ajshaweel

[ajshaweel]

01: The Start

Okay, I actually put this on Wattpad like a week ago and didn’t realise that I didn’t put it here so sorry guys

______

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air. Metal ground against metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled backwards on his hands and feet, drops off sweat and shuffled backwards on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.

He back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness. With another jolt, the room jerked upwards like an old lift in a mine shaft.

Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tinny whine. The lightless lift swayed back and forth as it ascended, turning the boy's stomach sour with nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses, making him feel worse.

He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting.

My name is Kyle, he thought.

That...that was the only thing he could remember about his life. He didn't understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament.

Knowledge flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and details of the world and how it works. He pictured snow on trees, running down a leaf-strewn road, eating a burger, the moon casting a pale glow on a glassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy square with hundreds of people bustling about their business.

And yet, he didn't know where he came from, or how he'd got into the dark lift, or who his parents were. He didn't even know his last name.

Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of colour. He couldn't think of one person he knew, or recall a single conversation.

The room continued it's ascent, swaying. Kyle grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of chains that pulled him upwards. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was impossible to know for sure because every second seemed an eternity.

No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his instincts, he knew he'd been moving for roughly half an hour.

Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.

With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; the sudden change jolted Kyle from his huddled position and threw him across the hard floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.

A minute passed. Two. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal.

He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silence returned. He screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his fists.

Nothing.

Kyle backed into the corner once again, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body.

"Someone ... help ... me!" he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw.

A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Kyle watched as it expanded.

A heavy grating sound revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both hands.

He heard noises above—voices—and fear squeezed his chest.

"Look at that shank."

"How old is he?"

"Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt."

"You're the klunk, shuck-face."

"Dude, it smells like feet down there!"

"Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie."

"Ain't no ticket back, bro."

Thomas was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign--others felt familiar.

He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Kyle didn't know what he'd expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped into it with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the sky.

Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, throw up.

The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke as they yanked him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And Kyle knew he'd never forget the words.

"Nice to meet ya, shank," the boy said. "Welcome to the Glade."

[ajshaweel]

Stream Part 2 || Hálfdán X Kyle

The one where Hálfdán completes his stream

It was requested to do a part two, and I actually wanted to do one anyway so thanks You_know_who_321

______

"Anyway, chat," Hálfdán said again, his voice dipping just above a whisper. "Back to what I was saying before Kyle came in and hijacked my lap..."

He glanced at the screen, catching a wave of emotes and reactions: hearts, laughing faces, people spamming "WE LOVE A SOFT KING" and "he's down so bad."

"...I was talking about the new patch," he continued, shifting Kyle just slightly so he could reach his mouse.

The movement made the smaller boy mumble something unintelligible, but he didn't stir much beyond that.

"They nerfed literally everything I actually use. So that's great. Love that for me."

He started clicking through menus, explaining the changes and giving light commentary. Every now and then, his hand would absently rub slow circles into Kyle's back, like muscle memory. The chat noticed.

User35: THE WAY HE'S PETTING HIM 😭

User90: This is domestication at its FINEST

User12: Hálfdán multitasking like a king: gaming and cuddling

User88 (donation): Can Kyle snore into the mic next?

Hálfdán snorted quietly at that one, craning his neck slightly to see if Kyle had made any noise. He hadn't, just a slow, steady rise and fall of breath, calm and warm against his neck.

"He doesn't snore. He just... breathes really emotionally," he said, smiling faintly. "Like a dramatic cat."

More laughter in the chat. He could feel how soft his tone had become: how naturally it shifted when Kyle was nearby. It used to surprise him, but now it felt right. Kyle brought it out of him.

He played for maybe twenty more minutes, focusing enough to keep the stream entertaining but staying aware of the weight in his lap, the gentle warmth of it, the trust. He didn't want to move. Not yet.

Eventually, he stretched one arm upward with a low groan, careful not to jostle Kyle too much, and let out a sigh.

"Alright, chat," he said finally. "I'm gonna call it here. Appreciate all the subs, donations, and emotional support as I carried this broken-ass patch. You're all unhinged. I mean that with love."

He glanced at the boy in his arms, brushing a few strands of hair from Kyle's forehead.

"I'll be back... maybe in a few weeks or a few days I don't know. Y'all know I stream like a wild forest cryptid. Catch me when you can."

User43: NIGHT HALFDÁN

User12: give Kyle forehead kiss or we riot

User78 (donation): HE BETTER GET A FOREHEAD KISS 😤

Hálfdán laughed softly, reached toward the keyboard with one hand, and hovered over the "End Stream" button. Before he clicked it, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Kyle's forehead.

"You win," he murmured.

Then he ended the stream.

The room fell silent, the only light now coming from the glow of the monitors. He leaned back in his chair, arms still around Kyle, just holding him. The kind of silence that felt earned, peaceful and still.

"Babe," he whispered eventually. "Hey, you fell asleep on my lap again."

"Mmh," Kyle murmured sleepily, his voice thick. "Warm."

"You keep saying that like it's a valid excuse."

"It is." Kyle shifted slightly, nuzzling further into his neck. "Also, comfy."

"You're impossible," Hálfdán said softly, but there was no irritation behind the words. He was smiling.

They stayed like that for another few minutes until Kyle mumbled, "You done streaming?"

"Yeah. You hijacked the second half."

"Sorry," Kyle said, not sounding sorry at all. "Did I look hot?"

Hálfdán let out a laugh and leaned his forehead against Kyle's. "Always."

He kissed his cheek and gently lifted him, standing up with a small grunt and carrying Kyle bridal-style back toward the bed.

"You could've let me walk," Kyle said with a sleepy pout.

"You were dead weight, don't lie."

"You liked it," Kyle murmured, already dozing off again in his arms.

"...Yeah," Hálfdán said softly, settling them back into the blankets. "I did."

And as the lights dimmed and the room quieted, he held Kyle close, the kind of quiet contentment that didn't need streaming, didn't need an audience. Just two boys tangled up together, safe in their own small, perfect moment.

