Welcome to my little story. It takes place in the world of ballet - once I had the idea of Edward in tights, all virile and graceful, I couldn't get him out of my head.

I needed to translate Bella's name for this one: cigno is the Italian word for swan. There's more Italian, and the translations are in the A/N below.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to my wonderful beta, dellaterra, who put so much time and patience into this, and made it incredibly better – you are the very best! Hugs and kisses!

Any remaining errors and mistakes are mine.

I do not own Twilight.

This story will be told in five chapters, which I will post every second day.

Here we go.

oOoOoOo

PAS DE DEUX

Chapter 1

Sitting down on the floor of my bedroom, I open the small box I keep on top of my bookshelf. In it are all the utensils I need in order to prepare the shoes. Using a small knife, I cut the satin off the tops, and then I scrape them until they are blunt and rough. A broad elastic band is sewn into the front of the shoes to offer me better support. I break the shanks on the inner part of each sole and take them out so the shoes become more flexible. I work them with a hammer. I try out the length of the ribbons, tying them around my ankles and fastening them on the insides. I cut off the superfluous bits and burn the edges so they won't fray out.

After about thirty minutes, I try them on by standing en pointe, rolling to and fro. The soles are still a bit too hard but they'll be okay.

The rain is pattering heavily against the windows and I sigh as I get to work on the second pair of shoes. Apparently autumn is arriving early this year.

Tomorrow will be the first day of my last year at school, the beginning of a new term, and I'm excited and can't wait to get back. I managed to do quite a bit of training over the summer, except for the two weeks when we went on holiday, visiting the family in Italy. It was awfully difficult to find a place to train, and I finally ended up in Aunt Susanna's garage.

"Bella!" Mum calls from downstairs. "Dinner's ready!"

It's Sunday, which means we're having a family dinner together while Daddy trusts his maitre d', Eraldo, with the restaurant. He spends most evenings there, but on Sundays we have dinner together. If he's needed, he'll go over, since our flat is next door to Il Cigno.

When I come down, everyone is already assembled around the table.

"Bella, mia ragazza dolce," Nonna Maria smiles, patting the chair next to her for me to sit down.

I kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of her wonderful lilac perfume. After Daddy's said a short prayer, everyone helps themselves to the delicious-smelling food that Mum and Nonna prepared. I take a small serving of their homemade mushroom ravioli and a big helping of salad.

"Excited yet?" Daddy asks, eyeing me across the table. He knows me too well. It's probably written all over me. Maybe it's because we're so much alike. I look into his huge dark eyes, so similar to my own.

"Yes," I shrug. "Of course. I mean, it's the last year. A lot depends on it."

"You'll do well, cara mia," he says. "You're brilliant."

"Thank you, Daddy."

My brother Giacomo scrunches up his nose while he continues to stuff his face. That boy can eat like a horse. And no wonder, he's only twelve; he's still growing.

"Bella's just dancing around in a tutu all day long," he complains and grins, his black eyes twinkling impishly.

"That's not at all true," Mum reprimands him. "And you know it too! Your sister works very hard and she's going to have a great career! If she wasn't, she certainly wouldn't have received that scholarship in the first place!"

"Oh, Mum," I smile. "You know he doesn't mean it." I tickle Giaco's ribs and he giggles.

"Stop, stop!" he snorts after a few moments, and I do before something happens to that mouthful of ravioli he's chewing. Dinner continues peacefully, with Giaco telling us about his soccer training, and Mum and Daddy talking about the restaurant a little. They are planning a big anniversary party for November, when they will celebrate the fact that they've owned their own restaurant for fifteen years. One of my earliest memories is running around the restaurant when everything still smelt of paint. I was three at the time.

When my grandparents came to London in the Sixties, they certainly never imagined that their son would one day own a very thriving restaurant in Marylebone, a district located north of Hyde Park, only three tube stations from the throbbing heart of the city.

Giacomo manages to eat three helpings of tiramisu and I drink a glass of skimmed milk before I make my excuses and get back to my room to finish preparing my shoes.

When they're ready, I call Angela, but she doesn't answer, so I guess she's still sick and won't be coming to school tomorrow. That's actually a huge pity, because she's not only my best friend but also the only real friend I have in school.

