50. Aqua Regia
Aqua Regia
When sleep finally takes him, I stay awake, listening to the small, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
His bedroom wraps us in the scent of warmth, skin, lavender and rain, of everything that can’t be named but lingers anyway.
The piano stands silent in the other room, a witness to what we gave tonight.
His arm lies weighted around my waist, hand pressed against my back, holding me in a way that feels both protective and raw.
I trace the faint lines on his chest, the rise and fall beneath my palm, the heartbeat that feels almost fragile after everything it’s survived.
It’s strange, the kind of stillness that follows something like this, full of so much.
Like the world has changed shape to make room for what we’ve become.
He’s always looked untouchable on stage, all fire and distance, every motion designed to keep the world at bay.
But here, in this quiet, he looks fragile.
Beautifully, terribly human. I think that’s what touches me most, not the power or the surrender, but the honesty.
The way he gave all of himself and trusted me to hold it.
I brush a strand of hair from his forehead and whisper something that probably doesn’t reach him, but I say it anyway.
“You don’t even know what you mean to me. ”
His lips twitch faintly, like maybe he heard, or maybe he’s dreaming.
I don’t move. I don’t want to break the spell.
The world outside will find us again soon enough, the noise, the band, the distance, the stage lights, but for now there’s only this.
The weight of him beside me. The warmth that still hasn’t faded.
The knowing that something pure and boundless just began, and neither of us will ever be the same again.
After that night, we're never apart. Every evening folds into the next and sleep becomes the only time I resent being human. Some nights we actually sleep, limbs tangled, skin against skin, hearts syncing into the same rhythm. Other nights we don’t even try.
Half the time my body feels like it’s floating, aching, exhausted, blissed beyond reason.
Every muscle stretched and eased beneath his hands, every breath part of some language we’ve invented between kisses.
Now that we're not holding back anymore, every fantasy I’ve ever had stares me right in the eyes and smiles back.
I can’t believe he’s real. I can’t believe he’s mine.
Every morning is like being torn away, we pout like a pair of melodramatic teenagers, but it’s true, it feels unbearable.
The days are just placeholders between the hours we can touch again.
Our messages run from filthy promises to sleepy confessions about how we miss the sound of each other breathing.
Sometimes I wake to him snoring softly beside me, and it’s the most ordinary, perfect sound in the world.
It makes something inside me bloom, something so private and wonderful I can’t even name it.
He gives me a key one morning, casual as anything but to me it feels like being handed a whole world.
We try to be decent adults and go on actual dates, leaving the cocoon of blankets and music occasionally. At a museum, I stop in front of a sculpture of Persephone, her marble hands poised mid-escape, face half-turned toward the dark.
“She looks like she’s choosing,” I say. “Not running.”
“She was,” Rafe answers. “That’s the part everyone misses. She didn’t just eat the pomegranate, she bit into it. Willingly. Knowing what it meant.”
I glance at him, curious. “You think that’s romantic?”
He studies the statue, voice low. “I think it’s human. She saw him and recognized something that matched her hunger, her bite. There’s love in that. There has to be.”
For a long moment, the world goes silent.
Just us, the echo of footsteps, the statue between us like a mirror.
Later, we stop by a little shop and buy a thin chain for my pomegranate charm.
When he fastens it around my neck at his place, he grins like he forged it himself.
I kiss him, but the thought creeps in, time is running out.
The European tour looms closer. My face must give me away because his smile fades.
“Hey.” He catches my hand, his thumb tracing the edge of my wrist. “Hey, listen. We have right now, okay? When we’re on tour, I’m not going to disappear. I know you don’t have a reason to believe me yet, but give me a chance first, yeah?”
“I do believe you,” I say. “It’s just… after that. The album. Back to L.A.”
He shakes his head, a smile returning. “L.A.’s annoying, but it’s easy. You can come down for the weekend, or I can fly up to Seattle. It’s just the tour. That’s all we have to get through. ”
Then his tone changes, serious, grounded and fierce. He cups my face in both hands and looks at me like he’s trying to feed his thoughts directly into my mind.
