russian schools were all but notorious for their relentless emphasis on hand placement, while the English style drilled precision and coordination. He'd also come to notice that British classes had somewhat less yip-yapping and shouting, but was no less perfectionistic and detail-obsessed. And true to pattern, both stressed technique to no merciful end. 

'Jump on the jeté, not the glissade.' he called over the piano music.

'Feet, feet, feet!' James barked, clapping his hands to get their attention. Both of them knew the poor boys were probably exhausted by that point, having endured a full barre and center practice under the watchful eye of two principals, but still, they needed to learn how to push when it mattered. Even if it hurt.

Still weaving through the class, Roman's gaze fell on one particular student. A curly-haired, hatchet-faced boy in his penultimate year, if he recalled correctly. It didn't take Roman long to figure out he was the class hooligan. The near-constant fishing for attention from his two teachers and incessant whispering with his friends was a dead giveaway, and that was without his domination of the center spot like he owned it. The Russian prodigy scowled.

'That's supposed to be a brisé.' he called, pointing to the floor in front of the boy's feet. 'I want to see it, not hear it.'

The boy blinked in his direction and tried not to be thrown off pace while he finished the exercise. Roman was giving the little shit a run for his money out of sheer principle, although he supposed he wasn't really one to be giving out lessons in discipline when he'd been equally impossible as a student. That was until the artistic director of the Bolshoi started training him when he was fifteen, at which point he realized Nikolai Dorokhov was the wrong man's patience to try and test.