[ajshaweel]

06: Dress Rehearsals Don’t Lie

There was a strange stillness backstage during jury night.

No fans. No influencers. No cheering superfans waving flags in your face, just cold arena air and a line of artists waiting to bare their souls to sixty-odd national juries watching from quiet, anonymous rooms across Europe.

Kyle stood in his full stage outfit, charcoal sequined jacket, throat brushed with shimmer, eyes lined like amour, and couldn't stop clenching his jaw.

This was the performance that mattered. The one the cameras would replay. The one the juries would score. He wasn't afraid of the high note or the spotlight. He was afraid of what he'd bring into it.

Emotions didn't wait until after the final. They came for you here.

He was fourth to last. Austria's JJ went just before him.

From his spot in the wings, Kyle watched JJ's silhouette stalk the stage, draped in strobes and sensuality.

It was electric but also effortless. JJ had that rare gift: to make a performance look like a secret you were lucky enough to witness.

When JJ walked offstage, he passed Kyle without a word, but gave a small squeeze to his shoulder.

It said: Now it's your turn.

The stage manager called: "Norway! Kyle Alessandro, ready?"

He walked out into the darkened arena. The cameras tracked him like predators. The hush before the intro was so complete, Kyle swore he could hear his heartbeat in the rafters.

Then the music started and something changed.

He didn't just sing. He spoke.

His voice cracked in verse two: not from strain, but from truth. The kind of truth that forces you to drop the choreography and just feel.

The camera lingered on him longer than scheduled. You could feel it in the control room. In the sudden ripple of silence in the jury booths.

He wasn't just a contestant, he was a story unfolding.

As he exited the stage, palms still trembling, Kyle nearly collapsed onto the nearest crate.

A voice called his name.

Not JJ. Not Matéo. Not Damaris.

Brede.

Standing near the security rail, wearing his signature black denim jacket and that tired, worried look Kyle used to tease him for.

Kyle's breath caught.

"You came," he whispered.

Brede stepped closer. "I didn't want to make things messier."

"You didn't," Kyle said, his throat thick. "But you disappeared."

"I thought maybe you wanted to disappear too."

They stood in silence, the air charged.

"I didn't want someone to fix it," Kyle said. "I just didn't want to feel like I was on fire alone."

Brede stepped forward, hands careful but sure.

"Then let's burn together."

Kyle swallowed hard. "You didn't answer my last message."

"I didn't need to," Brede said. "I booked the ticket instead."

They didn't kiss, not then. Not with the crew everywhere, and makeup touch-ups buzzing, and JJ watching discreetly from across the hall but it was enough.

Enough to anchor Kyle for the final, enough to quiet the noise. It was enough to remind him that no matter how big the stage, he hadn't lost the parts of himself that mattered.

[ajshaweel]

Stream || Hálfdán X Kyle

The one where Hálfdán is streaming

This was a request but I forgot the user

______

Hálfdán had started streaming earlier that evening, after spending most of the afternoon curled up in bed with Kyle. They'd been watching an old comfort show together, something familiar that they both knew by heart, something they could doze off to without missing much.

Kyle had drifted off first, head resting against Hálfdán's chest, his fingers loosely curled into the fabric of the blonde's shirt.

Hálfdán had waited a while before slipping away as carefully as he could, replacing himself with a warm blanket, and heading to his setup.

He liked the chill vibe it brought, and tonight had been easygoing: a few matches, some casual Q&As, and his usual dry commentary that the chat seemed to love.

He was just over an hour into his stream when he heard the faint click of his bedroom door. He paused, glancing off-screen toward the sound.

Sure enough, a sleepy Kyle stood in the doorway, his hair mussed, eyes squinting in the glow of the room's soft LED lights. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, shuffling forward on bare feet.

Without a word, he made his way to Hálfdán and eased himself into his lap, straddling him comfortably and pressing his forehead into his boyfriend's neck.

"Hey, are you okay?" Hálfdán asked, one hand automatically cradling the back of Kyle's thigh while the other moved to steady him around the waist. Kyle only mumbled in reply.

"You left me... and you're warm," he said, his voice thick with sleep. Hálfdán chuckled quietly, adjusting slightly to better support the smaller boy's weight. His hands settled under Kyle's arse to keep him balanced as Kyle nuzzled in closer, clearly not planning to move anytime soon.

The chat immediately reacted.

User21: I've gyat to look away 😭

User28: They're so cute tho 😭😭

User49: Kyle kept that arse quiet 🔥

User59: Do I want to be Kyle or Hálfdán rn

Hálfdán rolled his eyes playfully and smiled down at Kyle, who was clearly fighting to stay awake but already losing. Without hesitation, he shifted the camera slightly upward so that Kyle's rear wasn't in full view.

"Kyle's arse is mine," he said matter-of-factly, like he was stating the weather. The delivery was so dry, the chat exploded again.

User27 (donation): LMAOOO HE IS JEALOUS 💀💀💀

The alert sound chimed, and Hálfdán groaned softly.

"Chat, you know how to expose me," he muttered, unable to hide the little smirk tugging at his lips.

He leaned his cheek gently against the top of Kyle's head, breathing him in.

Kyle was out cold now. He'd always been like this: able to fall asleep anywhere, especially if he felt safe. And for Hálfdán, nothing made him feel more grounded than moments like this: the contrast of his messy, chaotic chat with the quiet weight of Kyle in his lap.

He looked at his sleeping boyfriend, took in the way his lashes brushed against his cheeks, how peaceful he looked, and how naturally he fit into his arms.

'How the hell did I get this lucky?' He thought to himself

There was something grounding about Kyle, something that made everything outside of their little bubble seem distant and manageable. Hálfdán wasn't the most expressive person with words, but in these quiet, off-camera moments, his heart felt full.

He turned his attention back to the stream, lowering his voice just slightly, not wanting to wake Kyle.

"Anyway, chat," he said, voice softer now. "Back to what I was saying..."

