33-Zach
Humid heat is its own kind of hell.
It slinks through my pores and settles behind my ribs. Even inside the arena, where the AC is doing its best to function, the air shimmers like a mirage.
Perched halfway up the arena steps, camera pressed to my socket, I record Somnium. The stage is like a miniature diorama from here, complete with lights, cables, instruments, and seven British figurines.
They gather in a circle in some post soundcheck ritual I still don’t fully understand, heads bowed and shoulders touching.
Like magnets snapping into place, they fall into formation without speaking.
Duae steps in first, tapping her knuckles twice against her thigh.
Tria mirrors her, then Quatour, then Judas, and finally the Daemonium trio, closing the circle.
Quatour nudges Tria’s elbow with his own. They nudge him back, subtle but unmistakably annoyed. Then they all extend an arm toward the center; seven hands layered, mismatched and messy. Whitney wiggles her fingers, and Liane tosses her head back.
It’s certainly not a choreographed handshake, because it varies every time.
Some days, it’s a squeeze or tap, others a flip of wrists or soft clap, but the love it fills me with stays the same.
Judas’s hand lingers a second longer than the rest, palm pressed to the top of the pile, red paint smudging across knuckles and rings.
It steadies something in me.
For a minute they’re not legends, just friends. Family; a cluster of idiots who love each other enough to create a secret handshake because it sanctifies the stage pre-performance. I film without audio, already imagining the shot in black and white; a slow zoom when they break apart.
Each of them wears a different smile. Even Greg cracks a rare smirk off stage, creasing the deep lines around his eyes. Less like a grumpy tour dad.
Judas smiles the way he only does on stage; broad and so beaming it melts the iciest hearts. A boyish grin that, for a moment, makes me forget he’s spent the last month glaring at me like I’ve personally offended his ‘nan.’
Paint has already begun to drip down his torso, streaking his ribs in dark rivulets. They always do soundcheck in full getup no matter the venue or weather; too many places have caught fans trying to sneak in early, hoping to record them unmasked.
They break apart, ready to stay in their respective Somnium characters until they leave that stage again tonight. Like method actors in a sense, they become their alter egos long before the show starts, putting as much distance between the character and the artist as possible.
My insides churn. Even when they beg for anonymity, giving fans characters curated from pure genius in which to apply our adoration, people go out of their way to violate it.
Almost like the secrecy makes them more of a target.
A double-edged sword; the more they hide, the more some people want to observe.
Like Damocles, Judas stands as though something sharp and glittering hangs above him by a single thread. Even when he’s painted and roaring into a microphone, and the crowd is losing its mind, there’s tension in him; a held breath—weight he carries in the hard set of his jaw.
It’s a quiet flinch beneath the spectacle, like he’s watched the thin thread fray for years. It’s in these fractional moments, with the paint half gone and the persona slipping, I see the truth.
He isn’t performing for anyone but himself.
Moving through life like someone who has already accepted the blade’s fall, he makes peace with the idea that brilliance and danger come as a pair.
There’s a grace in his resignation that’s more terrifying than any mask he puts on.
Judas pretends the sword is a crown, but I think Kit fears the moment that Judas stops pretending the weapon is anything other than a deathly threat.
I lower my sight back to the lens, and Judas stares straight through it from five hundred feet. Halfway up the arena, his dipped chin and frowning scowl scald hotter than the sun.
Like a kid caught eavesdropping, I lower my camera and stick my tongue out at the man because I know he can’t see it. Packing up my lenses, I sling my camera around my neck and grab my walkie.
I click into channel three and say, “Go, Ollie.”
“Well, hello there, beautiful. What can I do for you?”
“Hey, logistically speaking, any way to hook a small camera to one of the guitars?” I weave my way through the tiny aisle and go upstairs. “I want a view of the audience from stage, have them see what the band sees.”
“Right, that’s doable. I’ll talk to Silver.”
“Thank you, you’re the best.” I click the button as I enter the fourth-level hall. “Over and out.”
A sigh crackles through the walkie. “Zach, how many times do I have to tell you we don’t need to say over and out?”
“Roger that, Ollie. Ten-four.”
He snickers, clicking his tongue before he says, “You’re a menace.”
Someone mentioned catering has barbecue pulled pork, and I want to get there before the lighting team descends like starving vultures.
The smoky-sweet tang hits me before I even reach the table.
I grab a plate, pile on meat, potato chips, and coleslaw, then find a quiet corner to inhale it.
