We were both sticky, in desperate need of a shower, and Bodhi still had to deal with the condom. But with his heat surrounding me and his hand moving through my hair, my eyes were already drifting shut, the quiet pull of after-sex sleep tugging me under.
I hovered somewhere between consciousness and dreams when his lips brushed my temple.
“I love you, Iggy,” he murmured, squeezing me close.
My mouth felt too heavy for words, so I reached over and pinched his nipple instead.
The way he hissed and laughed under his breath told me he got the message.
Two days later, we stepped off the bus in Zurich after a three-and-a-half-hour drive that somehow felt longer. Despite the short journey, Bodhi had insisted we share a bunk. It sounded sweet in theory. Romantic, even. And we’d done it before, back when his panic attack had left him shaking and needing another body nearby to remind him he was real.
It was also nice not having to sneak around anymore. No hushed laughs or careful glances, no pretending we weren’t already tangled up in each other in every way that mattered.
But theory and reality rarely get along.
The bunks were barely bigger than a wardrobe laid on its side, and squeezing two grown men into one was hot, cramped, and awkward in ways no amount of affection could fully fix. It worked out just fine for Bodhi. He was wrecked after the final Milan show and fell asleep before his head properly hit the pillow, breathing deep and even like his body had finally decided it was safe to shut down.
I, on the other hand, spent most of the night quietly rearranging myself, trying to find a position that wouldn’t make my hip seize up without waking him. Every time I shifted, pain flared sharp and bright, then dulled into a low ache that sat there like it was waiting for attention.
I thought about the Tramadol. Thought about how easy it would be to take one and let sleep do the rest. But the bottle wasalready running low, and that thought settled in my gut like a warning I didn’t want to look at too closely.
What would happen when they ran out? Did Ghost still have more? And how the hell would I ask him without Bodhi noticing?
Turns out I didn’t have long to avoid those questions.
After we dumped our bags in my hotel room, Bodhi made a beeline for the bed and crawled straight under the covers. It took less than a minute for his breathing to even out, his chest rising and falling in a steady, familiar rhythm. He hadn’t slept well in rehab, or at the start of the tour, and seeing him like this made something settle in my chest.
The shadows under his eyes were fading. I didn’t have to layer concealer on quite so heavily anymore. When his jaw unclenched and the constant tension left his face, he looked younger. Softer. Like his waking hours weren’t one long tug-of-war between doing the right thing and wanting to disappear.
Compared to the boys’ horror stories from past tours, this one had been... tame.
Bodhi’s bandmates had shown up for him in ways that mattered. They planned things that included him without applying pressure. Checked in without hovering. Waited until he bowed out for the night before letting loose, or timed their chaos around plans the two of us had already made. They were careful without being patronising.
It helped, knowing he had them. And even though they didn’t know the full story of my own addiction, Bodhi made sure that same care extended to me too. At least while we were on the road.
I hadn’t let myself think too far past that. About what would happen when the tour ended. When Bodhi and I went back toour own countries, our own lives. Thousands of miles and an ocean between us.
Call me an ostrich. I had my head buried firmly in the sand.
With Bodhi dead to the world, I slipped into the bathroom with my toiletry bag and shut the door quietly behind me. I rummaged through tubes and jars until my fingers closed around the familiar orange plastic. The bottle felt lighter than it should have. I unscrewed the lid and tipped it upside down into my palm. Two pills fell out. Just two. No rattle after. No more weight behind them.
Fuck.
My stomach dropped. My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
I set the two pills down on the counter beside the sink and lifted the bottle to my eye, tilting it slowly like there was a secret compartment I’d somehow missed. Like a miracle might rattle loose if I looked hard enough. But there was nothing. Just the orange-tinted base of an empty cylinder, translucent and unforgiving.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
I screwed the lid back on and shoved the bottle to the bottom of my toiletry bag, burying it beneath toothpaste and deodorant like that might erase the problem entirely. Then, without letting myself think too hard, I picked up the two pills, placed them on my tongue, and bent forward to drink straight from the tap.
They slid down easily.
Too easily.
Crawling back into bed beside Bodhi, I stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiny imperfections in the plaster until the familiar heaviness crept through my limbs. The edges of the room softened. My thoughts blurred. Eventually, the weight pulled me under and I slipped into an opioid-laced sleep that felt less like rest and more like surrender.
I woke a few hours later, just before noon.
