A/N: I'm so excited! FLIGHTLESS BIRD is officially a Featured story on Wattpad! Thank you to everyone who's voted and posted comments. I never would have applied without your encouragement!

Beauchamp was temporarily stationed in Liam's old office. He had his feet up on the desk and was reading the newspaper. His black umbrella stood against the empty bookshelf like a sleeping bat.

On my way to the opera house I replayed in my mind how this conversation might go but now I wasn't sure I could control myself. Seeing him reclining comfortably in the leather chair after what he did to Harry sent me into a blind rage. Why does he get to be comfortable while Harry lies in a hospital bed and Hans lies in the ground?

He peered at me over the paper and uncrossed his ankles. "Have you come to apologize?"

I slammed the office door behind me. "No."

Beauchamp cocked his silver head and stood up. He waltzed around the desk sleekly and perched on the edge.

"Where did you run off to last night?"

"I was with Harry."

He grinned. "So, Siegfried and Von Rothbart made up."

I held the back of the wooden chair in front of me. "You need to leave the company."

"What?"

"Harry and I will no longer work with you."

He crossed his arms disapprovingly like he did when he was still my teacher. "Is this Harry's idea? Is he turning you against me with his lies like he did all your other friends? Really, Louis, I thought you were smarter than this."

The chair nearly splintered I was gripping it so hard. "I believe Harry."

"You think Harry's been honest with you?" Beauchamp shook his head. "He doesn't know this, but a few months ago I took a trip to Moscow and spoke to his former colleagues. What they told me was interesting. Very interesting. Do you know the real reason Harry left the Bolshoi?"

I wasn't going to let him get in my head. "I'm not interested in anything you have to say. Leave now or I will tell Kenneth and every dancer here what you are."

His brow fell and his look of concern morphed into an ugly sneer. This was the real Beauchamp. The man I knew in the studio was just an illusion no different than his Palemon or the other roles he danced onstage.

"I don't like your tone, my pet. You're being very disrespectful."

"Who do you think you're dealing with? I'm not a little boy."

"You could have fooled me." He winked.

I ground my teeth. "Last night was a mistake."

"Your mistake was leaving me for him. You and I are good together. Harry is a mess. He can barely take care of himself."

I slammed the chair on the ground. "And whose fault is that?"

He put a hand on his chest, feigning ignorance. "I don't know what you're implying."

I was done being civil. I came at him. "He was fifteen years old. Fifteen!"

Beauchamp looked me up and down pityingly. "Is that what this is all about? You're jealous that I've fucked him and you haven't?"

I staggered backwards.

I thought he would get angry. Deny it. I'd completely underestimated him. He wasn't ashamed about what he'd done and he had no fear about being found out. It wasn't a crime of passion. It was cold-blooded. Calculating. His position, his money and his network made him untouchable and he knew it. He relished it.

"I could give you a few pointers if you want," he chuckled. "I'm actually surprised he hasn't let you have him. He was quite the little slut back in the day."

"Enough."

"If you only knew the things he's done and how many men have had him..."

"He was a child!" I cracked my fist on the desk.

Beauchamp sighed like we were merely debating the wine list. "Don't be so pedestrian. You know my taste is rarefied." His dark eyes examined mine with reptilian blankness. "Harry's flesh was peaches and cream, his screams the sweetest melody."

I grabbed him by the throat and slammed the back of his head against the bookcase. Terror flashed in his eyes.

"What?" I said calmly. "I thought you liked it rough."

His nostrils flared. He tried to pull my arm away but the more he struggled, the tighter my hand constricted around his throat.

"You're right, Sir, we're the perfect couple."

His lip curled. "You're too old for me."

I pictured his hands on Harry's young body. It made me want to squeeze his throat tighter and tighter until the life drained out of him like poison from a rattlesnake.

"I'm not leaving the company," he croaked.

"I don't want you to."

He laughed. "What are you going to do then? Beat me up? Kill me?"

"No. I'm going to ruin you."

***

I found Gigi in her dressing room jamming bobby pins into her blonde bun. The place was as tidy and prim as she was, with rows of lipsticks lined up like soldiers on her vanity.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"I need a favor."

"Of course you do."

I sat across the room on her loveseat. She was superstitious and refused to throw away any bouquets she received, so there were dried flowers everywhere. The place smelled like a funeral parlor and perfume.

"I need the numbers of your friends in Paris."

"My 'cokehead friends' as you so eloquently put it."

"The ones with dirt on Beauchamp."

She crossed her long spindly legs and narrowed her eyes. "What are you up to, Tomlinson? Where's Harry and why aren't you in the studio with Alex?"

"We're not working with him anymore."

"Question: why don't you and Harry just burn the opera house to the ground if you're so hell bent on destroying this production?"

"I don't want to destroy the production. I want to destroy Beauchamp."

She picked up her pearl phonecase. "You're lucky I hate him."

***

I helped Harry checkout of the hospital. He was taken there in nothing but his boxers, so I brought him a pair of ripped skinnies, a t-shirt and Nikes to wear home. He asked to come back to my flat because it was close by. I think he was afraid to be alone. Not that I would have left him. I wanted to spend every minute of every day watching over him. Beauchamp tried to make Harry into something ugly by telling me about all the men that had him. Instead, the reverse happened. His suffering made him more beautiful to me, his pain holy.

He sat on my couch not quite sure what to do with himself. He didn't have a couch at home. He just danced and slept. He didn't know how to spend time with himself and just relax.

His face was gaunt. He refused to eat a bite of the bland food they served at the hospital so I made him some tea and dug up the sweetest biscuits I could find.