“I’m not letting some fucking seven week tour get in the way of this. Not us, not you. Not ever. It's seven weeks, that's nothing. You went to school for fifteen years. We got this.”
And when he kisses me, it’s slow and deep enough to steal every bit of air from my lungs and every ounce of doubt from my heart.
A few weeks later, we end up in a record shop downtown, the kind that’s coated in dust and the musk of vinyl sleeves permeates the air, with handwritten labels in crooked penmanship and a bell that jingles every time someone comes in.
Rafe moves through the aisles like he’s in church.
His fingers brush along the spines as if each one holds the answer to the meaning of life.
“Okay,” he says, pulling out a sleeve with a faded black-and-white cover. “Pop quiz. Do you know this one?”
I tilt my head. “Looks like a band that smells like cigarettes and heartbreak. Eighties?”
He grins. “Nineties. Post-punk revival. They only released one album, broke up mid-tour.”
“Tragic. Sounds like your forte.”
“Hey, pain makes great art,” he says, flipping through again. “What about this?”
“That one I do know.” I take it from him, tapping the edge. “You made me listen to it the first time we talked on the phone. Said the bass line was the closest thing you’d heard to lust.”
He laughs, low and warm. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget? You made a five-minute speech about sonic sex.”
He mock bows. “Guilty.”
We make a game of it after that, him pulling records to “educate” me, me pretending I’m immune to his enthusiasm. I get a few right and pass his smug little tests, but he keeps trying to trip me up.
When it’s my turn, I dig out a classic Polish jazz record, the cover all warm hues and melancholy. “My turn. Cultural exchange.”
He eyes it. “You’re trying to convert me to Polish jazz?”
“Obviously. You need taste.”
He laughs again and tucks it under his arm. “Fine. One album each, a duel of education.”
By the time we make it to the counter, I can feel the shift. A couple of people start glancing over, murmuring. One whispers to another, eyes widening. Rafe feels it too, I can tell by the small exhale through his nose, the way his shoulders tighten beneath the hoodie.
The clerk looks up, does a double take even with Rafe’s half-sunglasses on. “Wait are you…?”
Rafe gives a polite nod. “Yeah.”
When the clerk shyly slides a vinyl across the counter, Rafe signs it without hesitation, his smile practiced but still kind. By the time we finish paying, a small group has gathered near the corner, phones raised, whispering.
Rafe adjusts instinctively, stepping in front of me, his hand gentle but firm as he turns me slightly so my face is hidden from their line of sight.
It’s small, subtle and protective. He’s the one who tries to cling to what’s left of his anonymity, though some of it went out the window after the punch heard around the internet.
But the reality of maybe losing mine had never really hit home, until now.
The rain finds us the second we step outside. It always does. We don’t even run anymore, just pull our jackets tighter and let it happen. He insists on carrying the bag, a bottle of red tucked inside with our trophies.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “My fault, should’ve known better. Record stores are probably the last place I get to hide. Love me or hate me, they still look.”
“Rafe,” I say, brushing it off, “it’s fine. Nothing major. It’s not like they know who I am, or that anything’s going on, we just bought music.” I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “You’re allowed to have a life, to forget sometimes. Remember the Waffle House? Nothing happened.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “No. I can’t risk you like that.
We got lucky with those kids and the napkin picture.
It could’ve been much worse.” His thumb rubs against my hand anxiously, tension brimming beneath the surface.
“This still could. We’ll just have to cross our fingers for the next week and hope nothing gets posted. ”
“I’ve been too casual since everything with Rithy, acting like I’m still as hidden as before.” His head turns back toward the glass door of the record store, checking behind for anyone following. “Time to face the facts. Next time, I’ll plan better.”
The way he says next time and the tone of his voice, measured, protective, threaded with guilt, makes me realize he’s not talking about PR. He’s talking about us. About keeping what we have safe, even if it means shielding me from the world he can’t always control.
Later, at his place, I sit cross-legged on his bed, wearing his shirt, the sleeves rolled past my hands.
My hair’s still damp, curling against my neck.
