aFireFist
A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 21 - Taylor Swift, Emillia Clarke, Scarlett Johansson, Elizabeth Olsen & Jennifer Lawrence {The Last Night of the 1989 Tour} - Part 4
December 12 started in the dressing room with her phone in her hand and her hair still wet from the shower.
Osiah stood just inside the door with the last punch list. Erica had already done her pass. His was the stupid one. The human one. Jacket clip. Headset six. Pyro distance. Barricade ushers on Love Story. Spare pack in his pocket. Carrie's spot plot signed off.
Taylor looked at the screen, typed, deleted, typed again.
"Does this sound like I'm dying or like I'm grateful?" she asked without looking up.
"Read it."
"Melbourne, the first two nights with you have been magical. Tonight we play this show for the very last time. I'm so honored I get to share the last night of the 1989 World Tour with all of you. This has been the most incredible adventure. Thank you for all of it."
He thought about it.
"Grateful," he said. "Post it."
She posted it. Then she set the phone face down and stared at the sparkle jacket on the hanger like it had personally offended her.
"I don't want to put that on."
"Yes you do."
"I know I do. That's not the same as wanting to." She turned. No makeup yet. Bare face, blonde hair darker from the water, the black robe tied loose enough that the shape of her tits showed when she breathed. "Are they here?"
He knew who she meant.
"They're in the suite," he said. "Scarlett texted when they sat down. Emilia's with them. Lizzie's with them. Jen's flight was late but she's in the building."
Taylor's mouth pulled to the side. Not a smile exactly. Something tighter.
"Good. I didn't fly them across the world to watch me from a hotel TV." She reached for the jacket, then stopped. "After. Not on stage. I don't want this to become a circus."
"It won't."
"You're sure."
"I'm sure."
Wardrobe knocked. Taylor closed the robe with one hand and called them in. Osiah stepped out and went to find Erica on the field.
The last punch list took twelve minutes. Pyro was where it was supposed to be. Headset six had a fresh battery. The barricade ushers were already briefed. Mitch walked the bearing one more time and said, "If this thing dies tonight I'm leaving it here as a sculpture."
"It won't die," Osiah said.
"You don't know that."
"I know you've checked it four times."
Mitch almost smiled. Then he didn't. "Go watch your singer."
Osiah went to the wings.
The house was louder than the first two nights. Not bigger. Louder. People had decided this was the one that counted. Vance Joy finished. The lights dropped. The skyline came up on the LED. Taylor hit the stage in the jacket and the glasses and the first line of "Welcome to New York," and AAMI Park made a sound Osiah felt in his teeth.
He stayed stage left the whole set.
Not every song. The ones that were going to be the last time.
"Clean" came in the middle of the show the way it always did, after the room had already given her everything once and was ready to give it again. Taylor stood downstage with the mic in both hands and let the first verse go quiet. No extra speech. She'd used the speech on the crew the night before. Tonight she just sang it. The lower bowl sang it with her. The upper bowl came in on the chorus. Osiah watched her throat work and watched her eyes go shiny and watched her not wipe them until the last note was gone.
She glanced stage left when the applause was still coming. He was there. She looked away before it turned into something.
"Wildest Dreams / Enchanted" was the mash that always felt like two different girls in the same body. The darker one first, then the lift. Taylor's voice had the scrape Adelaide had left on it and something underneath that the scrape couldn't touch. The dancers moved around her in the long skirts. Confetti from an earlier cue still clung to the runway. Osiah called a follow-spot correction on the second half and Carrie had it before he finished the sentence.
"Out of the Woods" was the one that made the stadium feel like it was running.
She ate the stage. The jacket was long gone. The look was the white one, legs eating the marks, hair stuck to her neck. The runway lights chased her. The crowd screamed the are we out of the woods yet like an argument they were winning. Osiah kept one eye on her feet and one on the spin. The bearing held. Mitch, somewhere on comms, made a noise that might have been a prayer.
Then the last change. Then the last intro.
"Shake It Off" on the last night of 1989 sounded like a building trying to leave the ground.
The runway spun. The dancers hit every mark they'd hit since Tokyo. Taylor was in the clear, grinning so hard it looked like it hurt, mic up, body throwing the choreography like she had another eighty shows in her instead of zero. Confetti cannons armed. Osiah watched the trigger light go live on the board through the wing monitor.
"Cannons on your go," he said into the headset.
"My go," Carrie answered.
