Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
IGGY
A few days had passed since our little tryst after Bodhi’s photoshoot, and now we were in Prague.
Both Berlin shows had sold out completely, and the boys had enjoyed throwing themselves around the stage after a rare pocket of rest. Bodhi and I hadn’t touched since we’d mutually blown each other on the floor of a maintenance cupboard, but we’d made up for it by stealing quick make-out sessions when no one was around.
Lingering touches that looked accidental if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
We weren’t exactly keeping our . . . whatever this was a secret.
But as far as everyone else knew, Bodhi had only just gotten out of rehab, and the last thing he needed was a lecture about what was best for him.
Besides, if they found out I was a recovering addict too, Clara would probably hit the roof.
So for now, we kept it on the down low. Lived for ourselves. Enjoyed each other.
Figuring out this new sober life together.
And it was fun. Sneaking off to bathrooms to kiss and dry hump before slipping back into the green room like nothing had happened.
If anyone suspected anything, it was Riff.
Mostly because he watched Bodhi like a hawk on a good day.
Every now and then I’d glance over and catch him already looking at us, a smirk tugging at his mouth, something knowing glinting in his eye.
But he never said anything. At least not where I could hear it.
I took that as a win.
We’d left Berlin immediately after the show, all piled on the bus. This time the drive was only four hours, and we rolled into Prague in the early hours of the morning. One show tonight, then straight back on the bus for Vienna.
Everyone was wrecked.
Sadly, there’d been no time to sleep in. The label had organised another meet-and-greet before the show—no pop-up shop this time, but an even earlier call time. The boys were cranky, Ghost especially. Clara was nursing a migraine, and Dylan was barking orders at the crew like a drill sergeant.
And my hip had chosen today of all days to lock up completely.
I was hobbling around like the Tin Man before Dorothy found the oil can. Bodhi didn’t say anything, but whenever no one was talking to him, I could feel his eyes on me. The weight of his concern.
But we were balls deep in the tour now. Different cities every night. Shows stacked back to back. Berlin had been gentle in comparison. That pace wasn’t the norm, though, and I wouldn’t always get to clock out and ice my hip in bed.
No. I had to put on my big boy panties. Grin and bear it. Cry later, alone, in the privacy of my bunk slash coffin.
“The circles under your eyes are getting darker,” I said, keeping my voice low.
It was two hours until they went onstage, and I was reapplying Bodhi’s makeup after the meet-and-greet. I wiped away the concealer I’d used that morning and winced slightly at how much deeper the shadows had grown in just a few days.
“Are you still struggling to sleep?”
The rest of Noctis were scattered around the room in their usual pre-show rituals.
Riff noodling on his guitar. Mick reading.
Thump looked particularly exhausted, which was saying something, because instead of finding a hole to fuck, he was planted on the couch playing a game on his phone with Ghost.
“A little,” Bodhi admitted, eyes tipped towards the ceiling, bloodshot but steady.
I pressed fresh colour-corrector beneath his eyes, using more than usual, hoping I could hide at least some of his exhaustion.
“Maybe if I suck your dick later, you’ll sleep better.”
He glanced down at me, smirked, then looked back up. “If only we weren’t sharing a bus with six other people.”
“I can be quiet if you can,” I said, waggling my eyebrows.
His chuckle loosened something in my chest, a tight knot I hadn’t noticed until it started to unwind. And that’s when it hit me.
I’d been worrying about him.
Worrying that he was burning the candle at both ends.
That the tour was chewing him up faster than he wanted to admit.
We didn’t have another real break until after Vienna, and I couldn’t help wondering how much more he could take before he went out like a flame starved of oxygen.
Nothing left but warmth fading into smoke.
How long before it all became too much.
Before old habits started whispering again.
He’d said it himself. He had the money, the access. Being in a foreign country wouldn’t stop him. Everyone knew he was in recovery, sure, but NDAs didn’t stop temptation. All it took was the wrong person and the right incentive.
“How’s your hip?”
I looked up to find him watching me now—really watching—his expression neutral, but his eyes searched my face, stormy and intent, hunting for cracks.
He wouldn’t find any.
I was very good at hiding pain.
“It’s fine,” I replied.
