55. Watch Your Tempo
Watch Your Tempo
Rafe
The next evening crackles with that pre-show electricity, the kind that feels alive in the walls.
Berlin has always been good to us. The venue is part industrial, part cathedral, and the second I walk in, the noise hits, guitars being tuned, crew shouting levels across the stage, R?vind’s laughter echoing off the concrete.
It helps, the sound, the movement, the purpose of it all.
It burns off the nerves left from last night with Rithy, the conversation I’ve been trying not to replay.
Ronan is already there, of course, at his kit, and by at his kit, I mean at Freja’s.
He’s crouched beside her, tightening something on the snare that’s been tightened three times already.
She’s pretending not to notice how close he’s sitting.
I don’t even try to hide the smirk; I just raise an eyebrow when he glances over. He shrugs like what, I’m being helpful.
The crew moves like a small army, black-clad, cables in hand.
One of them, a girl with a low ponytail and a ball cap pulled down so far I can barely see her eyes, passes me a coil of cables.
She mutters a quick cheers and ducks away to adjust a monitor.
When she spins too fast, she runs straight into me.
“Whoa.” I steady her by the elbow before she drops the cables.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she says, accent lilting. Scandinavian, tighter vowels, clipped edges. “I didn’t see you.”
“It’s all good, no worries.”
She straightens, cheeks flushed. “Hi, I’m Mara.”
Now I catch it, the faint Danish roll to her r’s. “Denmark?” I ask, and when she nods, I smile. “Hi, I’m Rafe.”
She laughs, tugging her cap lower. “Yeah, I know.”
It stalls there for too long. I pluck a few notes from the guitar slung over my shoulder, filling the air between us. “You working the piano setup tonight?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’m new to the team. Olivier had a family thing come up. Just making sure your monitor feed’s clean. You’re good. If something feels off, let me know.”
We exchange quick professional smiles and step back into the rhythm of the room. Still, something about her feels bright and a little volatile, the kind of person who could become trouble without meaning to. I file the name away and decide distance will be safest.
Rithy staggers in halfway through soundcheck, sunglasses dangling from the end of his nose, hood up, looking like a ghost with a hangover.
Kiri’s beside him, hand on his shoulder, steering him like a handler guiding a racehorse.
For a second, Rithy’s eyes catch mine, and everything from last night flickers there, the words, the tension, the bruise of it but we both look away almost in the same breath. He slides the glasses up.
The exchange hangs in the air just long enough for Kiri to clock it. Ronan glances up too, reading the silence the way only bandmates can. They both dismiss it with the practiced ease of people used to walking around old landmines.
“Well, look who decided to join us,” I call, the grin colder than it should be.
Rithy raises two fingers in mock salute. “Wouldn’t miss it, boss.”
Soundcheck rolls smooth after that. The acoustics in this hall are perfect, the kind that make even mistakes sound intentional.
When we finish, the crew wheels out the new veils, our stage masks for this part of the tour.
Each continent gets its own, a tradition, one fans cross borders just to see what new design will appear first.
Rithy touches his with almost a reverent glide, outlining the design. “You’ve outdone yourselves. Europe looks magnificent.”
He holds his up, painted with a blood-red grin so realistic I double-take. “Christ, that’s nightmare fuel.”
He grins beneath it. “Perfect, then.”
My veil is rich, almost decadent, velvet baroque etched in blood red, dense enough to feel like armour. Ronan’s is patterned with Gaelic knots in blue and white, fierce and proud. Kiri’s is plain black, minimal, more like something a thief would wear than a performer.
Kiri is already tugging his on and testing the breathing holes. “This one’s great. Airflow’s better than last year.”
I laugh. “Only you would get excited about air circulation.”
He shrugs. “Some of us like surviving the set.”
The mood is easy again, the tension from last night fading into the buzz of work. I glance around the stage, the lights, the crew, the band finally in sync again, and it's a little like home.
The crowd hits like thunder, the lights drop, bass carrying us.
We step straight into our ritual of sound.
The second my boots hit the stage, I feel it, the pulse, the electricity, Berlin bleeding through the floor.
It’s in my chest before the first chord even lands, metallic and hot, a living thing.
Ronan’s already grinning like a sinner at confession, twirling his sticks.
Kiri’s got that monk focus, head bowed over the bass.
Rithy, hungover and hollow-eyed, still moves like sin made human, swaggering like the devil on his night off.
We open with Hymn for the Hollow. The noise is instant.
By Cathedral Static, the whole place is shaking, hands in the air, voices cracked, that collective ache that makes live music feel like a grasp at the transcendent.
That song always hits different. It’s one of ours from the early days, when the four of us were just broke kids writing about pain like it meant something.
Rithy usually floats through it, lost, pacing, but tonight he’s moving closer. I catch it between chords, keep playing. The verse slides into the instrumental break, the part where our guitars braid together. The crowd starts clapping in time.
Then he moves. First, his veil. He pulls it down slowly, just enough to expose his mouth.
Then that teasing wink, a reveal on his terms, not the shaky-camera-in-a-hotel-lobby kind, and he’s loving it.
