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Eurovision Imagines

McLovin || Pudd

Where It Began || Bryle

Comfort || Cashton

Interlinked || Muke

My Father || Luke Hemmings

The first time Starley meets the band, she's six weeks old, bundled in a pale yellow blanket and asleep against Luke Hemmings's chest. Luke is panicking.

"She's fine," he's told himself at least twenty times in the elevator up to the studio. "Babies sleep."

But every tiny sound she makes has him checking her breathing like the world might stop turning if he looks away for too long.

The studio door swings open before he can knock.

"HE BROUGHT THE BABY!"

The yell is immediately followed by chaotic footsteps and the sound of someone almost tripping over a cable.

Luke barely has time to react before Michael Clifford appears in front of him with wide eyes and the kind of expression people usually reserve for seeing celebrities or puppies.

"Oh my God," Michael whispers dramatically. "She's microscopic."

Behind him, Calum Hood leans against the couch with a grin. "You said that like you expected a full-grown woman."

"I've never seen Luke create something this tiny before."

"That is the worst sentence you've ever said," Luke mutters.

A laugh bursts from the back of the room. Ashton Irwin looks up from where he'd been pretending to work on lyrics.

"Can we see her or are you gonna stand there guarding her like a security detail?"

Luke rolls his eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. Mostly nerves.

"Wash your hands first."

The room goes silent.

Michael blinks. "You sound like a dad-dad."

"I am a dad-dad."

"That's horrifying."

Luke ignores him.

"Seriously," he says, shifting Starley carefully against his chest. "No touching her unless your hands are clean."

Ashton raises both hands immediately. "Mine are already washed because I'm emotionally prepared."

Calum snorts. "That's not how germs work."

Still, all three of them obediently disappear

toward the sink in the tiny studio kitchenette while Luke stands there swaying slightly with Starley in his arms. He's learned she likes movement, likes warmth, likes hearing his heartbeat and honestly? Luke likes it too, more than he'll ever admit out loud.

When the others come back, they approach like nervous zoo handlers.

Michael crouches first, peering into the blanket dramatically. "That's literally your face."

"She thankfully got her mother's nose," Luke says immediately.

"No, dude, she has your exact frown."

"I do not frown."

All three of them stare at him.

Luke pauses. "Okay, maybe a little."

Starley stirs softly at the sound of voices, making a tiny sleepy noise that instantly changes the entire atmosphere in the room.

The band goes quiet. Completely quiet.

Her eyes blink open slowly, big and unfocused and Luke swears his heart physically stops.

"There she is," he murmurs automatically, voice softening in a way it never does around anyone else.

Michael actually clutches his chest "Oh, he's gone gone."

Luke doesn't even deny it because yeah, he is.

Starley yawns, tiny fist escaping the blanket, and Ashton immediately melts. "I would die for her."

"You met her twelve seconds ago," Calum says.

"And?"

Luke carefully lowers himself onto the couch, adjusting her gently. The guys gather around him instinctively, their loud energy dimmed into something quieter.

They are softer, almost reverent. It hits Luke then, suddenly and painfully, that these idiots are family too.

They've seen him at nineteen and reckless.

Seen him exhausted, angry, homesick, burnt out. Seen every ugly, difficult version of him.

And now they're seeing this one.

The version that wakes up three times a night because he misses his daughter breathing beside him.

The version that keeps photos of her in a hidden album labeled starstuff.

The version that's terrified every second of every day because he loves something this much.

Calum sits beside him carefully. "Can I hold her?"

Luke hesitates, not because he doesn't trust him, just because giving someone else your whole heart is terrifying.

But eventually, he nods.

"Support her head," he says immediately.

"I know how babies work."

"You dropped a cactus once."

"That was one time."

Michael bursts out laughing as Luke reluctantly transfers Starley into Calum's arms. The room collectively stops breathing.

Calum freezes instantly, staring down at her like she's made of glass. "She's so small," he whispers.

And for the first time since becoming a father, Luke sees it from the outside.

This tiny little person.

This tiny little girl.

His daughter.

Starley squirms once before settling comfortably against Calum's chest.

"Oh no," Ashton says quietly. "I'm attached."

"You're all attached," Luke says.

Michael points at him dramatically. "Says the man who has approximately seven thousand photos of her."

"It's actually closer to ten thousand," Ashton corrects.

Luke narrows his eyes. "Why do you know that?"

"Because you send us fifty a day."

"And every single one is blurry," Calum adds.

"She moves!"

"She's a baby, not Sonic."

The studio lights were too bright. Kyle could feel them even before he stepped on set — heat pressing against his skin, the kind that made everything feel sharper than it should.

The audience was small but close, seated in a curved row that made the space feel intimate in a way that was almost dangerous.

