Chapter 19 #2
Just like that, the tension drained out of me.
The hours of watching. The weight of Ghost’s words.
The responsibility I’d quietly taken on when we’d made our pact.
All of it loosened its grip. With Iggy pressed against me, arms tight, body warm and real, nothing else seemed to matter.
I wanted to stay there, in that pocket of safety.
Where he was laughing and alive and unapologetically himself. Where nothing could touch him.
Then he pulled back.
And the world rushed in again, fast and loud, like a dam breaking. The worry snapped back into place. The questions I hadn’t asked yet. The conversation waiting for us when we were finally alone.
“C’mon,” Iggy said, tugging on my hand. “The guys are waiting.”
I let him lead me down the hall towards the green room, listening to him babble about his favourite moments from the show. About how loud the crowd was, how feral the energy felt, how Noctis was apparently in danger of replacing his favourite K-pop group in his personal rankings.
“You’ve converted me,” he said, pushing open the green room door. “Does that make me an emo kid now?”
I huffed a laugh and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Listening to one rock band doesn’t make you emo,” I said. “It’s a lifestyle.”
He held up his hand, fingers forming a set of horns. “It’s not a phase, Mom,” he teased, in what I assumed was meant to be my accent.
“Was that supposed to be American?” I ruffled his hair, knocking his bangs into his eyes. He squealed and swatted at my hands. “Because it sounded Scottish. Maybe Irish. Honestly, I’m not convinced it was a real accent at all.”
“Fuck off,” he giggled, shoving my stomach. “I’m going for a piss.”
I opened my mouth to say I’d go with him. Not because I thought he wanted company, but because a part of me wanted to watch him walk there. To make sure he really was heading for the bathroom and not somewhere else. Not doing something that could undo everything he’d fought so hard for.
I closed my mouth instead.
Because I trusted him. I had to trust him.
So I stayed where I was and watched him saunter off down the hall, hoping I’d made the right call.
Ghost nudged my arm, snapping me out of it, and I realised I’d been staring at the door like a lost puppy waiting for its owner to come home.
“You good?” he asked quietly, just for me.
I glanced towards the others. Riff and Mick were leaning against the tall fridge, laughing over a shared beer. Clara was scolding Thump for whatever dumbass thing he’d done this time. It made my chest warm, the familiar sight of them like this. Relaxed. Together. Still here, after everything.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“We’ve got your back,” Ghost said. “And Iggy’s too, if he ever needs it.”
Something in his voice made my eyes burn. I wanted to hug him, even though he’d probably hate it. Wanted to thank him, thank all of them. But I just looked down and shoved my hands into my pockets instead.
“Thanks, man,” I muttered, hoping he didn’t hear the crack in my voice.
He patted my back and drifted off to join the others, just as Iggy came back into the room.
I did a quick scan before I could stop myself. He looked fine. Clear-eyed. Present. I exhaled slowly in relief.
He rested his hands on my bare chest, his palms still cool and damp from washing them. “You okay?” he asked, tilting his head. “You seem a bit . . .” He waved a hand vaguely. “Off?”
I smiled, because that was the thing about Iggy. No matter how tightly wound my worry was, he made it loosen just by existing. I brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just tired.”
Which turned out to be true, because my mouth chose that exact moment to crack open in a yawn big enough to pop my jaw.
He laughed and patted my chest. “Almost bedtime, superstar.”
Not long after, Clara had us packed into a van and heading back to the hotel.
We had an hour to grab our stuff before loading onto the bus for the short drive to Munich.
I knew Iggy wouldn’t be thrilled about another night of broken sleep on the bus, but when we stepped into my room, he was still smiling.
Now that everyone knew about us, he hadn’t bothered going back to his own room when we’d arrived this morning.
His stuff was already here. Scattered, really.
Clothes draped over the chair, makeup bag half open on the desk, a tangle of jewellery by the sink.
It made the room feel lived-in, like we’d been here longer than a day.
Meanwhile, my case was zipped and tucked neatly by the dresser.
The door clicked shut behind us, and something in the air shifted.
The room felt heavier, like the walls had moved in an inch.
Iggy didn’t seem to notice. He wandered around, scooping dirty clothes off the floor and shoving them into his suitcase, humming under his breath.
It sounded like something we’d heard at the ballet in Milan.
