Without another word, he unfastened his blazer and slipped it from his shoulders, tossing it towards the side of the stage. The delicate chain around his neck followed. He kicked off his boots and left them behind, standing barefoot in nothing but the layered skirt. Then he opened his clutch, pulled out his phone, and discarded the bag too. After a few taps on the screen, he set the phone on the floor.
Seconds later, a familiar melody flooded the empty theatre. The same song that had played earlier that evening, when the princess was cursed by the evil sorcerer.
Iggy was performing his own version of Swan Lake. For me.
He took his place at centre stage, one arm lifted, one foot pointed behind him. As the violins crept in, he leaned back, his body stretching into a graceful arch. Long. Lean. Elegant. He rose onto his toes, higher than I thought possible without thepainful ballet shoes the women wore, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The movement carried him towards the front left corner, arms drifting at his sides, lifting and falling like waves.
No. Like wings.
With a control most people would never achieve, he reached outward, as if grasping for something just beyond his fingertips, and lifted his back leg into the air. The angle wasn’t perfect. Not quite ninety degrees. I saw the flicker of pain cross his face when he pushed past comfort. But he held it anyway. Spine long and curved, shoulders back, chin lifted, fingers and toes pointed.
Still beautiful.
The music swelled, and suddenly he was everywhere.
Spinning across the stage. Leaping as if the floor itself were helping him fly. He landed soundlessly, light on his feet despite being years out of practice. Arms slicing through the air, legs kicking, body surrendering to the motion. His chiffon skirt moved with him like a paid supporting actor. Layers of black and purple shifting beneath the house lights, adding drama to every turn. Pink hair whipped around his face as he claimed the space like it belonged to him.
Twisting. Turning. Leaping. All fluidity and grace, like silk caught in motion.
He was incredible.
I watched with my mouth slightly open, eyes tracking him as he crossed the stage again and again. Back to front. Side to side. Filling the entire theatre on his own. He didn’t need an ensemble. Didn’t need anyone else to make the moment complete.
Iggywasthe stage.
The music hit its final crescendo when he collapsed with a sharp cry.
I was out of my seat instantly, tearing across the distance between us. He lay on his side, clutching his hip, breath coming in shallow pulls.
“Are you okay?”
I lowered myself beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He let me guide him until he was seated between my legs, back resting against my chest, legs stretched out in front of us. His skirt pooled over our lower halves like a thin blanket.
“Was it your hip?” I asked, gently rubbing the joint.
I kept the pressure light. Just enough to warm the muscle, to keep it from seizing. The darker part of my mind whispered that this was my fault. That if I hadn’t pushed him, none of this would’ve happened.
But he’d looked so alive out there. So at peace. Like he’d come home. And when I glanced down at his face, the soft, dreamy look there chased the guilt away entirely.
“It was worth it,” he murmured, eyes drifting up to the moonlit lake painted on the backdrop.
I lifted a hand to his cheek and turned his face towards mine. Those mossy green eyes, rimmed in smudged purple shadow, met my gaze.
“You weren’t perfect, Iggy,” I whispered.
His breath hitched, fingers tightening around my wrist.
“But you were so fucking beautiful.”
He smiled then. The biggest smile I’d ever seen. Bright and devastating and all-consuming, stealing the air straight from my lungs.
Riff’s voice echoed in my head from the day before.
“Look at you. Smiling like a fool in love.”
Fuck.
I was done for.