[ajshaweel]

05: Between The Lines

The rumor mill never slept.

Not in Basel, not during Eurovision week. Not when Kyle Alessandro, Norway's golden flame, had become the tabloid favourite without even trying.

By the end of the week, his press folder had ballooned with headlines he hadn't asked for:

"Norway's Kyle and Austria's JJ: Just Friends?"

"Romance Sparks in Rehearsals—But What About the Model Back Home?"

"Eurovision Love Triangle? JJ, Kyle, and the Shadow of Brede Bremnes"

The last one made his stomach twist.

They'd even used an old photo of Brede, shirtless and sun-drenched on a fjord, with the caption:

"Norwegian model left on read?"

Kyle slammed his laptop shut.

The distance with Brede had been slow, like a shadow lengthening at sunset.

They still messaged, here and there.

• A "good luck" before rehearsals.

• A comment on Kyle's outfit: "Black feathers? Goth angel vibes. I dig it."

• Even a selfie once: Brede at a photoshoot, wearing the red sweater Kyle used to steal from his apartment.

But the rhythm had changed.

• No late-night calls.

• No voice notes with sleep in their voices.

• No dumb inside jokes that only made sense at 2 a.m.

And Kyle... noticed. Every time.

He sat on the floor of the dressing room one afternoon, half in costume, half in crisis, when Sissal from Denmark wandered in, carrying a bottle of peach soda and a look that said I know things I shouldn't.

"You're trending again," she said in a Danish-accented English, sitting cross-legged beside him.

"Wonderful," Kyle muttered. "Is it the boots or the alleged romance?"

"Both." Sissal took a sip. "But mostly the way JJ looked at you during yesterday's Q&A."

Kyle gave a tired smile. "He looks at everyone like they're art. It's part of the brand."

"Not like that."

A beat.

"I think you're scared," She said softly.

Kyle looked at her. "Of what?"

"Of being seen by someone while the whole world is watching."

That night, JJ cornered him in the hotel elevator.

"Have you been avoiding me?"

Kyle stared at the numbers ticking down.

"No," he said, "just... rerouting."

JJ leaned on the mirrored wall. "You don't have to answer the rumors."

"I'm not trying to," Kyle replied.

JJ tilted his head. "Then who are you trying to protect?"

The elevator doors opened.

Kyle stepped out without answering.

He texted Brede that night.

"Can we talk? Not about the press. Just... you and me."

No reply for hours.

Then finally:

Brede☀️

"I'm still here. Just trying to give you space. I don't know if I'm part of this world, Ky."

Kyle stared at the words, his throat closed.

He typed:

"You don't have to be part of the world. Just part of mine."

But he didn't hit send.

The next day, the producers rearranged rehearsal schedules.

JJ's run was moved directly before Kyle's.

They crossed paths in the wings.

JJ looked at him: not flirtatious, not smug, just real.

"Break a leg," he said.

Kyle held his gaze. "You too."

And in that moment, there were no headlines, no rumors, no Brede, no Austria, no Norway.

Just two artists standing on the edge of something.

Later, back in his hotel room, Kyle finally opened the note app where he kept lyrics that never saw daylight.

He wrote:

You can burn down a house, but what do you do when it was made of mirrors?

You run through the smoke, hoping someone on the other side is still waiting.

And then, for the first time in days, he slept.

[ajshaweel]

4: Electric Rivalry

The Austrian delegation arrived late, two days after most countries had already settled into the controlled chaos of rehearsals. But when JJ stepped into the artists' lounge in Basel, the room changed like someone had flicked a switch.

Tall, sharp-featured, electric-blue leather jacket, and a walk like the world was a runway made just for him. JJ didn't smile. He smirked and somehow, that was worse.

Kyle noticed him before anyone else did.

JJ's song, "Wasted Love" had exploded on streaming the moment the Eurovision entries were released. All synthetic heat and roaring basslines, it had the tone of a club confession: sweaty, hypnotic, unapologetically queer. He was already being called "the Austrian firebrand" by the press.

JJ didn't look at Kyle when they passed in the hallway. He looked through him. Kyle felt it in his chest.

They were paired together for a press segment,

"Meet the Rebels of Eurovision" they called it,

because someone on the media team had clocked their aesthetics and decided drama would trend better than politeness.

JJ sat next to Kyle on the long white sofa, legs crossed, sunglasses on, answering every question with a knowing shrug.

When the host asked, "Do you feel competitive toward each other?", JJ didn't hesitate.

"No. I'm not competing with anyone. I'm just here to burn the stage down."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "That's funny. I was hoping to set it on fire myself."

JJ turned toward him. The first time their eyes met properly.

Something clicked. Or sparked. Or short-circuited.

"You should be careful with metaphors," JJ said, calm as ever. "Some flames are hotter than others."

That night, after a late run-through, Kyle found JJ alone in the dressing room hallway, drinking something fizzy and humming into the mirror.

"Your third chorus is genius," Kyle said, leaning against the frame. "The rhythm drop? It makes the entire song pivot."

JJ looked over his shoulder. "Thanks. I watched your rehearsal too. Yours is... emotional."

He said it like it was either a compliment or a warning.

Kyle smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not. It's just... rare. Most people here are trying to win. You're trying to say something."

Kyle tilted his head. "What about you?"

JJ stepped closer, just a breath away. "I'm trying to say it louder."

They started running into each other more. At breakfast. In rehearsals. During sound checks. Sometimes it was intentional, sometimes not. But there was a pattern: neither of them walked away first.

One night, Kyle couldn't sleep. The city outside buzzed with neon and late trains. He found JJ in the hotel gym: barefoot, in sweats, blasting disco remixes at a volume that definitely violated some rule.

JJ didn't pause. Just looked up.

"You dance?"

Kyle blinked. "To this? In Basel? At 1 AM?"

JJ just grinned, then held out a hand.

The beat dropped. And Kyle, against every instinct, took it.

They danced. Not well, not choreographed. Just with energy. And tension. And a rhythm that neither of them tried to control.