Live television.

No second takes. No rewrites.

"Thirty seconds," someone called.

Kyle adjusted the mic clipped to his collar, fingers steady out of pure will. He'd done interviews his whole life: cheerful, polished, easy. He knew how to smile at the right moments, how to deflect questions with just enough charm to keep people satisfied.

But tonight wasn't going to be that kind of interview. He could feel it. Across the studio, the host flashed him a bright, practiced smile, too bright, the kind that meant they already knew what they were going to ask.

Kyle exhaled slowly. In the front row, half-hidden in shadow, Brede

sat still.

Not waving. Not drawing attention.

Just there.

That was enough.

"Welcome back," the host said as the cameras rolled. "Tonight we're joined by one of Europe's most talked-about artists right now, Kyle Alessandro."

Applause filled the studio. Kyle smiled, nodded, sat.

"First of all," the host continued, "that performance of Something Real... people haven't stopped talking about it."

"Thank you," Kyle said softly.

"You've had an incredible few months: Eurovision, the success, and now this very personal moment in your music." The host leaned in slightly. "Would you say this is the most honest you've ever been publicly?"

Kyle paused. There were a hundred safe answers he could give.

Instead, he said, "Yes."

The audience shifted, sensing something real. The host smiled, just a fraction sharper now. "That honesty has sparked a lot of conversation."

Kyle nodded. "I've noticed."

A few quiet laughs from the audience but the host didn't laugh.

"In fact," they continued, "people aren't just talking about the music. They're talking about who inspired it."

There it was. Kyle felt his heartbeat in his throat.

"Your recent appearances," the host said carefully, "have been... closely observed. And there's been a lot of speculation about someone named Brede Bremnes."

The name landed in the room like a dropped glass. Kyle didn't look at Brede, not yet. Instead, he kept his eyes on the host.

"Is that speculation true?"

Silence.

Not awkward.

Not empty.

Just waiting.

Kyle's instincts screamed at him: deflect, soften, redirect but then he remembered the stage, the song and the look he hadn't been afraid to hold.

He let out a slow breath.

"Yes."

It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The audience reacted instantly — a ripple of surprise, whispers, something electric moving through the room.

The host blinked, just once, caught off guard by how simple the answer had been.

"Yes," Kyle repeated, steadier now. "He's important to me."

There was no label, no explanation and no performance. Just truth.

The host recovered quickly. "That's... a big moment. A lot of people will be hearing that very clearly."

Kyle nodded. "I hope they hear the music just as clearly."

A few people in the audience smiled at that.

The host leaned back slightly, studying him. "Was it difficult to decide to be open about this?"

Kyle thought about it.

About the cabin.

About the silence.

About the moment everything had almost slipped away because he was too afraid to hold onto it.

"Yes," he said honestly. "It still is."

"Because of the public reaction?"

Kyle shook his head "Because it's real," he said.

That shifted something in the room, the tension didn't disappear but it changed shape: softer and more human.

The host nodded slowly. "And Brede, is he here tonight?"

Kyle hesitated for half a second, then he looked. For the first time since the interview started, he let his eyes find him. Brede didn't move and react but their gaze locked and that was enough.

"Yes," Kyle said quietly.

The camera followed his line of sight: not zooming in, not exposing, but enough to confirm.

A silhouette. A presence. Real.

After the interview, the studio felt louder than before. Producers began moving quickly, crew members whispering and phones already lighting up with reactions.

Kyle stepped offstage, pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear anymore. He barely had time to breathe before Brede was in front of him. For a second, they just looked at each other.

"You said it," Brede said softly.

Kyle nodded, still catching up with himself.

"Yeah."

"How do you feel?"

Kyle let out a breath that felt like it had been building for months.

"Like I didn't run."

Brede's expression shifted — something proud, something softer.

"You didn't," he said.

Kyle laughed quietly. "That might be a first."

Brede stepped closer, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"You're getting good at this."

"At what?"

"Telling the truth when it would be easier not to."

Kyle's chest tightened.

"Stay with me?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could overthink them.

Brede didn't hesitate "I'm not going anywhere."

Outside, the world was already reacting.

Headlines. Clips. Reposts.

But for once, Kyle didn't check and he didn't need to because the most important thing had already happened.

The quiet didn't last forever, it never did. By the afternoon, the house had shifted, not louder exactly, but more awake.

Sunlight filled the rooms properly now, spilling across the kitchen counters and warming the wooden floors. Somewhere outside, a car passed and a dog barked as life carried on.

Inside, it felt... different. It wasnt fragile like before, just uncertain.

Calum stood at the kitchen counter, staring down at his phone without really reading anything on it. His coffee had gone cold in his hand, forgotten halfway through.

He could hear Ashton moving around in the other room.

