Pirouette [h.s.]

chapter 26*

// A masterpiece of motion, more beautiful every day //

"Ballerina" -Jeremy Shada

Harry's POV

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"C'mon, let's go get you that bath before show day, honeybee." I murmur into her hair, feeling her body jolt a little at the sound of my voice.

I knew she was half asleep. Sleeping Beauty.

She stretches, nuzzling closer into my chest with a little squeak that makes my heart nearly explode into a million pieces. Phoebe lets out a yawn that shakes her body, and it makes a piece of me feel a little guilty to not just tuck her into bed. But I know my Phoebe girl. I know she'd freak if she didn't take her totally-not-superstitious bath the night before a show.

We've done it every night this stretch of shows - I fill the tub while she slowly makes her way into the kitchen to get a glass of wine and a bottle of water. That first night I found some lavender candles in the cabinet below the sink and I swear she almost started crying when she walked into the bathroom and saw them lit on the ridge of the bathtub. I help her undress and she slides into the tub, hissing a little, like clockwork, when her skin meets the scalding water. I sit on the closed toilet lid, or the edge of the tub, or the floor - wherever she wants me to be - and we talk, or sing, or dream in silence. Our bodies whispering their comfort and affection through the humid air of the bathroom.

She's been phenomenal, dancing her heart out and leaving everything on that stage. I've been at every fucking show, near drooling in the audience watching her perform. No matter how many times I've seen it, I'm still in awe. Still unable to peel my eyes off of that siren the second she peeks out of the curtains.

I stand, helping Phoebe up on her sleepy, sore legs and make my way into the bathroom. She meets me with her glass of wine and bottle of water as the water rushes into the porcelain. She wraps her arms around my stomach, her cheek cradling in between my shoulder blades.

"Will you join me?" Her voice is smooth and crackling across the cotton of my shirt. Each creak snapping like lightning straight through to my skin.

My open palm runs against her arms as I reflexively sway us from side to side, "Of course, love. Want me to rub your feet?"

These shows have only proven that Bee is tough as nails. I know her body is aching, desperately screaming for a break, but she never stops. It's taken a toll on her, though. Sometimes I'll wake up to her crying in bed, desperately grabbing at her muscles. Or I catch the slight wince that flashes across her face as she stands up off of the couch. Watch the pain roll over her eyes when I rub a particularly tense spot. I've been staying at her apartment a lot the past few weeks, probably hovering and pissing her off. But I can't peel myself away. I need to make sure she's taken care of, and I'm worried that if I'm not here, she won't do it herself. So I offer to rub her feet - every single night. And every single night she replies the same way.

Phoebe just about moans into my back like she always does, "Please."

I spin myself around, trapping her lips in a kiss, "Mm, perfect girl. I'm happy to - let's get in, yeah?"

Phoebe nods and the two of us separate. Her fucking stunning eyes pull at me - as if my heart is made of metal, trying desperately to meet her magnetic field. Breaking away from them is nearly impossible as I turn to shut off the faucet. The bathroom air feels heavy - hanging low and clouding around our bodies. With the water turned off, the silence lingering in the air turns static, miniscule electric shocks buzzing between us.