Afterward, breathless, Kyle dropped to the floor beside him.

"This feels like high school," he said.

JJ laughed. "Only if your high school had dry ice machines and Eurovision groupies."

A long silence.

Then, more softly: "I used to hate being around other artists. I thought everyone was just pretending to care about the music."

Kyle looked at him. "And now?"

JJ shrugged. "Then I met you."

Kyle's breath hitched.

But JJ stood, grabbed his bottle, and walked out of the room with nothing more than a wink.

By the end of that week, the press had caught on.

Headlines buzzed:

"Are Austria and Norway More Than Friendly?"

"JJ and Kyle: The Duo We Didn't Know We Needed"

"Tension or Tease? Backstage Glances Stir Buzz in Basel"

Kyle ignored it.

Mostly.

Except he'd started waiting for JJ to appear: in the hallway, in the lounge, on stage and when he wasn't there, everything felt dimmer.

One evening, JJ found him alone on the arena balcony, overlooking the empty seats and glitter-stained floor below.

"You get stage fright?" JJ asked.

Kyle shook his head. "I get truth fright."

JJ didn't ask what that meant. He just leaned beside him, arms crossed.nThey didn't touch. Didn't speak again but the silence was louder than any song.

[ajshaweel]

Cracked Mirrors Part 2 || Kyle X JJ

Part 2 of the request

———

The room had gone quiet in that sacred, sleepy kind of way. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the heater and the soft lofi playlist Sissal had put on, something with soft rain and piano keys.

Kyle stirred against JJ's side, a slow, cautious movement. His eyes fluttered open, heavier now, but more present.

JJ noticed immediately. "Hey, there you are," he said softly, brushing a knuckle against Kyle's cheek.

Kyle blinked. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Did I... did I go little again?"

JJ nodded. "Yeah. Just for a bit."

Kyle winced, tucking his head into JJ's chest. "God. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Kyle didn't answer. The weight of shame settled fast, heavy and quiet. JJ could feel it in how Kyle's fingers curled into his hoodie, how he stopped breathing deep, like he didn't think he deserved comfort now that the fog was lifting.

The others had given them space. Miriana had shuffled out to wash the mug, and Sissal was cross-stitching in the hallway, pretending not to listen but definitely listening. JJ stayed where he was, holding Kyle gently, not trying to rush him.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" JJ asked finally.

Kyle nodded against his chest. Then a pause. Then:

"It was the mirror. Not just dropping it. The way it cracked..."

He swallowed hard.

"My uncle used to... he broke a mirror once. When he was mad. I was, like, seven. He made me stand in the glass and wouldn't let me move. Just screamed at me not to cry." He exhaled shakily. "I wasn't trying to remember it, but when I dropped it and it shattered, it was like I was right back there."

JJ tightened his hold on him, jaw clenching at the thought.

Kyle looked up, searching his face. "You're not weirded out?"

"Not even close."

"You don't think it's pathetic?"

JJ looked him dead in the eyes. "Kyle. You had a trauma response. Your brain was trying to protect you the only way it knew how. That's not pathetic, that's survival."

Kyle blinked fast, then leaned into JJ's chest like he was trying to disappear into him.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like that."

"I'm not," JJ said softly.

Kyle pulled back just enough to see his face. "What?"

"I mean it." JJ ran his fingers through Kyle's hair gently. "I want to be there for you. For the easy stuff, and the messy stuff, and the scary stuff. You don't have to hide parts of you to be loved."

Kyle looked like he might cry again, but this time, it was for a different reason.

"I love you, you know," he whispered.

JJ smiled. "I know. And I love you. Always."

Outside the room, Miriana and Sissal exchanged looks from their silent vigil.

"I'm still bubble wrapping that mirror," Miriana whispered.

"And maybe buying Kyle a mirror that doesn't break," Sissal added. "Like, a cloud-shaped one. Or foam."

Miriana nodded. "Therapy in the shape of interior design."

Later that night...

Kyle stood in front of the bathroom mirror — a new one, already framed in soft corkboard, no glass edges in sight.

JJ leaned against the doorway. "You okay?"

Kyle met his eyes in the reflection. "Not totally. But better."

JJ nodded. "Progress, not perfection."

Kyle turned around and walked into his arms. "Thanks for catching me when I cracked."

JJ kissed his temple. "Always."

[ajshaweel]

01: Here Comes Kyle

These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr Alessandro. Their names are Grandpa Go-Jo and Grandma Miriana.

And these two very old people are the father and mother of Mrs Alessandro. Their names are Grandpa Sebastian and Grandma Emmy.

This is Mr Alessandro. This is Mrs Alessandro. Mr and Mrs Alessandro have a small boy whose name is Kyle Alessandro.

The whole of this family, the six grown-ups and little Kyle, lived together in a small wooden house on the edge of a great town.

The house wasn't nearly large enough for so many people and life was extremely uncomfortable for them all. There were only two rooms in the place altogether and there was only one bed.

The bed was given to the old grandparents because they were so old and tired. They were so tired, they never got out of it.

Grandpa Go-Jo and Grandma Miriana on one side, Gramdpa Sebastian and Grandma Emmy on the other side. Mr and Mrs Alessandro and little Kyle Alessandro slept in the other room, upon mattresses on the floor.

In the summertime, this wasn't too bad, but in the winter, freezing cold draughty blew across the floor all night long and it was awful.

There wasn't any question of them being able to buy a better home - or even one more bed to sleep in. They were far too poor for that.

Mr Alessandro was the only person in the family with a job. He worked in a toothpaste factory, where he sat all day long at a bench and screwed the little caps on top of the tubes of toothpaste after the tubes had been filled.

But a toothpaste cap-screwer is never is never paid q dads very much money, and poor Mr Alessandro, however hard he worked, and however hard he screwed on the caps, was never able to make enough money to buy one half of the things that a so large familya needed.

There wasn't even enough money to buy proper food for them all. The only meals they could afford was bread and margarine for breakfast, boiled potatoes and cabbage for lunch, and soup for supper.