The audience screams, cameras flash, and my pulse spikes.
I lean into the mic like it’s part of the act, but my gut knows better. This isn’t for them. It’s for me.
He keeps coming. Still playing, still locked on me. I match him automatically, the thread of our old pattern, showmanship, habit. But there’s something in his eyes now, wild, decided. Before I can think, he’s there.
He rolls into me, guitars almost touching.
Then he reaches up and pulls my veil down with a quick tug, the heavier fabric tilting, my mouth suddenly free.
He’s blocking most of the view, though I doubt it’s for my benefit.
This is all part of his plan. My instinct is to shove him off, yank it back up, anything.
But I know that would only make it worse.
So I play along. Pretend it’s all part of the show.
His eyes find mine, angry and searching for an answer.
Then he demands one. A kiss, fast and rough.
Everything he’s been holding in, everything the veil was keeping between us.
He grips the back of my neck, holds me there just long enough to make sure I feel it.
It knocks me back, but I hold steady. I don’t lean in, but I let it last too long, confused by the feeling of that old spark between us.
Luckily, it looks staged. We both know it isn’t.
It’s in our eyes when we break apart, confusion, hurt, anger, grief, desire.
Every piece of what we were, are, might be to each other, sealing itself tight again.
The crowd detonates. Noise slams through me, every nerve lights up against my will, too much to process.
He finds his focus first, that dangerous smile creeping back as he leans close enough for me to feel his breath.
“Guess you can’t run now… Watch your tempo.”
Then he’s grinning for the cameras, tossing a glance over his shoulder.
He pulls my veil back up, pats my chest like we rehearsed it, then fixes his own.
The rest’s a blur. My head’s roaring, hands shaking, but the next verse won’t wait.
The rest of the set is a blur, a haze of rhythm, lights, and static.
I play on autopilot, mouth the right words, hit every cue, but the music feels foreign in my hands.
Between songs, I don’t look at him. Not once.
Ronan keeps trying to catch my eye, Kiri glances between us, but I don’t break.
Not until the final encore ends and the lights start to fall.
The applause fades to a dull roar in my skull.
My guitar’s still ringing when I step off the platform, chest heaving, hands slick with sweat and fury.
I spot Rithy off-stage, already laughing with Elise pretending nothing happened.
Before I can think, I’m moving, cutting through the cables and crew, every step charged with purpose. I’m done pretending.
“What the fuck was that?” I shove him before I can stop myself.
He blinks, smug. “What was what? The fake kiss? Bit of fun. You do it whenever you like, it was my turn for once.”
“Fake? Bullshit.” I step in closer, heat rising.
His smile curls wide. “Rafe, you're getting a little close. That eager for another? Make sure you get my good side for the fan edits.”
Ronan appears like divine intervention, hand on my chest. “Stop it, both of you. No more broken noses this tour, alright? Kissing, punching? Pick a fucking lane and stay in it. I can't keep up.”
Kiri drifts over, wide-eyed, like he’s wondering if turning around is still an option.
Rithy’s grin widens. “Bother you, does it? Having your private life out there? Guess now you know how it felt after your little stunt at the hotel.”
“I didn’t plan that,” I bite out. “That was an ambush out there, you made us a spectacle.” I let the word sour on my tongue before I almost spit it out. "That was assault.”
Rithy looks hurt at first, then it falls into something darker, “Assault? Well, that makes us even then, doesn't it?”
Elise clears her throat. “Anything physical needs to be agreed beforehand from now on.” She levels a look at both of us like a disappointed teacher.
“Rithy pulling his veil down, that’s his call.
He gets to decide how private he isn’t. But next time, give Rafe a heads-up before you touch his, understood? ”
Rithy smirks. “Since he outed us first, I figured we were past warnings. But fine.” He leans into her. “Anyway, how are the numbers?”
“Blowing up,” she says. “You’re trending in six countries. I've gotta take this call.”
Ronan grabs my shoulder, steering me away before I explode. Out in the corridor, everything’s ringing, ears, heart, the leftover adrenaline shaking through me.
“How the hell do I even explain that to Kasia?” I mutter.
Ronan exhales, leaning on the wall. “That’s part of the gig, man. Rithy’s being an asshole, sure, but he’s not wrong there. If she can’t handle this shit, it’s gonna be rough. She’s smart. Give her some credit. If she can’t understand... maybe it’s not meant to work.”
“Yeah. I get that.” I drag a hand through my hair. “But what Rithy did, that wasn’t fan service.”
Ronan sighs. “I figured, but what are you gonna do? Out him for being in love with you to the press as payback? Doesn’t fix a damn thing.”
I stare at him. “How long have you known?”
He snorts. “Awhile. Everyone knows, Rafe. You two aren't exactly subtle. But it can't go on, not like this.”
I let out a long breath. “I’ll set the line. What’s off-limits. How he feels is his problem, not mine.”
Ronan claps my shoulder. “Good. As long as you don’t make me call the cops in the process, sounds golden.”
I actually laugh, rough, real, frayed at the edges. But when the adrenaline fades, the only thing left in my head is Kasia's voice and the feel of a kiss I can’t escape.