Drawers were opening, closing and opening again.

Restless.

Calum set the mug down and leaned back against the counter, running a hand over his face. He knew that kind of movement, knew what it meant too.

Too much stillness again or maybe too much thinking.

He pushed off the counter and walked back into the living room.

Ashton was pacing now, slow and uneven, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. His hair was still messy from the morning, a loose shirt hanging off his frame like he hadn't fully settled into the day.

"Hey," Calum said.

Ashton stopped immediately, liken he'd been caught.

"Hey," he replied, a little too quickly.

Calum tilted his head slightly. "You've opened that same drawer like five times."

Ashton glanced toward the kitchen, then back at him. "I was looking for something."

"You found it?"

A pause.

"...No."

Calum stepped closer, not too fast, not pushing, just enough to close some of the space between them.

"You wanna tell me what's actually going on?"

Ashton exhaled through his nose, shoulders tightening for a second before dropping again.

"I don't know what we're doing," he admitted.

There it was. Calum felt it land, heavy but expected.

"Okay," he said calmly. "Then we figure it out."

"It's not that simple."

"It can be."

Ashton shook his head, running a hand through his hair again. "Cal, we've been doing this for years without saying anything. And now suddenly we are, and I don't—" He cut himself off, frustrated. "I don't know what that changes."

Calum leaned against the back of the couch, watching him carefully.

"It changes that we're not pretending anymore," he said.

Ashton let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Yeah, and pretending was easier."

Calum didn't disagree right away becauseit was.

Pretending meant no risk, no lines to cross, no chance of losing something they'd built over years of late nights and shared spaces and unspoken understanding.

But it also meant... this. Confusion. Tension. That constant pull of something more that never quite settled.

"Easier doesn't mean better," Calum said finally.

Ashton looked at him then, really looked.

"You don't seem scared," Ashton said.

Calum shrugged slightly. "I am."

"Then why are you so calm about it?"

Calum hesitated because the truth wasn't simple.

Because the truth was that he'd been here, in this exact feeling, for longer than Ashton probably realized.

"I've already thought about the worst-case scenario," Calum said quietly.

Ashton's expression shifted, something cautious flickering there. "And?"

"And I still think you're worth it."

The words landed softer than anything else they'd said so far. Ashton went still, completely still.

Calum pushed off the couch and stepped closer again, slower this time.

"I'd rather deal with things being messy and real," he continued, "than go back to pretending I don't notice every time you pull away. Or every time you look at me like you're about to say something and don't."

Ashton swallowed hard.

"That's not fair," he said, but there was no bite to it.

"I know," Calum admitted. "But it's true."

Silence filled the space between them again.

Not sharp, more... full.

Ashton looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he didn't know what to do with them. "I don't want to get it wrong."

Calum's voice softened.

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I know that we'll fix it if you do."

Ashton let out a shaky breath.

"That's not how this works," he murmured.

"It is with us."

That made Ashton look up again. There was something different in his expression now: not panic nor was it avoidance. It was more something closer to understanding.

"You're really not going anywhere, are you?" Ashton asked.

Calum shook his head slightly.

"No."

A long pause. Then, quieter:

"Even if I freak out a little?"

Calum's mouth twitched. "You already are."

That earned him a small, real laugh.

It broke the tension just enough.

Ashton stepped forward then, closing the gap himself this time. Not rushed. Not hesitant either. Just... choosing it.

"I don't have a plan," Ashton admitted.

"Good," Calum said. "Me neither."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's honest."

Ashton nodded slowly.

Then he reached out, not grabbing, not pulling, just letting his hand rest lightly against Calum's arm.

It was more grounding himself.

"I can do honest," Ashton said.

Calum met his gaze.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know you can."

They stood there for a moment, close but not overwhelming, the space between them no longer something to avoid.

Outside, the world kept moving. Inside, things were still uncertain, still undefined but not fragile anymore.

Just... unfinished.

The house was too quiet when Dad was on tour. Sasha didn’t know how else to explain it.

It wasn’t that it was actually silent, there were still sounds: the fridge humming in the kitchen, the soft ticking of the clock above the doorway, the wind brushing faintly against the windows at night.

But it felt quiet, different, like something important had gone missing.

She sat cross-legged on the living room floor, her coloring pencils spread out in a messy circle around her, pressing down hard as she filled in the edges of a drawing that refused to stay inside the lines.

It was supposed to be a picture of her family. Mum was easy, she was easy to draw herself but Dad was harder.

She stared at the half-finished outline of him for a moment, chewing lightly on the end of her pencil.

“…your hair’s not that colour,” she muttered to herself, scribbling over it anyway.

“Talking to yourself again?” her mum, Crystal, called from the kitchen.

Sasha didn’t look up.

