45. Alright, Hades
Alright, Hades
Rafe
By morning the text bubbles still sit unanswered.
It's fair. She doesn’t owe me anything, but it doesn’t stop me from checking the screen every ten minutes like an idiot holding a heartbeat in his hand.
Studio time again today, but this time I’m not late.
We’re polishing the fan collaboration, just the band, no guests, no fans to smile for, no pretending I’m fine.
Thankfully. I need the work, the noise, the distraction.
When I get there, Ronan’s already behind the kit, tapping out something loose and lazy. “Look who survived the night,” he says, twirling a stick. “You talk to her?”
“Kind of,” I say, dropping my bag by the wall. “If talk counts as texting the void.”
He grins, sympathetic, his tone warm enough that it doesn’t sting. “Progress. At least the void gets good material.”
Kiri slings his bass over his shoulder, smirking like he’s been waiting for a reason to stir things up. “Speaking of good material, you know the leader of that Altarettes group? Stef?”
I groan. “The Altarettes? Jesus Christ. That’s the actual name?”
“Don’t knock it,” he says, laughing. “They’ve got followers.
My point was, Stef. Dude. She was into you, hard.
Practically in your lap a couple times and you were on another planet, didn’t even blink.
” He claps my shoulder, half joking, half serious.
“I added all of them on IG. Could get her number if you want it?”
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
“Come on,” he pushes, relentless. “Bet she’s a demon in bed.
Couple hours with her and you won’t even remember the doctor.
You’ll be downing electrolytes, just trying to survive what she’d do to you.
Perfect rebound fuck. A thing of beauty.
” He laughs, pleased with himself, waving his hands like a sculptor shaping the scene in his mind.
Before I can answer, Rithy cuts in from the corner, tuning his guitar with that measured calm that always hides a blade. “He doesn’t need a rebound fuck, he needs a reality check.”
Kiri elbows him. “You’re supposed to be helping me, little brother, not killing the mood.”
Rithy tilts his head, still focused on the strings.
“I guess Lady Altarette would at least understand his language. Chords, progressions, sound. Not eyes and blood pressures.” He yawns, feigning boredom like Kasia and everything about her life is dull, which earns him a bark of laughter from Kiri until Ronan finally rolls his eyes and snaps the snare in irritation.
“Let the man breathe, you two, shit.”
“I’m not looking,” I mutter, pulling out my phone. “I’m busy enough.”
They keep ribbing each other, but the noise fades to static once I thumb open our last thread. The screen glows, her name still pinned at the top, and something in my chest tightens even before I start typing.
studio day. everyone’s loud. still thinking about last night.
how far it felt from the cabin.
24 hours apart.
your lips. that endless kiss.
The others blur around me, their laughter, the scrape of strings, the crack of sticks, all of it merging into color that fills the air. For a second I let it anchor me. When I hit send, I set the phone face down on the amp.
“It's time. Let’s get this started.” Rithy looks up long enough to give me a small smile of approval, like something old in me just came back online. Maybe even in her absence, or because of it, she’s bringing something out in me I misplaced awhile ago. Passion.
I lose myself in it. The room becomes its own animal, cables vibrating on the floor, feedback curling around the mic stands.
We wrap the collaboration with that self-satisfied look we always get when something finishes smoothly.
Then I tell them I want to try something else, if they’ve got a minute.
Everyone’s buzzing, so of course they agree. I start to play.
Twenty-four hours, and I’m still where we laid,
Tracing your outline with a razor blade.
You were spring’s sunlight, I was Hades’ shade.
You were mercy in full bloom, I was simply afraid.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her mouth form the word no, and I push harder into the keys, shaping the melody into something that almost sounds like an apology.
When I sing, the room bends. The band goes still in that way that means they’re listening, that they’ve felt it too.
It isn’t rage, isn’t heartbreak, just honesty, finally, after too long playing it safe.
They fall in behind me, finding rhythm around the bones of my melody.
Then we do it again, tighter, truer. By the third take, the air feels heavier.
Rithy keeps glancing over, the edge in his eyes softening to something like respect.
Ronan nods, steady and wordless. Kiri mutters, “That’s our Obelus,” under his breath like he didn’t mean to let it slip.
When we stop, the silence is complete. No tuning, no chatter, just the echo of the last note hanging in the room. My hands are shaking. I look down at them, still resting on the keys, and realize how long it’s been since I played like this, without crowd, camera, or expectation. Just played.
“That,” Ronan says finally, breaking the silence. “That’s something.”
Kiri lets out a low whistle. “Guess we found your therapy track for the next album.”
Rithy doesn’t speak, only smirks and adjusts his mic. I reach for my phone without meaning to, thumb hovering over her name. I want to send the file right away, to let her hear what she’s done to the sound of me. But I stop. Let it sit, let the song breathe. Instead I type:
finally found my muse. even if she's in hiding.
hope your day is all spring.
Then I hit send, slide the phone face down again, and rest my hands on the piano. The red light blinks on for another take. This time, when I start to play, it doesn’t feel like effort. It feels like purpose.