Sundays were a bit better. They all looked forward to Sundays because then, although they had exactly the same, i was allowed a second helping.

The Alessandros, of course, didn't starve, but every one of them -    two old grandfathers, the two old grandmothers, AKyle's father, Kyle's mother and especially little Kyle himself - went about from morning till night with a horrible empty feeling in their tummies.

Kyle felt it worst of all. And although his father and mother often went without their own share of lunch or supper so that they could give it to him, it still wasn't nearly enough for a growing boy.

He desperately wanted something more filling and satisfying than cabbage and cabbage soup. The one thing he longed for more than anything else was...

CHOCOLATE

Walking to school in the mornings, Kyle could see great slabs of chocolate piled up high in the shop windows and he would stop and stare and press his nose against the glass, his mouth watering like mad. Many times a day, he would see other children taking bars of creamy chocolate out of their pockets and munching them greedily and that, of course, was pure torture.

Only once a year, on his birthday, did Kyle Alessandro ever get to taste a bit of chocolate. The whole family saved up their money for that special occasion, and when the great day arrived, Kyle was always presented with one small chocolate bar to eat all by himself.

And each time he received it, on the marvellous birthday mornings, he would place it carefully in a small wooden box that he owned and treasure it as if it were a bar of solid gold; and for the next few days, he would allow himself to look at it but never to touch it.

Then at last, when he could stand it no longer, he would peel back a tiny bit of the paper wrapping at one corner to expose a tiny bit of chocolate, and then he would take a tiny nibble - just enough to allow the lovely sweet taste to spread out slowly over his tongue.

And in this way, Kyle would make his sixpenny bar of birthday chocolate last him for more than a month.

But I haven't yet told you about the one awful thing that tortured little Kyle, the lover of chocolate, more than anything else. This thing, for him, was far, far skred worse than worse than seeing slabs of chocolate in the shop windows or watching other children munching bars of creamy chocolate right in front of him.

It was the most terrible torturing thing you could imagine and it was this:

In the town itself, actually within sight of the house with Kyle lived, there was an ENORMOUS CHOCOLATE FACTORY!

Just imagine that!

And it wasn't simply an ordinary enormous chocolate factory, either. It was the largest and most famous in the whole world! It was WONKA'S FACTORY, owned by a man called Mr Willy Wonka, the greatest inventor and maker of chocolates that there has ever been.

And what a tremendous, marvellous place it was! It had huge iron gates leading into it, and a high wall surrounding it, and smoke belching from its chimneys and strange whizzing sounds coming from deep inside it.

And outside the walls, for half a mile around it in every direction, the air was scented with the heavy, rich smell of melting chocolate!

Twice a day, on his way to and from school, Kyle Alessandro had to walk right past the gates of the factory. And every time he went by, he would begin to walk very, very slowly and he would hold his nose high in the air and take long deep sniffs of the gorgeous chocolatey smell all around him.

Oh, how he loved that smell!

And oh, how he wished he could go inside the factory and see what it was like!

[ajshaweel]

00: Introduction

Kyle Alessandro loves chocolate. And Mr Willy Wonka, the most wondrous inventor in the world, is opening the gates of his amazing chocolate factory to five lucky children. It's the prize of a lifetime! Gobstoppers, wriggle sweets and a river of melted chocolate delight await - Kyle needs just one Golden Ticket and these delicious treats could be all his.

Hiii! Welcome to this book, tanks for sticking around. This is based on thr "Charlie And The Chocolate Factory" book by Roald Dahl

Introducing The Characters:

Kyle Alessandro as Charlie Bucket

"The Hero"

Mr Willy Wonka as Mr Willy Wonka

JJ Pietsch as Augustus Gloop

"The Greedy Boy"

Halfdan Matthiasson as Mike Teavee

"A boy who does nothing but watch television"

Tynna Bornemisza as Veruca Salt

"A girl who is spoiled by her parents"

Sissal as Violet Beauregarde

"A girl who chews gum all day long"

Katarsis as The Oompaloompas

Go-Jo as Grandpa Joe

This book is inspired by the fact that Charlie And The Chocolate Factory is one of my favourite books of all time

Warnings:

Rudeness

Bullying

Death

Arguments

If I think of any other warnings as I write then I'll add them

[ajshaweel]

00: Introduction

When the lift cranks open, the only thing Kyle remembers is his first name. But he's not alone - an army of boys welcome him to the glade, an encampment at the centre of a terrible maze. The Gladers have no idea why they're there, or what's happened to the world outside. All they know is that every morning when the walls slide back, they will risk everything to find out.

Heyyyyyyy!! Welcome to this book, thanks for sticking around. This is based on The Maze Runner books by James Dashner.

Introducing The Characters:

Kyle Alessandro as Thomas

Brede Bremnes as Newt

JJ Pietsch as Minho

Hálfdán s Gally

Tynna as Teresa

Go-Jo as Alby

Sissal as Frypan

Lucio Corsi as Chuck

Adonxs as Zart

Danya Leshchynskyi as Winston

Miriana as Jeff

Tommy Cash as Ben

This book is inspired by the fact that The Maze Runner is one of my favourite franchises of all time

Warnings:

• Death

• Swearing

• Fighting

• Love

• Abuse

If I think of any other warnings as I write then I'll add them

[ajshaweel]

Cracked Mirrors || Kyle X JJ

The one where Kyle Age regresses by accident

This was a request

———

The Beauty Blenders were halfway through a chaotic lipstick swatching session when it happened.

JJ was perched on the window seat, one thigh slung lazily over the armrest, flipping through a mood board for their next shoot. Sissal sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping fingers into tubs of glitter with obsessive precision, and Miriana was balancing a ring light with one hand and a protein bar with the other.

Kyle had been quiet all morning. Not sulky, just... pulled inward. JJ had noticed it: in the way Kyle kept adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie, in the way his eyes flicked to the bathroom mirror, then away. But JJ, being JJ, figured Kyle would talk when he was ready.