“I’m fixing it.”

“Fixing what?”

“Dad.”

There was a pause. It was not long, just enough to feel it.

Then her mum stepped into the doorway, drying her hands on a towel, her expression softening when she saw the paper on the floor.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Let me see.”

Sasha turned the page around, pushing it toward her a little. Her mum crouched down beside her.

“That’s a very good drawing,” she said.

Sasha frowned slightly.

“It doesn’t look like him.”

Her mum tilted her head, studying it.

“It does,” she said gently. “It just looks like your version of him.”

Sasha wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. She picked up a blue pencil, then put it down again.

“…when is he coming back?”

“Soon,” Crystal said.

Sasha nodded, like that was enough but it wasn’t. It never really was.

She leaned forward, pressing her palm flat against the paper so it wouldn’t move.

“…I’m going to show him this when he gets back,” she said.

Her mum smiled.

“I think he’ll love that.”

Sasha hesitated, then added quietly

The first time Luke Hemmings hears his daughter cry, the world shifts. It isn't dramatic in the way movies make it, no swelling music, no slow-motion moment where everything suddenly makes sense.

It's quieter than that. It feels more soft and real.

The hospital room smells faintly of antiseptic and something warm, something human. Machines hum steadily in the background, a rhythm that feels oddly comforting.

Outside, the world keeps moving, cars passing, people laughing, lives continuing, but inside this room, time folds in on itself.

"Luke," a nurse says gently, her voice pulling him back into his body.

He hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing. And then, the it is again.

A cry that was small, fragile and furious.

Alive.

His chest tightens in a way he's never felt before, not on stage in front of thousands, not in the studio chasing the perfect note, not even in the quietest, loneliest nights of his life. This is different.

This is something deeper, something terrifying and beautiful all at once.

"Do you want to come closer?"

He nods, even though his legs feel like they might give out beneath him. Somehow, he crosses the room and then he sees her.

She's tiny, so impossibly small that it almost scares him. Wrapped in a soft blanket, her face is scrunched, eyes squeezed shut as she protests her sudden arrival into the world.

"Hi..." His voice breaks, barely above a whisper. "Hi, baby..."

Starley Hemmings. The name settles over him like something sacred.

He reaches out, hesitating just for a second before his finger brushes against her hand. Her fingers, so small, so perfect, curl instinctively around him.

And just like that, he's gone. Completely, entirely hers. A shaky laugh escapes him, wet with emotion he doesn't even try to hide.

“She's—" He swallows hard. "She's perfect."

There's movement beside him, someone exhausted but smiling, someone who just brought this entire universe into existence. Luke looks up, eyes softening instantly.

"You did so good," he murmurs, leaning down, pressing a careful kiss to Sierra’s forehead. "Both of you did."

But his gaze keeps drifting back. Back to Starley because how is she real?

How is it possible that something so small could already hold so much of him?

The nurse gently places her into his arms, guiding him like he might break, which, honestly, he feels like he might.

"Support her head," she reminds him.

"Right—yeah—okay—" His voice is nervous, but his hands are careful. So careful.

And then she's there in his arms. His daughter.

The crying quiets almost instantly, her tiny body settling against his chest as if she already knows him, as if she's been waiting for this exact moment just as much as he has.

Luke exhales, long and shaky, resting his forehead lightly against hers.

"Hey, Starley," he whispers. "I'm your dad."

The words feel surreal. Heavy. Important. Like a promise.

Outside this room, he's a musician, a performer, a people scream and write about and follow.

But in here? He's just hers.

The next day felt off.

Not in a way anyone else would notice: the schedule ran the same, the rehearsals were tight, the jokes still landed. From the outside, nothing had changed.

But for Dougie, everything had. Every glance felt heavier. Every word carried something underneath it.

And Harry... Harry was different too. Not distant. Not exactly. Just... closer. Too close, sometimes.

Dougie noticed it during soundcheck first. They were halfway through a song when Harry adjusted the tempo slightly — nothing dramatic, just enough that Dougie had to shift with him.

Normally, it was automatic. Today, Dougie's focus slipped for a second too long.

He missed the cue. The music faltered — just briefly. Harry stopped playing.

"Hold up," he said, tapping his sticks together. "Let's take that again."

No frustration. No edge but his eyes found Dougie immediately.

"Sorry," Dougie muttered, adjusting his grip on the bass.

Harry shook his head lightly. "It's fine. Just—" He hesitated. "Stay with me, yeah?"

The words hit harder than they should have.

Dougie nodded. "Yeah."

Stay with me. It echoed in his head even after they started again.

Later, in the dressing room, the noise of the others filled the space: Danny arguing about something pointless, Tom half-listening while scrolling through his phone.