My response came automatically. Reflexive. One old habit I still hadn’t managed to kill. And even though Bodhi didn’t call me out on it, didn’t change his expression or push, I knew he could hear the bullshit in my voice as clearly as if I’d spoken it through a megaphone.
“Do you want me to ask for more Tylenol?”
I sighed and reached for the tube of foundation, using it as a convenient excuse to look away. “Nah. I’ll be okay.”
“Iggy—”
“I’ll let you know if it gets too much,” I cut in, pasting on a smile that felt well-practised. “I promise.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. For now. Just like I worried about him, he worried about me. That was the deal we’d made, the quiet agreement we never had to say out loud. We looked out for each other.
The problem was, he was already carrying so much. The tour. The pressure. His own recovery. I didn’t want to add my pain to the pile, didn’t want to be another thing he had to manage.
I’d handled this injury on my own for long enough. A little longer wouldn’t hurt. We had three days off after Vienna. I could rest then. Ice it. Be sensible.
Everything would be fine.
I convinced myself it was true and tried to ignore the doubt lurking beneath.
The show was amazing, as always. I watched in awe as Bodhi slipped into his godlike persona like it was a costume tailored precisely to him. This was the version of himself he wanted the world to see. The version the label wanted to sell, and the audience wanted to drool over.
And while I enjoyed this side of him, it wasn’t the Bodhi I’d come to know.
I liked the emo man in leather who stalked the stage with the charm of a cult leader, conducting the crowd’s emotions with every movement. But I preferred what lived underneath. The Bodhi I got in quiet moments, away from the lights.
The man who was a nerd for Japanese cartoons and built queer ships in his head for the main characters.
The man who loved his bandmates fiercely, even as he ripped the shit out of them with ruthless affection.
The man who was painfully soft where his mum was concerned, who wanted to give her a better life after everything she’d sacrificed for him.
The man who carried a notebook just like I’d guessed all those months ago, filling it with lyrics inspired by half-glimpsed moments and passing sounds.
The vulnerable, broken boy who worried about being a burden.
Who was terrified that one wrong move would cost him everything he’d clawed his way towards.
Who fought every day to stay sober, even when the odds were stacked obscenely high.
Who wanted, more than anything else, to be happy.
That was the version of Bodhi I liked.
They’d been onstage for just under ninety minutes, with one song left on the setlist.
“Alright,” Bodhi said into the mic, swiping a towel across his face. “We’ve got one more for you.”
The O2 Arena erupted before slowly settling.
“We’ve been on the road a few weeks now,” he continued. “And things change out here. Sometimes you don’t notice until you’re halfway through and wondering how the hell you got there.”
His words made me think about what had changed between us.
What started as forced proximity had turned into companionship, had quietly become reliance. In a matter of months, we’d gone from strangers to friends back to strangers again, and somewhere along the way . . . something else.
At some point, something had shifted. Friendship had softened into affection, and I couldn’t pinpoint when. Not during rehab, I knew that much. Back then, we were too busy trying to put ourselves back together. His presence had been a comfort, nothing more.
Then we’d gone our separate ways, only for fate to shove us back together with a not-so-subtle nudge.
As if to say we weren’t finished yet. And the fragile thing we’d built in rehab followed us into the real world, changing shape as we did as we tried to re-enter society armed with nothing but trauma and the coping tools we’d been handed.
“Sometimes,” Bodhi said, voice steady. “Things don’t happen the way you thought they would.”
The crowd was silent now, hanging on every word.
“That doesn’t mean your life is empty. Just . . . different.”
A pause. The kind that stretches tight like an elastic band.
“And change asks something of you,” he added. “Whether you’re ready or not.”
He lifted his chin, eyes sweeping the arena. My heart thudded painfully in my chest.
“This song is for the moments when you decide to stay,” he said. “Even when walking away would be easier.”
I thought about the photoshoot. About the five minutes of normalcy he’d asked for. About how he could’ve walked away and didn’t. How he chose to pretend. With me.
And I wondered when the pretending had stopped feeling like pretending.
At least for me.
Bodhi lifted his hand, and the crowd mirrored him, thousands of arms reaching like they might touch him if they tried hard enough.
“Thank you for being here tonight,” he said softly. “For listening.”
Then he dropped his arm.
“This one’s called ‘Last Light.’”