12. Make It Brutal
Make It Brutal
Rafe
“Rafe,” Ronan says from his bunk, pillow propped under his neck. “You’re blinking like a dying lighthouse over there.”
“I’m fine,” I shoot back.
Rithy snorts from the couch, feet up, scrolling. “You seem distinctly not fine.”
“I said I’m just tired,” I mutter, which earns me a look that says none of them believe that for a second.
By the time we’re at the hotel, the ache behind my eyes hasn’t eased.
If anything, it’s worse. I shut myself in my room, lights off, sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone longer than I ever would with anyone else.
I don’t want to cross a line. I also don’t want to pretend this isn’t happening and my eyes won’t stop stinging. So, I keep it clinical, safe.
getting close to the show tonight. eyes are pretty sensitive. might make it brutal. is this normal?
I send it before I can overthink it. Her reply doesn’t come instantly.
I try to tell myself it shouldn’t. She’s a doctor, not a fan waiting by her phone for me.
When it does arrive, it’s exactly what it should be.
She explains the dilation, the timeline, the light sensitivity.
Mentions the show like it’s just another variable.
If she’s intimidated or impressed, she doesn’t show it.
I smile despite the throb behind my eyes.
I answer lightly, try to keep it distant, mention the show.
Make a joke about TikTok. Test the water just enough to see if she’ll acknowledge the world I live in.
Her response tightens the boundary. While I’m in her care, she can’t talk about anything personal.
Suggests sunglasses would help. Right, of course. Sunglasses.
I knock once on Ronan’s door, and it flies open.
He’s half-dressed, towel still around his neck, hair damp and wild, pacing like a madman who’s already been counting time in his head for the last hour.
One hand keeps tapping an invisible pattern against his thigh, that drummer brain refusing to shut up.
“We’re cutting the bridge,” he nearly shouts into his phone, giving our musical director, Jacob, a hard time. “I don’t care if it’s emotional, it drags. Four bars too long.”
He turns, paces again, the complaint rolling out of him in that relentless cadence he gets when he’s deep in it, like a funeral drum beating slow. He sounds exactly like his stage name in moments like this, Threnos incarnate, lamenting down the line as if the song itself personally wronged him.
“Ronan,” I interrupt.
He turns, takes one look at my face, and squints. “Jesus. You look high as fuck.”
“My eyes are killing me, you got any sunglasses?”
He brightens immediately. “Oh. Hold on.”
He rummages through a drawer and triumphantly produces a pair of neon green shutter shades.
“Really?”
“They’re aerodynamic and glow in the dark.”
“They won’t stop stage lighting.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself, lighthouse,” and goes right back to arguing about tempo.
I back out and knock on Kiri’s door next. He opens it already dressed, bass leaned carefully against the wall like its sleeping, strap folded just so at its feet. Everything in the room feels placed, calm.
“I need sunglasses,” I say.
He looks me up and down, assessing the situation the way he listens before he plays. “For the look?” he asks. Then, a pause. “Or for medical reasons?”
“Both. Trying not to look like a total twat if possible.”
He's already turning, rummaging through his backpack with the same patience he brings to a bassline. He pulls out a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses from an old meet-and-greet. A gift, she’d said at the time, pressing them into his hands along with a teddy bear.
Said Kiri was the living embodiment of the stuffed toy, big, solid, eyes full of warmth.
That to her he was really Bomos, The Altar you come back to when the world gets heavy, the place to lay your burdens on.
He’d gone still at that, genuinely touched.
He must have been. He kept the sunglasses and still carries them.
“Iconic,” he says solemnly. “The fans would lose their minds. A real throw back.”
“Hard no.”
He sighs like I’ve disappointed him deeply. “You never commit to the bit.”
By the time I reach Rithy’s door, I’m already regretting everything.
He lets me in quickly before dropping back to the floor, cross-legged amid scattered fragments of lyrics and half-mapped melodies.
His guitar is abandoned nearby, where it was clearly thrown down mid-thought, cable like a trail of blood.