Dougie sat off to the side, tuning his bass again even though it didn't need it. He felt Harry before he saw him.

"You're doing it again," Harry said quietly, stopping beside him.

"Doing what?"

"Disappearing."

Dougie blinked, caught off guard. "I'm not—"

"You are," Harry said, softer now. Not accusing. Just... noticing.

Dougie looked down at his hands. "I'm fine."

Harry didn't respond right away. Instead, he crouched down slightly so he was level with him, close enough that Dougie could see the concern in his eyes clearly now.

"You don't have to lie to me," Harry said.

There it was again. That same line.

That same quiet insistence. Dougie felt his chest tighten.

"I'm not lying," he said, but it came out weaker than he meant it to.

Harry studied him for a moment — like he was trying to decide something.

Then he stood, running a hand through his hair. "Alright."

But he didn't sound convinced.

The show that night was loud.

Bright lights, screaming crowd, everything turned up to full volume — and for a while, Dougie let himself get lost in it. It was easier here. Easier to drown everything out.

But even on stage, it followed him. Harry's presence. The way they moved in sync, like they always had. The way Harry kept looking at him.

Not casually. Not just bandmate to bandmate. Something more focused than that. Something that made Dougie's chest feel too tight.

During one of the quieter songs, Dougie stepped closer to the drum riser without really thinking about it. It was instinct — the way they always fell into each other's orbit during certain moments.

Harry met his eyes and didn't look away. For a second, everything else faded.

The crowd.

The lights.

The noise.

It was just that look. Steady. Certain. Like Harry knew something. Like he was waiting for Dougie to say it.

Dougie's breath hitched, just slightly. He looked away first.

After the show, the energy lingered: buzzing, restless. Dougie slipped out early, needing space again, the hallway behind the stage quieter than the chaos he'd left behind.

He leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.

"Dougie."

He didn't have to turn around to know it was Harry.

"Yeah?" he said, keeping his voice even.

Harry stepped closer. "We need to talk."

There was no avoiding it now. Dougie turned. Harry looked... different.

Not calm like usual. Not entirely steady. There was something else there, something sharper, more certain.

"About what?" Dougie asked, even though he already knew.

Harry let out a breath. "About you. About... whatever's going on with you."

Dougie's pulse spiked. "Nothing's going on."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out," Harry said, voice low. "Act like I can't see it."

Dougie looked away. "There's nothing to see."

"That's not true."

The words came quicker this time. Stronger.

Dougie's chest tightened again. "Harry—"

"No," Harry cut in, stepping closer. "You don't get to just brush this off. Not with me."

Dougie froze.mHarry rarely pushed like this. Rarely insisted and that made it worse.

"What do you want me to say?" Dougie asked quietly.

Harry hesitated.nJust for a second.

Then: "The truth."

It hung there between them. Simple. Terrifying.

Dougie felt it rising, the words he'd been holding back, the ones that would change everything if he let them out.

He looked at Harry. Really looked at him.

And for a moment, it felt like maybe, maybe it wouldn't break everything.

Maybe—His chest tightened sharply. He stepped back.

"I can't," Dougie said.

The words came out barely above a whisper.

Harry's expression faltered. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know what happens if I do."

Silence. Heavy. Real.

Harry stared at him, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded once. Slowly.

"Right," he said.

And just like that, he stepped back. The distance returned. Not huge but enough.

"I won't push," Harry added quietly. "But you can't pretend forever."

(This one's in Brede's pov)

Brede wasn't used to being watched like this.

He'd been photographed before, of course he had. That was part of the job. Cameras, direction, controlled angles, expressions that meant something without meaning anything at all.

But this was different. This wasn't a shoot. This wasn't curated. This was people looking at him like they knew something about him.

It started small: a glance too long on the street, a second look in a café, someone whispering, not quite quietly enough.

At first, Brede told himself it was nothing. Just coincidence. Just his imagination filling in the gaps.

But then someone said his name.

Not *"hey, aren't you—"*

Just:

"Brede."

Like they already knew.

He was alone when it happened properly for the first time.

Kyle was in a meeting — something with the label, something tense — and Brede had gone out for a walk to clear his head. Oslo felt different now. Smaller. Sharper. Like the city itself had turned its focus inward.

He stopped at a small café, one he'd been to before, tucked away just enough to feel safe. It didn't feel safe anymore.

The barista smiled too knowingly. The girl by the window kept glancing over. Two guys by the door were whispering, phones angled slightly in his direction.

Brede ordered anyway. Sat anyway. Stayed anyway because leaving would mean admitting it had changed.

His phone buzzed.  A message from Kyle.

> *How's your day?*

Brede stared at it for a second.

He could say *fine*.

He could say *normal*.

Instead, he typed:

> *Weird.*

Three dots appeared instantly.