I do my exercises and take a shower. I brush my teeth and try to calm down, because I really am nervous about tomorrow. I missed school. The coming year is so important. If all goes well, by the time it ends, I will be a professional dancer. There's no alternative. All my life, that's what I wanted.

Sleep doesn't come lightly, and when I finally doze off, I fall into uneasy dreams.

=oOo=

When I make my way from the tube to our school in Covent Garden the next morning, it's still raining. Some of the girls are already in the locker room when I arrive. It's nice to see Jessica and Lauren after the long summer break. We chat a little as we put on our tights and leotards. We're all laughing at some silly joke when the door opens and Rosalie Hale and Victoria Huntington stride in. Within our class of twenty-three students, they are the stars. Both love the attention they receive because of their beauty, and both are incredibly ambitious. They greet the rest of us with a simple hello and keep talking.

"Emmett saw him," Rosalie giggles, putting her long blonde curls into a neat little bun. "He says this chap is gorgeous! Edgar Something-or-other. I can't wait to see him! Of course, Em thinks he's gay, but perhaps that's just wishful thinking!"

"A new guy?" Jessica asks. "In our class? That doesn't make sense, does it? We've only one more year left…"

"Well, he's here and I'm definitely going to check him out," Rosalie says as she applies some lip gloss.

I finish putting on my legwarmers and walk into the studio to warm up. By and by, the room fills with people who start stretching, doing pliés and battements tendus. I'm concentrating on my posture and on the way my arms move, wishing I were as self-assured as Rosalie, who is whispering with Emmett at the other end of the room while they do their exercises.

I turn so I'm looking into the mirror that covers the entire wall. I start a few grands battements, throwing my legs out behind me, when I see the door open from the corner of my eye.

There's an almost palpable, universal gasp as a young man walks in. Our class has been studying together for the past two years now, and we're a rather close-knit group, so an outsider is a real novelty.

He's tall and beautiful, dressed in the customary outfit of black tights and a white t-shirt. The first thing I notice is the uncommon colour of his hair, and the disarray it's in. It sticks out in all directions, and the colour is like… bronze. His face is lovely, with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw line. He looks… I don't know… as if he'd stepped out of an Oscar Wilde play. Something about him is oddly old-fashioned.

He doesn't seem to notice the invisible stir he's causing, quietly taking a spot at the barre and starting his warmup.

When the door opens again, it's Miss Denali. She looks as pretty as always, her strawberry blonde hair with streaks of grey framing her porcelain-like face, her clothes elegant, and her sharp blue eyes sparkling. She quietly makes her rounds, commenting here and there on someone's posture, touching a shoulder or asking for a leg to be put higher.

I can't help but surreptitiously look at the beautiful new boy in the mirror. He has a marvellous body, strong and long-limbed and graceful. He seems to be completely in his own world.

"Nice, Bella." Miss Denali touches my arm as I stretch it over my head in the fifth position.

A few minutes later, she claps her hands.

"Okay, people," she calls in a light voice, her Russian accent peeking through. "I want to go through a series of moves with you so I can see how lazy you were during the summer!"

Everyone chuckles.

"I suppose you have already noticed that a new student has joined us for this last year." She gestures to the new boy. "This is Edward Masen from Chicago. Good to have you here." He smiles a bit shyly. "Please give him a warm welcome!"

Everyone looks at him and he runs a hand through his already messy hair.

"Okay, now!"

We all find a place in the room and face the mirror. Miss Denali gives some sheet music to the repetiteur at the pianoand guides us through a succession of moves. Time and again, my eyes sneak to the new boy. His moves are lithe and powerful, and his physique is perfect. I can see every muscle ripple under his tight-fitting clothes. Everything he does look effortless, but I know the incredible amount of hard work behind it.

Miss Denali calls for a break, and we all dab our faces with a towel and have a drink of water. The new chap is by himself, but I can see that Rosalie is already on the prowl as she makes her way over to him. I can't hear what she's saying because I'm on the other side of the studio, but he smiles back at her, and it's a slightly crooked, very lovely smile.