The next day drags, painfully. No studio, no bickering with the guys, just the slow drip of hours that don’t have anywhere to go.
The city moves outside my window, but in here everything runs on half speed.
I keep busy in small, stupid ways. Make coffee.
Burn toast. Tidy things that don’t need tidying.
Anything to pretend the silence isn’t watching me back.
So this is what it’s like on the other side, the waiting, the not-knowing. It’s a new kind of noise, one that gets under your skin instead of filling your ears. I’ve handed this feeling out like candy for years, vanishing between rehearsals, assuming everyone else would just understand.
Emily did. The old wound aches when I think about it, about what I did to her.
She waited until she couldn’t anymore. Now I’m the one pacing rooms, checking the clock, hoping for something that doesn’t come.
At least now I know. At least now it hurts the right person.
Afternoon fades. I send a few messages, mundane, harmless things.
lunch attempt: catastrophic.
chef recommends fire insurance.
Still nothing. By nightfall I’m sitting at the piano again, fingers tracing soundless chords.
The apartment feels too big, annoyingly clean.
I’d give anything to make a mess of it with her, to upend the neatness with hunger, to feel her weight against me, her breath on my neck, her laugh caught somewhere between a sigh and a dare.
I imagine the scatter of clothes, the bruise of a kiss, the wild sound of misfired piano keys when we’d lose control and the world would finally make sense again.
The thought makes my body stir, blood rushing, hardening.
I drop the cover over the keys trying to disrupt the thoughts, the sound echoing through the quiet.
My mind feels like an enemy in her absence.
I type one last message, thumb hovering before I send it.
goodnight, Persephone.
still here in the underworld
waiting for your next visit.
I don’t expect a reply anymore. That’s not why I send it. The act itself feels like her, the brush of warmth, the ghost of her voice. It’s a ritual now, an offering. My way of placing flowers at her feet, even from here.
The phone lights up.
Goodnight, Hades. I’ll have to avoid your pomegranate better next time.
I laugh, broken, disbelieving, almost ragged on the inhale.
Because just like that, the world turns back on.
The silence isn’t gone, but it glows instead of crushing.
As I stare at that small line of text, something shifts inside me.
I finally understand what it costs to be careless with time, how precious it feels when it’s given back.
I’ll never take it for granted again.
Morning comes easier, a smile so broad on my face it hurts.
One text and I’m alive again, my heart hammering like I’ve won an award, climbed a mountain, finished the Tour de France.
I wake before the alarm, the apartment is dim, but now the stillness doesn’t hurt.
I make coffee, open the window. Seattle’s washed clean from the night before, a thin layer of sun spilling over the buildings.
I snap a photo, light breaking through cloud, the city barely awake and send it to her with a simple line:
for when you’re between patients.
proof the world’s still turning.
By noon I can’t take it anymore. Her little crack let the light in and now I’m desperate for more. I glance at my watch, her lunch break. I tell myself I’ll wait, give her space, but my fingers are already on her number before I finish the lie. It rings twice.
“Rafe?”
Her voice is professional, clipped for office hours, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I run a hand through my hair, pacing, heat rising in me at the sound of her breath against the phone, soft and near, like it’s against my skin.
“Hey,” I say, softer than I mean to. “You free for a minute, or am I interrupting heroics?”
A small sigh, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Five minutes. Maybe six if you’re incredibly charming.”
“I’ll try not to abuse my power.” I rub the back of my neck, still pacing. “Listen… it’s not Wednesday anymore.”
“No. It’s Thursday. That’s how time works.” Her tone isn’t cruel; it’s tired, and the thought that maybe she’s slept as poorly as I have all week gives me courage.
“So, by that theory of time, we can plan something now that Wednesday’s over, right?” I pause, swallow. “I still have something to show you. That picture I told you about in Miami,” I say. “Proof of my obscene poet era. Thought maybe you could come by tonight. I’ll make dinner.”
She laughs. “Will it be better than your attempt at breakfast?”
“That was purely a lack-of-ingredients issue, not a skill assessment.” I grin. “Maybe mandu, though I can’t promise it’s as good as my mum’s.” I try for lightness, but my throat’s dry. “Or whatever you want. It won’t be great, but it’ll be made with—”
The word catches before it can escape, love. It hangs there between us, unsaid but heard.
“—made by me,” I finish. “I’m not the worst cook ever. Honestly. I’d surprise you, better than you’d expect from someone who lives half his life in studios and hotels. I’ve been teaching myself basic human skills.”
The contemplation that follows is long enough for me to hear my heartbeat in it. Then she exhales, and I swear I feel it through the phone.
“Alright, Hades,” she says at last. “I’ll bring the wine.”
I smile, then laugh with relief, can’t help it. “Then I’ll see you tonight. Seven work for you?”
When the call ends, I stand there for a long time, staring at nothing, the phone still in my hand.
It isn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it’s a door cracked open, a light in the underworld.
I take a breath, look out at the washed-blue sky, and think about how last night ended, how her message lit up the dark, how her light makes me realize I want to be the kind of man who never makes her wonder again.