> *Bad weird?*

Brede looked up. One of the guys by the door lifted his phone a little higher. Brede met his eyes. Didn't look away.

Then he typed:

> *I think people know.*

The reply came slower this time.

> *I'm sorry.*

Brede's chest tightened slightly at that. Not guilt — just the weight of it.

He typed back:

> *Don't be.*

Because he meant it.

He left the café without finishing his drink. Not because he was scared but because he was thinking.

By the time he got back to the apartment, Kyle was already there. Pacing.

That was the first thing Brede noticed. Kyle didn't pace unless something was wrong.

"You're back," Kyle said quickly, relief flickering across his face.

Brede nodded, closing the door behind him. "Yeah."

Kyle studied him. "You okay?"

Brede shrugged lightly, slipping off his jacket. "I think I just had my first real experience of being... part of this."

Kyle went still. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Brede said. Then, after a pause: "Everything."

Kyle's expression tightened.

Brede stepped closer, softer now. "People are looking. They know my name. They're connecting it."

"I didn't mean for you to—"

"I know," Brede cut in gently.

Silence settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.

Kyle ran a hand through his hair. "I can make a statement. I can tell them to leave you out of it—"

Brede shook his head. "That won't work."

Kyle's voice dropped. "Then what do we do?"

Brede thought about the café. The whispers. The phones. Then he looked at Kyle.

At the way he was already trying to fix it. Protect it. Carry it alone and something in Brede shifted.

"You don't do anything," he said.

Kyle frowned. "What?"

"You don't shrink this to make it easier for me," Brede continued. "And you don't hide me to make it quieter."

Kyle's eyes searched his face. "Are you sure?"

Brede nodded.

"I knew who you were when I met you," he said. "I just didn't know what it would feel like to be seen *with* you."

"And now?" Kyle asked quietly.

Brede exhaled.

"Now I think..." He hesitated, then smiled faintly. "I think it's terrifying."

Kyle let out a soft, almost-laugh.

"But," Brede added, stepping closer, "it's not something I want to run from."

That landed.

Kyle's shoulders dropped slightly, tension easing.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

Later that night, Brede stood by the window alone. The city stretched out below, lights flickering, life moving on like nothing had changed but everything had.

His phone buzzed again. A notification this time.

He opened it to a photo taken earlier that day outside the café. Him, mid-step, looking straight at the camera.

The caption read:

*"Is this the guy from Kyle Alessandro's song?"*

Thousands of likes already. Brede stared at it for a long moment. Then he locked his phone and set it down.

Behind him, Kyle shifted in his sleep on the couch, soft and unaware.

Brede turned, watching him. This was the part no one saw.

Not the performance.

Not the headlines.

Not the speculation.

Just this. Kyle, curled slightly into himself, breathing steady, finally at peace for a moment.

Brede leaned against the window, arms crossed loosely. The world could look. It could guess.

It could talk.

But it didn't get this version of them. Not all of it. And maybe that was the balance. Being seen — but not completely known.

Brede glanced back at the city one last time.

"Alright," he murmured under his breath.

Calum woke up before Ashton, that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the weight against his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move: just blinked slowly, letting himself come back to awareness. Morning light slipped through the curtains in thin, pale lines, stretching across the walls and the floor.

Ashton was still asleep and still curled into him.

Sometime during the night, they’d shifted from the couch to the bed. Calum didn’t remember when. He only remembered Ashton falling asleep against him, breathing evening out, fingers loosely gripping his shirt like he might disappear otherwise.

Now, Ashton’s arm was draped across Calum’s waist, his face pressed into the space just below his collarbone. His curls tickled Calum’s chin every time he exhaled.

Calum stayed still. Careful: like moving might break something.

He wasn’t used to this, not like this. Not with Ashton. They’d shared space before, sure: hotel rolms, long flights, lazy afternoons sprawled across couches.

But this felt different. Quieter. Closer.

Calum let his hand rest lightly against Ashton’s back, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. It was steady, deep. The kind of sleep Ashton only got when he was completely exhausted or completely safe.

The thought settled somewhere deep in Calum’s chest. He didn’t question it.

Ashton shifted slightly, his grip tightening for a second before relaxing again. A soft sound left him — not quite a word, not quite a sigh.

Calum’s thumb moved instinctively, tracing a small, absent pattern against his back.

“You’re awake,” Ashton mumbled.

Calum huffed quietly. “You just said that with your eyes closed.”

“Still counts.”

Calum smiled faintly, even though Ashton couldn’t see it.

“You sleep like you’re holding onto a lifeline,” he said.

There was a pause.bThen, softer — more awake this time:

“Maybe I am.”

Calum didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure if Ashton meant to say that out loud.

