20-Kit
It reeks of acrylic, setting spray, and body odour.
The mirror bulbs shine an unforgiving glare over everything.
Seth’s on my left, Silver on my right; all of us being armoured with paint as we wait for opening night to swallow us.
They’re chatting about how lovely the crew is, how buzzing they are to be part of something this massive.
Their voices bounce around the room, bright and airy, tumbling in my stomach.
Not because they’re wrong; the crew’s brilliant. But I’m the only bloke who seems to understand what comes with letting people in on this scale. The anonymity we’ve clung to for years has limits. There’s only so much scrubbing we can do before the internet has a proper nosey and digs up everything.
I learned that the hard way. Some people act like Judas is a deity they can summon if they simply believe hard enough, and social media has only made the parasocial rot worse.
Give them one scrap of humanity or behind-the-scenes moment, and they’ll warp it into a frame-by-frame analysis of my emotional well-being based off of my posture and how shallow my breaths were or some other codswallop.
I’m not avoiding Zachary because I’m angry at her. I’m not angry at anything specific, really. If it hadn’t been her, it would’ve been someone else invading this tour. And honestly? I’m glad it’s her. She actually cares about the music, not the clout-chasing rubbish.
But I’m taking it out on her anyway.
Because the person behind that camera looks too much like the thing that’s occupied my sleep for years.
Same eyes; rich as earth, like embers that never quite go out.
After Somnium dropped the truth on me like a bloody anvil, I can’t pretend I don’t recognise her.
It’s like I’ve known her throughout lifetimes.
As though I’ve slithered through hell to see her again.
Last night, I spent hours searching for her online, and like me, there’s barely anything. Just her work page, started eight years ago, now sitting at nearly a million followers.
One viral edit of hers and fans went feral for me. Suddenly, here she and I are, connected by something like fate. The thought swirls sour in my mouth, too heavy to swallow. Some realities never stay buried, no matter how deep you shove them.
I haven’t slept well, and not because of the tour or nerves. I’m utterly terrified of seeing the god again.
Or worse, her. If I face her, I’ll see everything I’ve been running from.
“Oi, earth tae ya, Kit.”
Seth snaps his fingers in front of my face. Alyssa crouches before me, brush in hand, focused as she paints the last details across my abs. Her hands move with that relentlessly practised confidence she’s known for.
“Huh?” I mutter.
“I said,” Seth draws out the last word, rolling his dark eyes at me, “Zach’s sound. Reckon ya’d actually like her if ya talked to her.”
“She’s a distraction. We don’t need this kind of exposure.
” I scoff, wanting nothing more than to scratch my nose, but my fingers have just been painted.
“For bloody sake, we sold out a North American tour with nothing but our music and one interview. We don’t need to be answering shallow soundbite questions for click-bait.
This goes against every reason I started this. ”
The last time the world saw my face, they tore my life apart.
“Well said, Jude,” Greg calls from across the room as he shuts the door, “because of that one interview, interest in Asia went up eighteen percent.”
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice him in half. If Alyssa weren’t painting me, I’d throttle the pillock.
“You said it yerself, Kit,” Seth says, “we’ve got maybe one or two more albums in us. Three tours in the States tops.”
“It may be hard to believe,” Silver adds, their grey irises meeting my glare in the mirror, “but some of us want to eventually settle down now that we’re set.”
“Isn’t that why you started this?” Seth asks, lifting his mask to look me in the eye. “Isn’t that what we’ve been workin’ for our whole lives?”
I swallow. Silver, Louanne, and Seth grew up with nothing; real poverty and hunger from birth. My suffering came later, in different shapes. I grew up cushioned, where life is sorted before you’ve earned it.
Then my dad’s schemes blew up; dodgy deals, stupid risks, lies stacked so high they topple overnight, and suddenly we’re skint.
He was tried and convicted. Left Mum with nothing.
One minute I’m with kids who get cars for their birthdays, the next I’m shoved into a place where no one gives a toss who your parents are as long as you don’t nick their lunch.
It should’ve ruined me. Maybe it did, for a bit.
But that’s where I met Silver and Louanne; two twin menaces who’d already learned how to survive without anything cushioned to land on.
They never cared about the scandal, or the name I used to have.
Losing everything felt like the end, but looking back, it’s the only reason I found the people who make any of this worth the grief.
“Fine,” I mutter, gooseflesh pebbling my naked torso as the bristles stroke my bellybutton. “Since the label’s got our balls in a vice and there’s nothing we can do.”
“Aye, that’s the spirit,” Seth says. “Start by introducin’ yerself properly. We got plenty of time before fans start shuffling in here.”
“I heard there’s a line four blocks long,” Silver says, nerves flickering across their face.
“Welcome to the big leagues,” Greg says, patting them both before heading out. “Jude,” he adds, tossing me a cheeky jeer, “good to see you coming around.”
“Me too,” Alyssa whispers, fastening my cloak. “I’ve a good feelin’ bout this one.”
“Oh yeah?” I arch a brow. “Why is that?”
Alyssa smiles, stretching the beauty mark above her lip, hands steady as stone. After what happened last tour, I wasn’t sure if Lou would let her return. Hell, I wasn’t sure if Lou would return.
“If anyone’s gettin’ a platform this big,” she says, pulling the mask over my head, “I’m glad it’s someone with somethin’ real to say. You lads’ve been through a lot. No one’d’ve blamed ye for walkin’ away. Especially after—" She stops herself as I tense.
We don’t talk about what happened at the end of the last tour, when I broke my longest sobriety streak to date.
“Anyway,” she continues, plopping a paint-soaked sponge across my jaw, “your fans say your music saved them. Healed them. Helped them do shadow work they never thought to do. It wasn’t for nothin’. You’re changin’ lives. Savin’ lives. And your story could save even more.”
The praise sits heavy, settling in places I don’t want touched.
She squeezes my shoulder and turns back to the table, her hazel gaze catching mine as she smirks into the mirror. I try to return the gesture, but it barely holds. I step out of the dressing room and into backstage chaos. My cloak drags behind me as I wind through cables and shouting crew.
This is moving too fast, and I’m completely exposed to the oncoming impact.