54. Absinthe & Want
Absinthe & Want
Rafe
The next night we meet R?vind for dinner after load-in, it’s tradition to take the openers out the night before the first show, a little goodwill before the chaos starts. Half the tables are covered in open menus and unopened bottles of wine.
Rithy’s halfway through charming the waiter in three languages when Ronan elbows him aside to pull out a chair for Freja, R?vind’s drummer, and the reason he’s been looking like he hasn’t slept properly in days.
She’s all blonde curls and smudged eyeliner, leather jacket hanging off one shoulder.
When she laughs at something he says, he looks like someone just handed him oxygen.
Across the table, I hide a grin behind my glass. It’s the first time I’ve seen Ronan nervous since our first tour. He’s usually the loudest in any room, but tonight he’s tripping over his own words, trying too hard to look casual.
Freja’s bandmates are just as magnetic. There’s Signe, the guitarist, shaved side, silver rings, the kind of swagger that makes you want to watch her walk away.
She keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
I catch her once, give a polite smile, but nothing more.
I’m not feeding any stories tonight. Not when the air finally feels light again.
Ingrid, the lead singer, has that stage-born confidence, dark hair, silk scarf, voice that sounds like it’s been steeped in whiskey and poetry.
Every word she says lands like she’s aware of how it sounds.
Liv, their bassist, is the opposite, soft-spoken, calm, the gravitational pull that keeps the others grounded.
There’s even a keyboard player, Mina, barely twenty, eyes wide and bright, like the world still feels new to her.
Kiri’s swirling his drink, eyes flicking to his phone every few minutes. He’s got that faraway look he gets when someone new’s found their way under his skin. I raise a brow at him, but he just shrugs and grins like he’s been caught. The conversation drifts toward setlists and soundchecks.
R?vind’s running their opener straight into “Glaskyrkan” which is their hardest track.
I love that, I’ve always believed openers should come out swinging.
Freja sings a few bars of their second track, Ronan joins in with his fingers drumming against the table, and within minutes, half the restaurant’s turned into our rehearsal space.
By the time dessert shows up, the whole place is vibrating with laughter. Someone, probably Rithy, orders shots, and someone else starts ranking who’s most likely to forget their lyrics first. I shake my head, letting the noise wash over me. It’s chaotic but perfect.
When we finally spill out into the street, Rithy claps me on the shoulder. “Shame it’s all girls,” he says, grinning. “Could’ve used a tour-long distraction.”
I laugh, a real one, from somewhere deep. “I think you’re already enough of one.”
“Touché.” He smirks, mock-wounded, and jogs to catch up with Kiri, cigarette already between his fingers.
I linger a moment outside the restaurant, hands in my pockets, watching the others fade into the neon glow. Ronan’s still hovering near Freja, trying to impress her. Kiri’s typing something that makes him smile. Even Rithy, for all his chaos, looks lighter.
Tonight feels like maybe, the current’s running in the right direction. The laughter carries down the street, bright and messy. Tomorrow will be loud, hectic, and dare I say, maybe even good. Kasia’s voice drifts through my mind. He looked... happy.
It’s past ten when I check my watch, but in this city something’s always open.
Up ahead, a Sp?ti glows like a lighthouse for insomniacs and bad ideas.
The fluorescent buzz greets me when I step inside.
Bottles line the shelves, green and gold under the harsh light.
I grab a bottle of absinthe, giving in to old superstition tugging at the back of my mind.
The Obscene Poet. Our first European gig.
The way Rithy had been then, wild and alive.
Maybe this is how I fix it. Ease it. Make the rest of the tour less complicated.
A makeshift olive branch of alcohol and memories.
Back at the hotel, the others scatter. Ronan to call Freja, Kiri to brood or text whoever has him hooked.
I change into sweats and a hoodie, grab the bottle, and step back into the hall.
I hesitate, staring at the green glass, then turn toward Rithy’s room and knock. There’s a pause before the door opens.