After a second, Ashton shifted again, pulling back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, lashes casting faint shadows across his cheeks.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was different in the daylight. Everything felt more… real. Less like something hidden in the quiet of night.

Ashton’s gaze flickered, like he was trying to figure something out. Or maybe decide something.

Calum felt it, that slight tension returning. Not as sharp as before, but there.

“Hey,” Calum said gently.

Ashton blinked. “Hey.”

“You’re thinking too much again.”

A small exhale. “I always am.”

“Yeah, but right now it’s loud.”

Ashton didn’t deny it.

Instead, he pushed himself up slightly, resting on one elbow while the other hand stayed loosely against Calum’s side, as if he didn’t want to fully let go.

“Last night,” Ashton started, then stopped.

Calum waited.

“I meant what I said,” Ashton continued. “About… not knowing how to slow down.”

Calum nodded slightly. “I know.”

“And this—” Ashton gestured vaguely between them, “—this doesn’t feel like slowing down. It feels like… stopping in the middle of something important.”

Calum frowned, not quite following. “Important how?”

Ashton hesitated.

“Like if I stay here too long,” he said carefully, “I won’t want to leave.”

Something in Calum’s chest tightened.

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asked.

Ashton’s eyes softened, just slightly.

“No,” he admitted. “That’s the problem.”

Silence settled again — but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… honest.

Calum shifted a little, enough to sit up against the headboard. Ashton followed without thinking, settling beside him, shoulder brushing against his.

Close again. Always close.

“You don’t have to figure everything out right now,” Calum said after a moment.

Ashton let out a quiet breath. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Calum said. “I’m just better at ignoring things until they calm down.”

That earned him a small smile.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Calum nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “Hey.”

“I’m serious,” Ashton said, though there was warmth in his voice now. “You act like things don’t bother you until they really do.”

“And you feel everything all at once,” Calum shot back.

“Exactly.”

They both went quiet again, but this time, it felt lighter. Balanced.

Ashton leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Calum turned his head slightly, watching him.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” Calum said simply.

That was enough to make Ashton open his eyes again.

There was something steadier in his expression now. Not completely settled, but not unraveling either.

“Stay?” Ashton asked, almost like it surprised him to say it.

Calum didn’t hesitate.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Ashton nodded once, like he needed to hear it out loud. Then, slowly, he leaned back into him.

Calum’s arm came up naturally, resting around his shoulders, pulling him in just enough.

Not tight. Not overwhelming. Just there.

The morning stretched quietly around them. No rush: no pressure, just the soft hum of a day that hadn’t fully started yet.

And for now, that was enough. They didn’t need to move. They didn’t need to decide anything.

00 || Introduction

00 || Introduction

01 || The Beginning

00 || Introduction

00 || Introduction

01 || Stillness

02 || Close

0: Introduction

01: Fireworks & Shadows

02: Smoke Between The Stars

03: Mirrors In Basel

04: Electric Rivalry

05: Between The Lines

06: Dress Rehearsals Don’t Lie

07: Let Them Watch

08: The Afterlight

09: The Noise Ends

10: The Trip

11: The Noise Begins Again

12: Rumours In The Static

13: An Unexpected Knock

14: Between Silence And Song

15; The Weight Of Light

16: The Song He Didn’t Name

17: The Cabin Again

18: The Morning Light

19: Noise Again

20: The Storm Breaks

21: Learning How To Stand Together

22: Home Truths

23: Something Real, Live

24: After The Applause

25: The Narrative

26: Seen

Making Pizza || Kyle X JJ

Borrowed Warmth || Bryle

Makeout || Lucio X Danya

Sleepy || Kyle X JJ

Borrowed Warmth Part 2 || Bryle

Toothache || Kyle X JJ

Movie || Bryle

Cracked Mirrors || Kyle X JJ

Cracked Mirrors Part 2 || Kyle X JJ

Stream || Hálfdán X Kyle

Stream Part 2 || Hálfdán X Kyle

Frogs || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Quiet Hours || Bryle

Pancakes || Hálfdán X Kyle

Five More Minutes || Hálfdán X Kyle

Rainy Day Fort || Bryle

The Halloween Experiment || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Halloween Experiment Part 2 || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Christmas Market || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Stream Part 3 || Hálfdán X Kyle

Christmas Day || Hálfdán X Kyle

Fireworks & Midnight || Hálfdán X Kyle

Plus One || Bryle

Sick Day || Bryle

The Lindt Adventure || Bryle

Over The Top || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Pizza Rescue || Bryle

Back To Forgetting || Kyle X JJ

The Camping Trip || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Camping Trip Part 2 || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Camping Trip Part 3 || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Camping Trip Part 4 || Hálfdán X Kyle

The Stream Part 4 || Hálfdán X Kyle

Rain Sounds & Runaway Plans || Bryle

00 || Introduction

01 || Soundcheck Shadows

02 || After The Show

03 || Quiet Miles

04 || Morning Light

05 || The Space Between The Notes

06 || Shared Walls

07 || Say It Without Saying It

08 || No Way Back

Luke noticed it first in the quiet, not in a dramatic, life-changing way and not with some cinematic zoom or a sudden rush of music like something out of a bad film.