What no one expected was the snap.

Not like a loud, dramatic kind. More like the quiet breaking of something stretched too thin for too long.

Kyle had gone into the bathroom to grab more cotton rounds. He'd been gone for two minutes when they heard the sound: a clatter, then a soft "No, no, no—" like a little kid trying to will something un-happen.

JJ was the first to the door. "Babe?"

Nothing.

He cracked it open, and there was Kyle, sitting on the floor in front of the vanity, surrounded by spilled serum bottles and one cracked hand mirror. He wasn't crying. Not in the loud, sobby way. His arms were wrapped around his knees, and his hoodie had swallowed half his face, and his eyes were wide — glassy, unfocused, young.

Way too young.

JJ blinked. "Kyle?"

Kyle didn't answer. His lips trembled, and when JJ stepped closer, Kyle flinched: tiny, like a startled fawn.

Then, in the smallest voice JJ had ever heard from him:

"I didn't mean to drop it... don't be mad..."

Miriana appeared behind JJ, took one look, and her whole expression shifted. "Oh... oh," she whispered. "Regression."

Sissal crouched next to her. "Is he—? Oh my God. What happened?"

JJ didn't answer. He was too focused on Kyle, who was now tugging at the cuff of his sleeve like a security blanket.

JJ knelt slowly, voice soft. "Hey, love. It's okay. No one's mad."

Kyle shook his head, still not really seeing them. "I just wanted to help... I was trying to clean it like Mom used to and then I dropped it and—" His voice broke. "I didn't mean to be bad."

JJ's heart cracked a little. "Kyle," he said gently, moving closer, "you're not bad. You're not in trouble. You're safe, okay?"

It took a moment, but Kyle nodded. Barely.

Miriana stepped in carefully, whispering to JJ, "Sensory overload? Triggered by the mirror?"

JJ's mouth twisted. "Yeah. His uncle used to... never mind. I think the glass reminded him of something."

"Got it." She turned to Sissal. "Can you grab a soft blanket? And maybe his hoodie with the dino ears?"

Sissal nodded and darted out.

Later, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch

Kyle was curled up against JJ's side, sipping warm cocoa from a sippy cup (courtesy of Sissal, who had surprisingly strong babysitting game). His regression wasn't deep, just enough to need softness, warmth, and voices that didn't ask too many questions.

JJ smoothed Kyle's hair back from his face. "You're okay now, baby. We've got you."

Kyle blinked sleepily up at him, thumb brushing his lip like a reflex. "Still love me?"

JJ laughed softly, hugging him closer. "Of course. Even when you drop mirrors and melt down in the bathroom."

Sissal poked her head around the door. "You two need anything?"

"Maybe just a nap playlist," JJ said, looking down at Kyle's already-drooping eyes.

Miriana added from the hallway, "And someone remind me to bubble wrap every reflective surface in this flat."

They all smiled, even Kyle, barely.

And just like that, the crack in the mirror stopped mattering.

[ajshaweel]

Movie || Kyle X Brede

The one where Kyle insists that he isn't tired

———

Rain tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm, not quite heavy, but enough to make the world outside feel like it was wrapped in a big grey blanket. Inside, the living room was glowing with soft lamp light, warm and golden, casting gentle shadows over the walls.

Brede and Kyle were on the couch.

This time, there was a movie playing, something random and semi-interesting that Brede had picked from deep in the Netflix vault.

Some quiet indie film with muted dialogue and lots of moody scenery. Kyle had insisted he wasn't tired.

"You always say that before you pass out," Brede said, glancing over at him.

"I'm not going to pass out," Kyle replied, already curled into the corner of the couch with his legs tucked under him and his hoodie sleeves, or should we say Bredes hoodie sleeves, pulled down past his hands.

"I'm just... relaxed."

"Uh huh." Brede tossed a piece of popcorn at him. It bounced off Kyle's shoulder.

Kyle didn't even react.

His eyes blinked very slowly.

"You blink like you're buffering," Brede muttered.

"I'm fine," Kyle said through a yawn that snuck up on him halfway through the sentence. "I'm just... resting my face."

"Sure."

A few minutes passed. The movie droned on in the background, full of quiet piano and soft conversations in small apartments. Kyle had gone completely still, only his fingers occasionally twitching inside his sleeves. His head started to lean a little to the side.

Then a little more.

Then it bumped into Brede's shoulder.

Brede didn't move.

Kyle made a sleepy noise, a small huff through his nose, but didn't lift his head. Instead, like his body had decided it was done pretending, he slowly leaned further: shoulder to shoulder, then side to side — until he was basically melted against Brede, cheek pressed to the side of his chest.

Brede looked down.

"Kyle," he said gently. "You're totally asleep."

"No I'm not," came a muffled voice from somewhere in the folds of his hoodie.

"You are literally breathing into my ribs right now."

"Shh. Movie."

Brede smiled.

"Do you want me to move you?"

Kyle didn't answer. But his arms shifted slightly, looping half-around Brede's waist. Not tightly, just enough to say don't.

Brede didn't. He stayed where he was, adjusted the blanket a little to pull it over both of them, and let Kyle drift.

The movie kept playing, forgotten. The rain tapped steadily at the window. And Kyle, despite all his denial, let himself fully fall asleep, breathing slow and steady against his best friend's side.

Brede rested his hand on Kyle's arm, quiet, steady, warm.

And the two of them stayed there, in the kind of stillness that only exists between people who trust each other completely.

Kyle was fully out now.

Brede could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against him, the occasional twitch of a dream flickering through Kyle's fingers where they were loosely curled against his hoodie.

His head had settled more comfortably under Brede's chin without him even noticing.

Brede hadn't moved in fifteen minutes.

He didn't want to. The movie had ended a while ago, long forgotten. The TV screen was quietly asking

"Are you still watching?"

Brede didn't bother to answer. His attention wasn't on the screen anymore. It was on Kyle.