My chest tightened. My palms were sweating. My breaths came a little too fast, a little too shallow.
We were finally alone.
“Iggy.”
My voice came out quieter than I meant it to, and he didn’t hear me. He kept packing, blissfully unaware, lost in his own little world.
I cleared my throat. “Iggy,” I said again, louder this time.
He looked up from where he was crouched on the floor and smiled. That smile faltered when he really looked at me, when whatever he saw in my face made concern crease his brow.
“Bodhi?” He stood quickly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “Are you okay?”
He dropped the clothes in his hands and cupped my cheeks, soft and warm, grounding without even trying.
“What’s wrong?”
My fingers circled his wrists, holding on to the steady thrum of his pulse like an anchor. I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead, I stared at the tip of his nose, afraid of what I might see if he was lying. Afraid of what I might see if he wasn’t.
“I spoke to Ghost earlier,” I said.
I felt it immediately. The way his arms stiffened. The sharp inhale he tried to hide.
“Oh.” His voice dropped. “What did he say?”
When Iggy tried to pull his hands away, my fingers tightened on instinct. Not to trap him. Just to keep him with me.
“He said he gave you painkillers,” I replied carefully, keeping my voice even. Neutral.
Accusation never helped. It made addicts clam up. Made them defensive and upset. Something I knew better than most.
“I know it wasn’t Oxy,” I added quickly. “He told me already. I just . . . I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
He giggled, but it wasn’t right. Not the bright, musical sound I knew so well.
It was tight, strained, like he was forcing it past something sharp in his throat.
This time, when he pulled his hands away, I let him.
Not wanting to lose contact completely, I rested my hands on his hips instead, my fingers brushing the low-slung waistband of his shorts.
“Yeah,” he said. “We were talking about my hip after the pizza class. You never mentioned he studied sports medicine, by the way. What the fuck?” He gave my shoulder a light punch. “Who knew he was that clever? I told you my brother went to Cambridge, right? Studying to be a doctor, and—”
“Iggy,” I interrupted gently.
Part of me wondered if he was doing this on purpose. Trying to derail the conversation before it could get uncomfortable. But another part of me whispered that this was just Iggy. Tangents and chatter and noise. Usually if he kept talking long enough, he’d forget his point entirely.
Which version was true right now?
Iggy crossed his arms, jaw tightening. “I was in pain,” he said flatly. “You saw how I was in Milan. I could barely move. Ghost offered a solution.”
“They’re still an opioid—”
He stepped back, and the distance hit me immediately. Cold and sudden. I fought the urge to reach for him again, reading the warning in his posture, the way his walls were going up brick by brick.
“They’re nothing like Oxy, Bodhi,” he snapped. “Have you ever even taken it?”
I shook my head.
I’d taken a lot of things in my life. Mostly uppers. Things that kept me sharp and fast and loud enough to drown out the noise. Downers only came when exhaustion won but my brain refused to shut up.
“They’re strong as fuck,” Iggy said, voice tight.
“One pill can make you feel high as a kite if that’s what you’re after.
” His arms dropped to his sides, hands curling into fists.
“Tramadol isn’t like that. And these weren’t even the highest dose.
They’re stronger than paracetamol, sure, but they’re nothing like Oxy. ”
He laughed once, short and brittle, shaking his head. “I was an Oxy addict. I overdosed on that shit.” The casual way he said it made something twist hard in my chest. “You seriously think I’d get re-addicted to something weaker?”
I opened my mouth, but he pushed on, words spilling faster now.
“There was barely anything left in the bottle. Six, maybe eight pills. You can take two at a time, up to four times a day. That’s what I did. Sometimes I didn’t even take two.” His jaw tightened. “It was just for the pain.”
“Ghost said he was worried,” I said carefully. “That you seemed . . . frantic.”
“I was tired, Bodhi!” His voice echoed off the walls, sharp with frustration. “I snapped because I was tired. Just like I snapped at you.”
He dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked up, his eyes were shining. One tear slipped free, then another, and my heart cracked right down the middle.
“I was hurting,” he whispered. “And those tablets took that away. But I didn’t misuse them, I swear. I don’t—” His voice broke. “Oh god. You hate me now, don’t you?”
His frame started to shake as his fear took over.
“I’ve been good,” he pleaded. “I swear. I wouldn’t—I’m not—please don’t hate me.”