"Everyone!" Miss Denali calls, clapping twice for our attention. All conversation ceases. "I want you all to sit down. Mr. Whitlock will be here any minute and he has some very exciting news for you!"

I sit on the smooth linoleum with the others, and the chatter stops the second our director, Jasper Whitlock, enters the room. He is a very charismatic man in his early forties. He started out as a dancer and now is a world-famous choreographer. Rumour has it that he is being considered for a knighthood.

It's a special occurrence for him to come into class, but he always does at the beginning of a new year. Everyone adjusts their position so they look the best they can.

He's dressed in black pants and a black button-down shirt, his friendly grey eyes behind rimless glasses.

"Well, well, well." He eyes each one of us. "Good to see all of you back. I hope you had a nice summer, and I hope you weren't slack about your training! This, as you know, is the last year of your studies at the Royal Academy of Ballet, and I want to see each and every one of you under contract by this time next year!" He smiles. He's been director of the school for five years and everyone adores him. He's married to the prima ballerina of the Royal Ballet, Mary Alice Brandon. He often works with her, and she sometimes comes in to do a lecture.

"You will have noticed your new fellow student, Mr. Masen from the Chicago School of Ballet. Mr. Masen was accepted here due to his outstanding talent, and I hope he will be an enrichment to this class."

Once again, everyone looks at the new chap.

Once again, he runs a hand through his hair.

"Okay," Mr. Whitlock continues. "This is your final year and we all demand excellence from you. You will perform on the big stage next summer, when choreographers and agents and directors from all the important ballet companies will be watching. The pressure's only going to increase. As many of you know, there will be a gala performance in December, with Her Majesty, the Queen, in attendance. I suppose that most of you also know that I am currently rehearsing my new ballet, Blood, which is actually based on the famous novel, Dracula.

"So here's what you will be doing for the next two weeks. You will be assigned to work in pairs, creating your own choreography on one of the themes I am going to give you in a moment. You will do it in pairs, and without any help. By the end of next week, I will come in again and decide which pair will perform the grand pas de deux from my new ballet at the gala performance."

Gasps and whispers fill the air as the news sinks in.

"Each one of you will now do a short improvisation on the theme of vampires. I want it really short, no longer than three minutes. I know you all feel pressured right now, but there's no need to. Just do your thing, and I'll see what I need to see. Just get into the feeling of the genre, and let your instincts, and the music, guide you. Miss Denali will call each of you now."

He sits down next to Miss Denali, who unfortunately seems to be going by our first names. Angela is sick, and there isn't anyone else starting with an A.

"Bella Cigno!"

I go to the middle of the room and assume the fifth position.

"Take your time," Mr. Whitlock says, and I take a moment to concentrate. I'm bloody nervous, but I know that improvisation is my strong point. I nod to the repetiteur, who starts playing. I begin to dance.

My limbs move of their own volition while I follow the music, thinking about blood and danger and desire. I forget about the other people in the room, because this – dancing - is the best thing in the world, and the only thing I care about.

I finish as the music slowly fades, ending in the same position I started with. My fellow students applaud, and it takes me a moment to come down while Bree walks to the centre of the room.

Sitting down, I repeat the performance in my head. It was okay, I think.

I suppose Rosalie Hale will snatch the part again anyway.

"Okay," Miss Denali says when the friendly applause for Bree ends. "Edward Masen."

I'm startled out of my musings when the chap in question gets up and takes his position in front of us. He closes his eyes for a second.

The moment he starts to dance, I'm mesmerized. He moves with such elegance and virility that I need to swallow. His technique is excellent, and his body is incredible, muscular and lean and perfect. But the thing that floors me is the way he dances, moving with such grace and sensitivity that it's hard to believe he is still a student. He's flawless.

The room is totally silent when Edward finishes, and it takes a moment before everyone applauds enthusiastically.

I watch the rest of the students perform, but nothing really registers with me. I look at Edward, and I try to silence the turmoil inside me.

oOoOoOo

A/N: Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear your opinions on Balletward and Bellarina, so please leave a review and make me smile!

Translations:

mia ragazza dolce – my sweet girl

Nonna – grandmother

cara mia – my dear

Giacomo is the Italian version of Jacob

Eraldo is the Italian version of Harry