“Are we watching an opera?” he asked, glancing back at me. “Because I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I don’t think I can sit through four hours of a woman wailing in three octaves about her cheating lover.”
I laughed, sharp enough to startle a pair of elderly women passing by. Iggy grinned and looped his arm through mine when he returned to my side, and we followed the flow of people towards the theatre doors.
Then I stopped in front of a lit poster that caught my eye.
Iggy tilted his head to see what had caught my attention and gasped.
The poster was a photograph of two ballet dancers. A man and a woman, wrapped around each other in the centre of a moonlit lake. Beneath them, in ornate gold lettering, were the words“Il Lago dei Cigni.”
Swan Lake.
Iggy’s hand came up to cover his mouth.
He stared at the poster, eyes wide and shining under the antique wall sconces. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. For a moment, it didn’t even look like he was breathing.
Something tight and sharp twisted in my chest.
Just because he’d trained in ballet for years. Just because he’d danced for a world-renowned company. That didn’t mean this wouldn’t hurt. Ballet had been taken from him. Ripped away after his injury, followed by the spiral that almost killed him.
Maybe bringing him here had been a mistake.
I lifted my hand towards his cheek, stopping short of touching him. The air between us felt fragile, stretched thin. I didn’t trust it not to shatter if I moved too fast.
Then a tear slipped free from his lashes and traced a slow path down his cheek.
“Iggy,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I?—”
I didn’t get to finish.
He stepped into me suddenly, arms winding tight around my neck. His body shook as he pressed himself against my chest, face tucked into the curve of my throat. His lips brushed my pulse when he spoke.
“Thank you.”
The words were barely audible, lost beneath the low murmur of the crowd moving around us. People were watching. I could feel it. But I didn’t give a fuck. All that mattered was the man in my arms. The man seeking comfort, going through something I couldn’t fully understand.
Iggy pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were wet, his lower lip trembling.
“Thank you, Bodhi.”
The knot in my chest loosened all at once. I breathed out, my hands settling at his waist, grounding myself in the warmth of him.
“I was scared I’d fucked up,” I admitted quietly.
He shook his head, a small smile breaking through. “This is wonderful.”
Iggy turned back to the poster, voice distant now, almost reverent. “I haven’t watched a ballet since I left the Royal,” he explained. “Not after the injury. I couldn’t stand it. Watching something I loved so much and knowing I couldn’t do it anymore. Not like them.”
He stepped out of my arms, eyes still fixed on the dancers.
“I could still do some of it,” he continued. “But it wasn’t perfect anymore. And if it wasn’t perfect, I didn’t think I deserved it.”
I slid my hand into his and squeezed.
“Just because it isn’t perfect,” I said, “doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful.”
He turned to me then and smiled. Bright. Unguarded. Still a little broken, but standing nonetheless. “Sounds a bit like you.”
I shook my head.