Kyle, who could talk a mile a minute when he was awake, who could spend hours overthinking everything, bouncing between topics like a pinball. But asleep? He was quiet. So still. So soft around the edges.

Brede glanced down at him.

There was a small wrinkle in Kyle's forehead, even in sleep: like he was trying not to let go all the way. Still holding on to tension that hadn't fully melted. Brede knew that look.

It showed up when Kyle had been running on low energy for too long: emotionally, physically, both.

With a quiet sigh, Brede reached for the edge of the blanket again and tucked it up further over Kyle's shoulder. Then, very carefully, he rested his chin lightly on the top of Kyle's head.

Kyle didn't stir. Brede let his eyes close, just for a second. He wasn't tired, exactly. He just felt... full.

Not in a loud way. Not like excitement or adrenaline. But in that quiet, heavy, meaningful kind of way, the kind that felt like a deep breath after a long day.

It wasn't the first time Kyle had fallen asleep on him. But it felt different lately. There was something deeper in it. More unspoken. Like the silence between them wasn't empty, it was trusted space.

Brede glanced over at the window, where the rain had slowed to a mist. The kind of drizzle that just hung in the air like fog. The streetlights outside had flickered on without either of them noticing, casting a warm orange glow into the corners of the room.

His hand, without thinking, slowly started tracing small shapes against Kyle's shoulder. Just the fabric of the hoodie: circles, then lines, then back again. Not enough to wake him. Just something grounding.

He whispered, barely loud enough for the air to catch

“You're safe, you know”

Not for Kyle to hear, not really, just because he needed to say it.

And then, quietly, tenderly, he leaned back a little and looked at his best friend curled up against him, completely asleep, and smiled.

Kyle had fallen asleep fighting it but maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to fight so hard anymore.

[ajshaweel]

3: Mirrors In Basel

The first thing Kyle noticed when he landed in Basel wasn't the city or the venue.

It was the mirrors.

Everywhere: hotel lobbies, dressing rooms, corridors that reflected versions of himself that he wasn't sure were real anymore.

It was all sleek and pristine: clean Swiss glass buildings, Eurovision branding on buses, and press badges hanging like medals around everyone's necks. This was no longer the pageantry of Melodi Grand Prix. This was Europe watching. And Kyle was the face on the banners.

NORWAY 2025 – KYLE ALESSANDRO – "LIGHTER"

It felt surreal, even for someone who regularly wore rhinestones before breakfast.

The rehearsal venue was cavernous: an old arena transformed into a dreamscape of rotating LED walls, rigged lighting, and camera tracks that seemed to move like predators. He stood on stage for the first time that Monday morning, his in-ear monitors buzzing, surrounded by dozens of crew in headsets and black.

"Three... two... one... Kyle, we're rolling!"

The music hit, his cue.

Kyle stepped forward, into the light, into the smoke, into the moment he had spent months visualizing. But something wasn't right.

The vocals were tight. The lighting perfect. But when he hit the final high falsetto over the glimmering synths of the chorus, his voice caught—not in pitch, but in feeling. Something had dimmed since Oslo.

"Again," he told the crew. "Let me try it again."

The stage manager raised an eyebrow. "You've got two more passes today. Want to space them out?"

Kyle just nodded, adjusting his headset. His stylist hovered at the edge of the stage, fiddling with his metallic cape like it might fall apart if breathed on too hard.

Backstage, the other artists buzzed in their own little orbits: Sweden's icy electropop truo; Spain's iconic diva, a thunderous Polish singer who'd already broken two microphones during rehearsal.

Kyle floated through it all.

Brede hadn't texted him in two days.

They hadn't made any promises. No labels. But the absence cut anyway, like a glitter shard left in his chest. And now, under Basel's white-hot lights, Kyle felt like he was wearing ten versions of himself, none of which felt whole.

That night in the hotel, his room overlooked the Rhine. The city glowed in distant patches. His costume for the next run-through, platinum shoulder plates, sheer sleeves, velvet trousers, hung like a ghost beside the wardrobe.

He sat at the window. Not looking at the view. Just listening to his demo again.

"Lighter" was written during a storm. You could hear it in the track: the build, the surge, the deliberate falter in the bridge. He had written it about freedom and about his mother. About being seen. About defiance wrapped in glamour. But now... it felt distant. Like someone else had written it for someone else to perform.

He turned his phone over in his hand three times before unlocking it.

Still nothing from Brede.

Just endless messages from press and producers. One stylist had sent him unsolicited heel designs. Another message, anonymous,simply read:

"Are you going to tone it down for the juries?"

He didn't reply.

The next morning, rehearsal began again. This time, Kyle requested a different lighting pattern: less gold, more cool blue during the second chorus. He wanted contrast. Wanted people to feel what he was fighting for, even if they didn't know what it was.

In the middle of the second run-through, the bridge hit. And Kyle paused.

Off script.

The crew panicked.

"Kyle?" the stage director's voice buzzed into his in-ear.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood in the center of the smoke, staring out into the empty arena.

Finally, quietly, he said:

"I don't want this to be a performance anymore. I want it to be a pulse."

Silence.

Then, one of the lighting crew whispered to a tech: "Let him have it. It's a better cut anyway."

That night, back in his hotel, his phone finally buzzed.

Brede: "Watched your rehearsal leak. You looked like you were standing at the edge of the world."

Kyle stared at it.

Then typed:

"Maybe I am. Come visit."

No answer came that night. And somehow, Kyle was okay with that.

He turned off the lights. Let the silence hold him.

And for the first time since arriving in Basel, he didn't feel like a mirror.

He felt like a flame.

[ajshaweel]

Toothache || Kyle X JJ

The one where Lumo ruins Kyle’s teeth

———

It all started with Lumo.

The Eurovision mascot, in all his round, bouncy, plush glory, had somehow managed to cause the downfall of Kyle Alessandro's back molar.

No one expected it, least of all Kyle himself, when, during a pre-Eurovision rehearsal, he slipped on a piece of glitter tape left on stage and fell directly onto the oversized plushie.