He blinks at me, shirtless, looking like he’d been expecting anyone else. I swallow, suddenly more nervous than I anticipated. “Well, this is a surprise.”
“No entourage?” I glance past him, mock-theatrical. “What happened to your devotees in every city?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not every night’s a party.”
I lift the bottle. “In memory of The Obscene Poet. Thought we’d pay our respects.”
That earns a grin. “Fantastic, I have the eyeliner ready. Shame about your wrinkles, but I’ll make it work.”
We sit on the floor, backs against the bed, glasses clinking in the dim light. The absinthe burns warm and nostalgic. Conversation drifts from the setlist, to old tours, then songs we never finished, to places we swore we’d see again, together.
I study him for a moment, the light catching the edge of his jaw. “About time you found someone to commiserate with, don’t you think?”
Rithy snorts. “You know me. It’s about the music, this life. Not a person.”
But I see it, the thing we always pretend isn’t there before he looks away. We pour another round. The warmth turns to blur. I pull out my phone and type a message to Kasia. still awake?
Rithy eyes the screen, tilts his chin toward it dismissively. “Why are you still bothering with her? Trying to sample the whole menu before you die, is that it?”
He plays at teasing but the slurred words are meant to cut. His eyes search my face, I can feel the burn of it along everywhere they pass. The heat behind it.
I look up, a tired smile tugging at my mouth, the alcohol loosening my tongue. “I love her, Rith,” I say, without thinking.
For a heartbeat Rithy looks like he’s been slapped. The expression reflecting in his eyes, hurt, disbelief, something darker. Then he laughs, brittle, the kind that hides more than it admits.
“You? Love? Well, best of luck to her. She’s gonna need it.” He toasts the air in mock congratulations before downing another shot.
I frown. “Seriously? I know I’m not perfect, but I’m not that bad.”
“Not that bad? You always fuck it up. With everyone.” He knocks the shot back like punctuation. “Even the ones you don’t love back. Especially those.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, barely a whisper. “I can’t control what people feel.”
He leans in, eyes glinting. “Maybe stop kissing them on stage for the fucking cheers, then.” We're close now, too close. All the unsaid things stretch thin between us, threatening to unravel. I can feel it coming, the tension that’s been waiting years to surface.
We’re both breathing hard. My heart stutters in my chest.
“It’s through the veil,” I manage. “Spur of the moment. Adrenaline.” I attempt a dismissive wave of my wrist, spilling a little absinthe left in my shot glass.
He holds my stare, voice soft, almost a whisper. “Don’t pretend the veil or the adrenaline ever mattered, Rafe.” His eyes flick once to my mouth, then he looks away and grabs another shot. “You don’t kiss Kiri or Ronan. Funny that. I wonder why.”
I swallow, glance down, stare at my palms, rotate the ring on my finger to keep from shaking. Maybe he’s right and the veil never mattered. Maybe that was just the story I told myself to make it smaller, contained. To keep testing something until one of us broke, except neither of us ever did.
I stand, the air between us snapping as I move. “You’re right,” I say, clearing my throat. “I shouldn’t have started it. I was young, reckless, no idea what I felt or wanted. But that doesn’t excuse it. It’s on me.”
“Ah, there he is. The martyr. The tortured artist, right on time.” Rithy tips another glass, swallowing it like a dare. “No shit, it’s on you.”
“I’m gonna head out.”
“Go ahead,” he mutters. “Do what you always do. Run.”
The words twist in my gut, wound. The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at nothing, the bottle burning in my hand.
I place it outside his door, like a makeshift offering or penance, guilt taking hold.
I’d wanted to make things better, to start the tour with a clean slate or at least a better understanding between us.
Somehow, I only made it worse. Maybe he’s right.
Maybe that's all I know how to do. Some people leave the heat of their fingerprints, I just leave bruises.
When I finally walk away, the hallway feels colder. My hand sinks into my pocket, the phone pressing against my palm. At least she’s still there, on the other end, the only thing that makes sense.