I tried to get him settled before I brought up my meeting with Beauchamp, but he wanted to know the details straight away.

"Is he leaving?" Harry asked hopefully.

I placed the mismatched teacup and saucer in front of him along with the plate of frosted vanilla cookies.

"Change of plans, kitten. We're going to ruin his life instead."

"How?"

"You have to press charges."

Harry shook his head vigorously. "I can't do that."

I sat beside him on the couch. "You have to, otherwise he'll keep doing this."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't you think I want to? I've thought about this for years. I have no proof, no physical evidence and no witnesses. I got tested for STDs after it happened but never had a full examination. The only people who could corroborate my story are his driver who saw him kiss me in the backseat and Beauchamp's wife Irina, both of whom have covered for him for decades. They couldn't testify against him without implicating themselves. All I have is my own testimony."

"The police will investigate!"

"Which police? He abused me in three different countries seven years ago." His voice cracked. "Even if I could remember what happened where, these countries are all subject to different laws. He's smart. He moves his boys around like chess pieces."

"We'll do it here, in the UK," I said decidedly.

"It's my word against his. I have no case."

"What if we found other victims to corroborate your story?"

"Hans is dead."

I pulled out my phone. "Gigi's friends in Paris heard rumors. I followed up with them, did a little digging, and got a few names."

He took a sip of hot tea, cautiously optimistic. "Beauchamp's boys are obedient. They'd rather hurt themselves than hurt him. Just look at Hans, look at..." He stopped short of mentioning himself.

Once I began searching those names and made some calls I understood what Harry meant. Almost none of the men were willing to talk to me, and the ones that did, angrily protested that nothing had ever happened between them and Beauchamp. One ex-dancer was so furious at the suggestion he said that if this ever went to court he would testify on Beauchamp's behalf.

It was getting late. I sat at my little desk in my room, while Harry lay in bed reading. My eyes were getting heavy. I felt swallowed up by hopelessness. There had to be something I could do, some way to bring Harry justice. I vowed to keep trying no matter how many months or years it took. Harry sacrificed for me. I would fight for him.

"Louis, you're tired. Come to bed." He was lying there peacefully, his dark hair spayed out on the pillow, one leg tucked beneath the other.

"I'm thinking."

He came over and wrapped his naked arms around me. "Please, let it go."

I kissed his hand. "No."

"You let him get inside your head."

I pulled his warm body onto my lap and placed my cheek against his heart, feeling its familiar rhythm.

"What did he say about me?" Harry asked quietly.

I chose my words carefully. I couldn't tell him all of the vile things Beauchamp said without re-traumatizing him.

"He tried to turn me against you. He said you've been lying about why you left the Bolshoi. Can you believe that?"

I thought Harry would be as incredulous as I was but he escaped my arms and crawled back into bed.

"Harry?"

"I haven't been completely honest with you, Louis."

Immediately, I got up from the desk and sat beside him smoothing the mussed bedspread with my palm. I didn't think there were any more secrets between us. What else could he be hiding from me?

He rested his hands on my shoulders. I held my breath preparing for the worst.

"This performance of Swan Lake will be my last."

I blinked. "What are you saying?"

"My knee."

"It's an injury. You'll get better."

"No I won't. I had three surgeries in Moscow. The last one didn't take."

I grasped at his legs frantically.

"You're too young! Your career has only just begun! Can't you get a second opinion from a doctor here or in America? There are specialists--"

"This is the end."

He'd already suffered so much. He couldn't suffer the loss of his career too. I pressed my lips to the scar on his knee as though the sheer force of my love could heal him.

"So, Beauchamp was telling the truth? The Russians asked you to leave?"

"No. I have one more performance in me." He took my hand. "That's why I came back. I wanted to dance beside you one last time."

"Oh, Harry."

I held him and we mourned his loss together. Only another dancer could understand what was being taken from him. He reminded me of those dried flowers in Gigi's dressing room: he was still Harry, still beautiful, but an essential part of him had died.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Only Liam. Kenneth never would have offered me the contract if he knew. Liam understands what it's like to have a career end because of an injury. He wanted to give me the chance he never had."

No wonder Harry needed everything to be perfect, why he was so controlling and obsessed with every last detail of the production. He would never dance the ballet that meant so much to him ever again.

I was grieving not just for him but for myself and the whole world. We were losing such a talent. He could have danced another twenty years. What a tragically brief career. It was a short flash of brilliance, but he shone brighter than any other star.

I tightened my grip on him and stilled my tears. "It will be the greatest honor of my life to dance beside you."

"Let's make history," he said bravely.

I crushed my forehead against his and laced my fingers through his hair.

It wasn't long before I felt that familiar rage well up inside me. All of his suffering stemmed from the same source. This was a symptom but Beauchamp was the disease. He stole Harry's innocence and because of that, robbed him of his career, his art. Harry's loss only strengthened my resolve.

I untangled my hands from his hair and went back to my desk.

Harry reached out to me. "It's over, Louis. These men will never talk. We'll never find anyone willing to corroborate my story."

I flipped to the back of an old programme on my desk. My eyes widened. "There might be another way."

A/N: Hmmm what might they find in a ballet programme that could help them?

I really wanted there to be a death in this story that mirrors the tragic arc in Swan Lake but I didn't want Harry to die. I thought the death of his career was just as sad but in a totally different way. What did you think?

Were you surprised that Beauchamp admitted to the abuse? In an earlier draft I had him deny it, but it didn't seem to match his character. He's so arrogant and entitled about everything else I couldn't see him protesting his innocence.