Taylor hit the last chorus. The cannons fired. Paper went up and came down in the warm Melbourne night and would never come down on this production again. The runway kept spinning through the button. Taylor hit the pose. The noise that followed wasn't cheering so much as a single long shout with tens of thousands of throats in it.
She bowed. The band bowed. The dancers folded in.
The group hug happened the way it always happened on the last night, except this time it was actually the last night. Taylor in the middle of them, arms around whoever she could reach, forehead against somebody's shoulder, laughing and not quite laughing. A phone came out. The photo that would go up later with the broken-heart caption. Osiah stayed in the wing with the water and the towel and did not walk out onto the stage.
When she came off she was shaking.
Not a lot. Just the fine tremor in her hands when she reached for the bottle. He put it in her palm. Put the towel in the other. She drank, wiped her face, and leaned her whole weight into him for longer than the Sydney thirty seconds and shorter than anyone would notice.
"That's it," she said against his shirt. Her voice was almost gone. "That's the show."
"That's the show."
She pulled back. Makeup wrecked. Blonde hair stuck to her temples. The last costume still throwing light. Behind her the crew was already starting to think about strike even though nobody wanted to.
"Suite," she said. "Give me twenty minutes to get out of this and tell Erica I'm not doing the full press line. Then you bring yourself and you don't bring a headset."
"Alright."
She squeezed his wrist once, hard, and let wardrobe take her.
On the field the house lights were coming up. Confetti stuck to everything. The runway had stopped. Mitch was already walking toward the bearing with a flashlight he didn't need.
Osiah took the headset off, coiled it, and set it on the production table.
Twenty minutes.
Then the suite.
Osiah left AAMI Park through the production tunnel, not the lobby.
No headset. No credential around his neck. Just the shirt he'd been sweating in since soundcheck and a phone with three texts stacked on top of each other.
Scarlett: We're in. Door's on the latch. Don't knock like a civilian.
Emilia: She looks wrecked in the best way. Hurry up.
Jen: If you stop to be polite in the hallway I'm locking you out.
The Crown penthouse sat high enough that the Yarra looked like a black strip with lights nailed to it. Osiah took the service elevator Taylor's security had pointed him at and walked a quiet hall that smelled like carpet cleaner and cold air. The latch was off, the way Scarlett said.
He pushed the door open.
The suite was already loud in a low way. Not party loud. The kind of loud women made when they'd been watching a last show from glass and drinking just enough to take the edge off. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A long couch. A bed you could see from the living room because nobody had bothered to close the door. Bottles on the counter. Towels already thrown over a chair like somebody had planned ahead.
Scarlett Johansson was in a black dress that looked simple until she turned and it wasn't. The fabric held her tits like it had been built around them, full and heavy, the neckline cut just low enough that the inner swell showed when she breathed. Her ass filled the back of it the same way. Dark hair down. Shoes already off.
Emilia Clarke had her legs tucked under her on the couch in a cream top that kept slipping off one shoulder and tight pants that made her thighs look thick and soft at the same time. The top did nothing to hide her chest. It wasn't trying to.
Elizabeth Olsen sat on the arm of the same couch in a dark blouse and jeans, smaller than the other two, fine-boned, her ass a tight round shape against the denim. She had a glass in her hand and her cheeks were already pink.
Jennifer Lawrence was at the window with a beer she had clearly stolen from the minibar, blonde hair messy on purpose, a loose shirt and shorts that showed the strong line of her legs. She looked over her shoulder when the door shut.
"There he is," Jen said. "The man who spent two hours in the dark while the rest of us had a view."
"Somebody had to watch the bearing," Osiah said.
Scarlett crossed the room first. She didn't hug him like a friend at a wrap party. She put her hand on his chest, felt the heat still sitting in his shirt, and smiled with her mouth close to his.
"You smell like a stadium," she said. "It's working for me."
Emilia laughed from the couch. "Don't start without her. She'll kill us."
"She's two minutes behind me," Osiah said.
"Good." Scarlett's fingers hooked in his belt and stayed there, not opening it yet. "Because I've been thinking about this since the first chorus."
The door opened again before anyone could answer that.
Taylor came in still damp from a second shower, hair darker, no stage makeup, wearing an oversized tee that hit mid-thigh and nothing that looked like real pants. Her voice was shot. You heard it in the first word.
"If anybody posted a photo of that hug with my real face I'm changing my name."
Jen lifted the beer. "Your real face was fine. You looked like you got hit by your own show."