He moves through the mess with monk-like focus, lips shaping soundless words, tasting each line before deciding if it's worthy of survival. This is Haima at rest, which means everything keeps flowing. The blood never stops moving.
“Tell me you have real sunglasses,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me. “As the resident fashion-forward icon that I am, of course I do.”
“Thank fuck.”
“No,” he says mildly. “Not fuck. Thank me.” He finally glances up, eyes full of that restless heat that made his stage name so obvious. “But first, what do we say when asking for a favor?”
“Please.”
“There,” he says, satisfied. “Manners cost nothing. A dying art.”
I gesture vaguely at my face. “Running short on those, pain does that.”
He nods once, satisfied and reaches into his suitcase. What he pulls out is perfect, wraparound sunglasses with a deep crimson frame. They are absurdly stylish, a little intense and clearly expensive, just like him.
“Stand still.”
He steps in close and slips the glasses on himself first, just to check the fit, testing it before I might stretch them out, just to be annoyingly pedantic like the perfectionist he is.
Then he lifts them off and puts them on me with gentle care, fingers brushing my temples, adjusting the arms behind my ears.
His touch is light, precise. Intimate in a way that feels accidental if I don’t think about it too hard.
Then he reaches up, palms warm as he cups my face, thumbs settling just under my cheekbones.
It’s something we’ve done a hundred times in other contexts, fixing eyeliner, wiping sweat, grounding each other before a performance.
But this time, he tilts my chin down, just slightly, enough to make me look.
His eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, mouth curving.
“There,” he says softly. “Just as hot as usual, even with your eyes covered, Obelus. They’ll eat you up.”
With his eyes on me, my heartbeat syncs to the wild, living rhythm he carries into every room.
I’m suddenly aware of how close we are, how his hands haven’t dropped, how the dark lenses frame his mouth in shadow.
He leans in, barely an inch. Enough that I feel it.
Then he spins around at the last second, all motion and deflection, heading back to his pile of inspiration.
He tosses a wide grin over his shoulder.
“You’ll break even more hearts tonight. The power of polarization.”
“Polarization? I call it fucking relief. You saved my life.”
“As usual,” he says, already back to his papers. Then, casually, “Try not to fall into your typical obsession spiral with your new play thing while wearing them, I don’t want that tainting their vibe forever. It’s rolling off you.”
“I’m not spiraling.” I might be spiraling.
“Mhm.” He pauses his assessment of the bits of thought scattered like runes before him and glances up. “Well? I’m waiting.”
“Thank you.” I give him a mock bow, and he repays me with a nod of his head before returning his focus to his mountain of lyrical confetti.
Back in my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror, dark lenses cutting the light just enough. The relief helps me breathe. So does the thought of her. Her eyes won’t stop ticking over in my mind. Then I do something reckless. I snap a photo for her.
Sunglasses on, the rest of my face bare.
The kind of image fans would dissect to death, would hope to get.
I tell myself it’s for context, to check it’s the right sort of sunglasses but I know better.
I’m offering something to her, risking something.
The seconds after stretch thin. I imagine her phone lighting up, her recognizing me and wondering if this was a mistake.
As time passes, I start to imagine her not replying.
When she does, it’s measured and firm. Emergency line only, general advice in-office.
There it is, the line drawn. I won't push again, at least not today. I thank her, say the glasses work and let the conversation end where it should. When I set my phone down, my chest feels tight. She didn’t reject me, she just held me at a distance.
Which somehow lands harder. I lie back on the hotel bed; ceiling blurred behind the dark lenses.
Somewhere down the hall, the boys are arguing over who stole whose charger.
I think about her hands, steady against me.
Her voice, unflinching. The way she looked at me like I was just another problem to solve.
It shouldn’t matter; it was just a doctor’s appointment.
I know I’m being fucking ridiculous, but I can’t stop it.
She didn’t give me anything at all, a feeling I’m not used to and somehow that only makes me want her attention more.