Just... in the quiet.

It was early, too early for most people to be awake, but not early enough to be considered impressive. The kind of morning that felt grey even when the sun was technically out. The kitchen was still, the air faintly cold, and the only sound was the low hum of the kettle as it worked itself toward boiling.

Luke leaned against the counter, sleeve pushed halfway up his arm, absentmindedly tracing the ink just below his wrist.

It wasn't a big tattoo. It never had been.

A thin line. Delicate. Almost careless-looking if you didn't know better. It curved slightly, like it had been drawn in one breath instead of carefully planned. There was something about it that felt unfinished, like it was part of something bigger, something that existed somewhere else.

It always had. He'd gotten used to it, over the years or at least, he'd learned how to ignore the questions that came with it.

*Who has the other half?*

*Where are they?*

*Why haven't you met them yet?*

The usual.

Luke pressed his thumb lightly over the ink, feeling the raised texture of it under his skin. It was warm, just slightly, like it always was. Not enough to be strange, but enough to be noticeable if he paid attention.

He usually tried not to. The kettle clicked.

He moved automatically, pouring the water into a mug he didn't remember grabbing. The motion was familiar, routine, something to fill the space while his mind stayed somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere on that line. He wondered, not for the first time, what it looked like when it was whole.

Across the city, Michael was awake for entirely different reasons.

Music spilled softly from his laptop speakers, not loud enough to be considered annoying, but definitely not quiet enough to be background noise. It filled his room in uneven waves, cutting through the mess of cables and half-finished ideas scattered across the floor.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, guitar resting loosely in his lap, fingers idly picking at strings without any real direction.

It wasn't going anywhere. None of it was, lately.

Michael sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall. His eyes flicked down, almost unconsciously, to his forearm.

Same place as always. Same stupid line. Except his wasn't quite the same.

Where Luke's was clean and delicate, Michael's had a slight edge to it—sharper in places, like whoever had drawn it hadn't quite trusted their own hand. It hooked at the end, just barely, like it was reaching for something it couldn't quite find.

He dragged his fingers over it, pressing harder than necessary. Nothing.

No sudden connection. No spark. No dramatic soulmate moment.

Just skin.

"Cool," he muttered to himself, voice flat.

He'd stopped expecting anything a long time ago, or at least, he told himself he had.

Didn't stop the curiosity, though. Didn't stop the late-night thoughts or the quiet wondering or the occasional, *what if they're close and I just don't know it?*

Michael huffed a laugh at that, shaking his head.

"Yeah, right."

If they were close, he would've noticed.

Wouldn't he?

Luke stepped outside, mug still warm in his hands, the air sharper than he'd expected.

It bit at his skin, waking him up in a way the tea hadn't quite managed to. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath disappear into the morning like it had somewhere better to be.

His sleeve had fallen back down without him noticing. The tattoo was hidden again.

For a moment, he considered pushing it back up. Just to look. Just to—He didn't.

Instead, he took a sip of his tea and stared out at nothing in particular.

There was something strange about mornings like this. They felt... paused. It was like the world hadn't fully decided what it was going to be yet.

Like something could still happen.

Luke shifted his weight slightly, the thought lingering longer than it should have. He didn't know why.

Michael's phone buzzed somewhere under a pile of clothes. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, leaning over to dig it out.

The screen lit up with a name he recognized immediately, followed by a string of messages that were definitely not urgent but somehow still persistent. He skimmed them, rolling his eyes slightly.

*You alive?*

*We still on for today?*

*Don't ghost me, Clifford.*

Michael snorted, typing back a quick reply before tossing the phone aside again.

His gaze drifted back to his arm. To the line.

There was something about it today. Something he couldn't quite place. It looked the same—of course it did—but it *felt* different.

Or maybe he was just bored enough to imagine things.

"Yeah," he said under his breath. "That's probably it."

Still, his fingers lingered there a second longer than usual.

Just in case.

Neither of them knew. Not yet.bNot that the line Luke traced absentmindedly in the morning matched perfectly with the one Michael couldn't quite stop thinking about.

Not that, if placed side by side, they would connect seamlessly, curve into each other like they were always meant to.

Not that something had already started shifting, quietly, somewhere between them.

Something small. Something inevitable.

For now, it was just a line.

Just ink.