"I did." Taylor dropped her bag, crossed the room, and walked straight into Osiah. She kissed him without caring who was watching, mouth hungry, body flush against him. The tee was thin. Her tits pressed soft and full into his chest, nipples already tight from the cold air and whatever she'd been thinking about in the car. She pulled back just enough to talk against his mouth. "They're here. You're here. The show's over. Take the shirt off before I rip it."
"Romantic," Jen said.
"Shut up, Jen."
Osiah pulled the shirt over his head. Taylor's hands were on his stomach immediately, then his belt. Scarlett helped from the other side like they'd rehearsed it. The belt came open. The pants went. He was hard before the fabric cleared his thighs, thick against the front of his boxers, the shape obvious.
Scarlett made a low sound.
"Jesus," she said, looking down. "I always forget until I see it again."
Emilia leaned forward on the couch, cream top sliding lower. "I don't forget."
Lizzie bit her lip and didn't pretend she wasn't staring.
Taylor shoved his boxers down and wrapped her hand around him. Warm. Tight. She stroked once from base to head and spread the bead of pre-cum over the tip with her thumb.
"On your back," she said. "Couch. Now."
He sat. Taylor dropped to her knees between his legs like the dressing-room floor and the Shanghai corridor had just been practice. Scarlett went with her, sinking down on his right side, dress riding up her thighs until the underside of her ass showed. Two mouths. Two pairs of hands.
Taylor licked a slow stripe up the underside of his
{R-18 Scene Osiah x Taylor Swift, Emillia Clarke, Scarlett Johansson, Elizabeth Olsen & Jennifer Lawrence 7556 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n.}
The room smelled like all of them. Sheets wrecked. Window still marked with Emilia's hands. Somebody's water bottle on its side on the carpet.
Nobody spoke for a while except in broken pieces.
"I can't feel my legs."
"Good."
"If I fall asleep on you that's your problem."
"Move your knee."
"That's not my knee."
Taylor eventually sat up, looked at the clock on the nightstand, and made a sound that might have been a laugh if she'd had a voice left.
"Four," she whispered.
They took towels and the unbroken water and went out to the terrace because the suite had gone too thick to stay in.
Melbourne summer at 4 a.m. was still warm. The Yarra sat black below. A tram bell rang somewhere far off and then didn't again. They sat on the outdoor furniture in towels and nothing else, skin marked, hair wrecked, passing the water. Taylor tucked herself under Osiah's arm and didn't try to talk over what was left of her throat.
Scarlett lit nothing. She just sat with her head back and her eyes closed, towel loose around tits that still had faint fingerprints on them.
Emilia had her feet in Lizzie's lap. Lizzie was half-asleep sitting up.
Jen looked at the skyline and said, very quietly, "Happy almost birthday, by the way."
Taylor's mouth moved against Osiah's chest. A smile. No speech.
The 1989 production was over. The runway was done spinning. The cannons were empty. In a few hours the trucks would start rolling and the girls in this suite would leave by different elevators, different cars, different flights. Nobody was walking through the lobby together. That had been the deal before anyone took their clothes off.
Taylor found his hand under the towel and squeezed it once.
That was the whole conversation.
***
He left before six.
Service elevator. Side exit. The city just starting to think about being awake. By the time the sun was actually up he was back at AAMI Park with a coffee and a credential he didn't need anymore.
The field was a mess of tape ghosts and confetti that the blowers hadn't gotten. The runway was already in pieces. Mitch was on the bearing with a socket set and a face that said he hadn't slept. Carrie stood at FOH with a coil of cable over her shoulder and lifted her chin when she saw him.
"Spot didn't die," she said.
"Told you."
Erica walked past with the last of the punch lists in a stack and didn't stop. "Hotel checkout's at eleven. After that you're a civilian again. Don't make me hunt you for a radio."
"You won't have to."
The trucks started rolling at 8:40. One after another, doors slamming, someone yelling about a missing case that turned up in three minutes. Osiah stood on the dirt and watched 1989 leave a stadium.
His phone buzzed.
Taylor: still in the suite. voice is gone. worth it. text me when you know the next call time.
Then, a minute later: thank you for staying through the closer.
He looked at the empty marks on the field where the B-stage had been. Then he opened the other thread waiting on his phone. A production coordinator from the next thing. Dates. A lot. A call sheet that did not have a spinning runway on it.
He typed back to Taylor first.
I'll text you the dates. Sleep.
Mitch shouted something about a ratchet strap. Osiah put the phone in his pocket, walked over, and helped him finish taking the last night of 1989 off the grass.
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