He’s stretched out beside me, half lit by the bedside lamp, looking at me like he’s trying to turn the scene into a song.
I study him right back, the small scar on his collarbone, the freckle near his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his throat.
“Do you ever get tired of being watched?” I ask.
He meets my gaze without hesitation. “Only when it’s not you.”
For a moment, there’s nothing else, just his voice, the whir of the turntable, the hint of rain and wine.
His scent clings to my skin. His rhythm lives under mine.
Sometimes I think I could stop time right here.
Suspend it in amber, in that fragile breath before everything changes.
Right now, it feels like we’ve caught a comet mid-flight, stardust still burning between our fingers and I don’t want to let go.
The clock is already counting him down. Tomorrow he flies to L.A.
for a week to rehearse and do a handful of things that, I’m sure, make sense in musician but only sound to me like more reasons for him to be far away.
Then Europe, two months of distance stretching like an ocean he hasn’t even crossed yet.
Tonight, he just wants me here, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
We’re in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, flour in the air, dough sticking to everything. The counter looks like snowfall. I’m showing him how to fold the edges right, pinching each pieróg like I’m sealing a secret inside.
“Don’t press too hard,” I tell him. “You’ll break it when it boils.”
“Story of my life,” he mutters, and I can’t help smiling. There’s flour on my cheek; he looks at me like he could live in this version of the world forever. He tries again, and the dough splits.
“Alright, Threnos,” I tease. “It’s not a drum kit. You’re not supposed to attack it.”
He laughs. “You underestimate my natural aggression toward carbohydrates.”
I shake my head and press my hand over his to guide the motion. The contact steals my breath. The smallest thing, our fingers aligning, hits harder than any kiss could. When the pierogi are lined up in uneven rows, he leans against the counter, watching me wipe my hands.
“You could still come out to L.A., after rehearsals I'd be all yours,” he says, casually.
I freeze mid-motion. “Rafe.”
“I mean it.” He shrugs, trying for lightness and missing. “We don’t have much time before Europe. Two months feels like forever right now. Come for the weekend, come for me.” The way he says it, I doubt he just means the visit.
I laugh it off, that nervous little exhale I give when my heart doesn’t know which way to go.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he says. “Flights. Hotel. You show up, I’ll do the rest. Pack light. You won't need much for what I have planned.” I raise an eyebrow and he holds eye contact, biting the corner of his lip, deviant thoughts forming behind those dark, beautiful eyes.
There’s a moment of silence. Something heated and dangerous passes between us.
“Okay,” I say, finally. His grin could break through light and sound.
“Perfect.” The world feels lighter suddenly, almost cruel in how easy happiness can feel when you know it’s borrowed time.
The pierogi boil, steam fogging the window above the sink. He starts talking about chemistry instead, like a mad scientist with something to prove. I watch him, amused and a little in awe at the way he can make anything sound fascinating.
“It’s like a science class,” he says, watching the dough rise and sink. “You mix the right elements, heat them just enough, and everything changes.”
“Since when are you a chemist?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Always liked how things react. The way elements form and connect.” He tosses a pinch of salt into the water, watching it vanish. “Sodium self-destructs, did you know that?”
I laugh and lean in closer, teasing. “Are you sure there isn’t some hidden degree in chemistry or Greek mythology hanging around?”
He scoffs. “I wish. That might have actually made my parents proud.” His brow lifts, sarcasm attempting to hide the honesty. “No, just a man with too much time on tour and a mind that won’t shut the fuck up.”
I laugh again, and his eyes drift to my necklace, red and gold, the small pomegranate charm. I twist it between my fingertips, watching him.
“Aqua regia,” he says, softer now, “did you know it’s the most effective way to dissolve gold?”
“I thought this was supposed to be a romantic dinner, not a science lecture,” I tease.
“It is,” he says. “Something the stars themselves conspired to keep buried… undone by the right mixture. That’s what you are to me.”
The words hang there, hot and fragile. I don’t answer, just breathe in, slowly. It feels like a confession, something I want to reach for but don’t dare, not yet. So I let the silence stand, pretending the hiss of the pot is all we can hear.