I’m halfway through my pork chip sandwich when the familiar prickle runs down my spine. I sigh mid-bite.
“What did I do now?”
Judas stands there, arms crossed, frown carved deep into his painted face as I turn.
His chin dips as he assesses my sandwich, then back up, his hidden stare on my mouth as I chew.
Heat shoots through me so fast I nearly choke.
I hate it when someone’s waiting for you to finish chewing and suddenly it becomes impossible.
Forcing the lump down, I lick my teeth to ensure nothing’s stuck.
I toss the last bites of my sandwich, chips, and most of my coleslaw into the bin, wiping my hands on my jeans. Judas’s hands clench at his sides as he peers into the trash. He scoffs.
“There’s only two bites left,” I say quietly, glancing at the bin.
It’s full of half-eaten sandwiches, unopened bags of chips, and fruit cups untouched. It’s nearly enough food to feed a small village. Guilt settles low in my stomach, swirling the coleslaw and meat. Judas grabs me as I reach into the trash.
“What are you doing?”
I blink down at our joined hands. “I-I don’t know. You made me feel bad.”
His upper lip peels back, revealing an extra-pointy canine. “So, you were going to eat from the rubbish bin to clear your conscience?”
The air charges as he steps close enough that heat rolls off his skin, carrying smoky cigarettes and the ghost of something burned long ago; a memory still smoldering. His sweat smells like friction; a body refusing to stay still. Under that, something darker; amber that clings like grief.
It’s overwhelming in a way I can’t name. It pricks me like rain hitting hot pavement. It’s danger dressed up as devotion that could ruin me without ever laying a hand on me. And every time he steps close enough for me to breathe it in, my core winds to a throbbing ache.
Through the mesh, I catch flecks of his cerulean irises. I yank my arm back and stomp away, hoping that’s the end of it. Heat floods my back as he follows, shadowing my steps through the room, down the hall, and out into the back lot.
Pretentious wanker.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, and I wonder if I accidentally said the insult aloud. The air crackles between us, sending the hairs on the back of my neck straight. “It wasn’t my intention to give you an earful.”
As I turn he shoves his hood back, revealing blond hair tied into a tiny ponytail. I wave him off and keep walking toward the vans. Behind me, he scoffs, meaning he’s not done scolding me.
“I simply wanted to say that I don’t appreciate you filming us when we’re not aware,” he mutters in that stupid, posh accent. “You signed a contract, Ms. Blake.”
I stop so abruptly that his gasp brushes the top of my head as I spin on my heel, poking his sternum. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but that’s a big part of documentary work. Candid filming; raw and real. If you’d bothered to watch any of my previous work, you’d know—”
“I have.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling strands loose and sliding the elastic around his wrist. “Your work is the only reason I even considered this dodgy documentary. The girls vouched for you, and when I saw how you presented the music, not the band, I knew that if anyone was going to do us justice, it was Zachary Neumann-Blake. I’ve been thrust to you against my will every bloody step of the way. ”
Judas’s panting declaration brushes my cheek like a blush. My stomach drops; I wasn’t prepared for honesty. I put my palm out as he steps closer, pressing it to his chest. Sweat smears the paint across his breastbone like fresh blood.
“Don’t do that.” Covering my hand with his own, Judas leans in, his palm dwarfing mine.
“Do what?”
The longer his gaze lingers, the faster my heart stutters. My other fingers twitch at my sides. I want to reach for him or push him away. I lift my trembling hand to the mask, its molded cheek smooth.
“Tempt him,” he whispers, glare fixed on my lips through the tiny holes.
His golden strands stick to the nape of his neck, cemented in place by crusted crimson. He’s like a fallen angel, dipped in the gore of battle. A soft, shaky exhale betrays him more than anything he could say. His long fingers curl at his sides, like he’s fighting the instinct to reach for me.
We inch closer with every second he hesitates.
He leans in a fraction, then stops. His jaw tightens, throat working around a swallow. Hot breath stirs the tiny hairs along my cheek.
“Tempt him, or tempt you?” I ask, every one of my senses tuned to his frequency.
As if I’ve stabbed him, he lurches back, his torso bearing a smudged pale handprint. Judas walks away like he’s fleeing a crime scene, boots striking the concrete in angry beats. I press my hand to my heart, trying to stabilize my core.
A shiver runs through me. The paint on my white blouse looks like evidence in a murder trial. I should let him go. Reset, and pretend none of that just happened.
That realization curdles in my gut.