59-Zach
I come to slowly, like surfacing through syrup.
My body is stiff and heavy, as if gravity doubled while I was out. The first thing I register is the fluorescent hum, that sterile, too-bright buzz of every hospital. A monitor beeps like a mechanical heart.
I blink until the room stops swimming. My ribs protest as I push upright, my head spinning like I’m on a merry-go-round. Hood up and head lowered, Kit sits beside me.
Memory hits in fragments; Judas onstage, the crowd surge, then the ground tilting under me. A flash of crystalline, blackish-purple light slowing my fall.
My pulse spikes, relief and dread colliding in my chest.
“You can’t be here,” I state, heart lurching against my bruised ribs.
“Well, I am.”
Kit peels back the hood, revealing a face smeared with sweat and remnants of red paint that streak across his skin like war marks.
His palm is hot, clammy and feverish, as he takes my hand, bringing it to his lips.
He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear, and I wince when his fingers graze the bump on my skull.
Hushed voices and hurried footsteps clatter in the hall, the unmistakable timbre of panic threading through the harsh tones. Neil’s gray hair flashes past the window, his posture rigid. If Neil is here, this is bad.
Catastrophic.
The door bursts open, and Neil and Greg block the entrance.
“I heard Judas shout my name,” I whisper, leaving out the, ‘you fucking idiot’ part.
“Right,” Greg mutters darkly, phone screen washing his face in icy-blue, “twenty thousand other people did, too.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Kit asks, voice tight.
I nod, though every inch of me aches like I’ve been trampled. He leaps up and paces for a bit, then sits next to me at the edge of the bed, hands fisted in his lap.
“I talked to Trayvon,” he says, raking a hand through his matted hair. I bite my lip. Kit’s eyes narrow, his jaw pulsing and shoulders squaring. “What the bloody fucking hell were you thinking going into the pit?”
His voice cracks, my resolve faltering with it.
“It was the only daylight shot I was gonna get. I didn’t expect—” My vocal cords wind tight, snapping my breath like a twig. “I didn’t expect everything to happen the way it did.”
“Brilliant.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I hope a shot of my abs in high-definition during golden hour was worth your bloody life.”
I reach up and brush my thumb across the faint dimple in his chin that only shows up when he’s trying to repress his feelings.
“No one could’ve predicted this,” Neil says, sinking into the bedside chair. “It was a crowd surge. Fence jumpers. The festival is liable for everything. With—”
“How bad is it?” I ask, and silence drops like an atom bomb, its devastation imminent.
“Eighty-six wounded with moderate injuries.” Greg pockets his phone, rubbing his beard as he exhales slowly. “But so far none are critical, and there’s no pronounced deaths. Seems like God was looking out for you lot.”
My stomach twists, guilt rising with bile.
“This is gonna be everywhere. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t your fault. It was your show. Your fans.” I squeeze Kit’s hand. “You need to get out of here.”
“The band needs to make a statement,” Greg chimes in, pacing a circle in front of the door. “Press has been closing in on the hospital.”
Kit hand flexes beneath my grip, tendons tightening, loosening, then tightening again. “I’m staying.”
His shoulders rise a fraction, then fall, like he’s bracing for a blow only he can feel. He looks like he’s caught between two worlds—the one where he stays with me, and the one where he does what he’s supposed to do.
First his hand. Now this. Another crisis with my name engraved across it.
“Go,” I demand.
For a heartbeat, the choice flickers across his face, and I hear the thought he won’t say out loud. I’ve caused more trouble than I’m worth. The realization drenches me like a pail of ice water, soaking straight through my ribs.
His stare pricks me like a needle, but he places a delicate kiss on my forehead then steps away, letting Greg guide him without another glance back. The door closes behind him, and my heart cracks cleanly in two. The room feels colder without him in it.
I know with aching clarity that whatever potential we had is tangled in something too heavy for us to carry, even together. Somnium; the music will always be more important.
It has to be.
“This is one hell of a mess,” Neil declares from the raggedy armchair, rubbing his temples.
“How’d you get here so fast?” I ask, knowing he was in LA earlier this evening.
“Fast?” He raises a stringy brow. “Kid, it’s almost midnight. You’ve been out cold for hours. I caught the first jet I could.”
“Cooper? Is he—”
“He’s fine,” Neil says, waving a dismissive hand as he stands. “He wanted to come, but I told him you needed rest. So lay down. I’ve got a lot of shit to clean up, anyway.”
“I’m so sorry, I—"
“This would’ve happened whether or not you were out there,” he says firmly, face reddening. He clears his throat, patting the top of my hand. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Neil, don’t cry. I’m fine,” I say, my chin wobbling as I try to keep my composure. “I’m still here to be a thorn in your ass.”
He huffs out a laugh and fluffs my sweat-tangled curls before heading toward the door. “Get some sleep, kid.”
The room falls into darkness except for the monitor, the green lines rising and falling with every beat of my splintering heart. There’s no fan or white noise, and in the somber silence, I understand what has to be done.
I’m just not sure I’ll survive.