Now, it wasn't the fall that did it. It was the fact that Kyle, determined to save face, had clenched his jaw so hard during the tumble that a crack formed in his upper left molar. And for the next week, he kept telling himself it was fine.

JJ knew better. His boyfriend had been poking at the same spot in his mouth every morning and mumbling things like,

"It's probably just a popcorn kernel," or "It doesn't hurt hurt,"

which, translated from Kyle-speak, meant: it's agonizing, but I will not admit weakness.

When Kyle woke up with his cheek swollen and one side of his mouth sagging like a deflated soufflé, JJ didn't even argue. He booked the emergency dental appointment himself.

"You're getting it taken out today," JJ said firmly, arms crossed as he helped Kyle shuffle into the dentist's office, scarf pulled up over half his face like he was in disguise.

"It's either that or Eurovision with a balloon head."

Kyle mumbled something unintelligible that sounded like "Tell Lumo he's dead to me."

Kyle hated dentists. Not because of the pain, but because he hated giving up control. He was used to spotlights, microphones, and glitter cannons: not sterile rooms with humming lights and minty latex gloves.

But when the dentist injected the local anesthetic and then pushed a tiny mask over his nose to administer laughing gas, all of Kyle's resistance floated away like a deflating helium balloon.

JJ waited in the reception room, pretending to read a magazine, but mostly scrolling his phone nervously. Thirty minutes later, the nurse poked her head out with a slight smile.

"He's all done. A little loopy from the medication, though. You'll want to keep an eye on him."

JJ was not prepared for what came next.

Kyle Alessandro, pop sensation, Eurovision finalist, human hurricane, was bundled in a puffy jacket and slumped over like a sleepy koala in the recovery chair.

His hair was slightly flattened on one side, a piece of gauze sticking out the corner of his mouth like a rebellious piece of paper, and he was humming the theme from The Lion King under his breath.

"Kyle," JJ said, crouching down beside him. "Hey, love. We're going home, okay?"

Kyle blinked at him. Big, dazed, heart-meltingly innocent eyes. "JJ," he slurred, reaching out and smacking his palm gently against JJ's cheek like he was checking if he was real.

"Your face is so pretty. You look like a golden retriever. But like... a sexy one."

JJ bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Thanks, I think?"

Kyle grinned, then looked absolutely stunned. "Wait. Did you know I have a boyfriend?"

JJ raised a brow. "Oh really?"

"He's like... amazing," Kyle said dreamily, swaying a little as he sat up straighter. "He has like... arms. And a face. And feelings. He takes care of me and brings me soup. Do you think he'll marry me?"

JJ tried to help him stand, failing miserably as Kyle sagged into his side like an affectionate baby sloth. "I think he might consider it," JJ said, arms securely wrapped around him. "If you survive the next few hours without choking on your gauze."

Getting Kyle home was a journey. First, Kyle tried to pay the receptionist with a Eurovision lanyard ("It's limited edition!"), then insisted on taking a selfie with a potted plant because he said it "looked lonely."

JJ apologized about fifteen times before finally getting Kyle into the car.

By the time JJ got Kyle into the car and buckled him in, it was clear the post-extraction meds were beginning to hit extra hard.

Kyle's head lolled to the side like a marionette with tangled strings, his eyes fluttering open and shut as he fought the overwhelming urge to nap mid-sentence.

Kyle insisted on being wrapped in JJ's hoodie like a burrito.

Halfway home, he burst into spontaneous tears.

"It's just..." he sobbed. "Lumo betrayed me."

JJ, barely holding it together, reached over and squeezed Kyle's hand. "I know. But I think he still loves you."

Kyle sniffled. "He better."

Then there was a bit of silence before Kyle spoke up once again

"JJ..." he murmured, eyelids half-closed. "I can smell... colours."

JJ glanced over, trying not to laugh. "What do colours smell like?"

Kyle paused dramatically. "Orange smells like betrayal. Purple is regret. Glitter is Lumo's soul."

JJ blinked. "Right. Got it."

Kyle slumped sideways, cheek squished against the seatbelt, voice now a whisper. "I'm a potato," he declared solemnly. "I don't feel like a potato. But I am a potato."

"You're beautiful," JJ said, grinning. "Like a golden mashed potato with glitter sprinkles."

Kyle slowly turned his head, wide-eyed. "Are you flirting with me?!"

"I'm dating you."

Kyle gasped. "That's so bold. You should have asked me first! What if I was a goose in disguise?!"

JJ nearly swerved from laughing so hard.

Then, without warning, Kyle sat bolt upright, pupils dilated like dinner plates. "JJ. Listen to me. This is important."

JJ braced himself. "Okay. What is it?"

Kyle grabbed his hoodie with both hands, looking wildly serious. "We have to adopt thirty guinea pigs. Immediately."

"Why?"

"They will guard the house," Kyle whispered, leaning in, "with tiny swords."

JJ just shook his head, chuckling. "Remind me to never let you near Lumo again."

JJ fumbled with the keys as he helped Kyle up the last step to their flat. Kyle clung to him like an affectionate, oversized sloth, one socked foot dragging behind, the other sort of hovering like he couldn't decide if he wanted to float or walk.

"Door's being mean," Kyle whispered as JJ pushed it open. "Tell it I'm friendly."

JJ sighed, smiling in that tired way reserved only for people dating chaos incarnate. "The door is fine, Kyle."

He guided him through, and Kyle paused in the entryway like he had never seen it before.

"Oh my god... we have walls?" he said, running his hand down the hallway like it was rare art. "We're so rich."

JJ gently closed the door and helped him out of his hoodie. Kyle immediately grabbed it back and hugged it close like it was a teddy bear.

"You smell like home," Kyle mumbled, then looked up with wide, sleepy eyes. "Can I keep you?"

"You already do," JJ chuckled.

Kyle gasped dramatically. "Romance!"

Once home, Kyle refused the couch because "the floor is closer to the earth, and I need to feel grounded."

JJ ended up making a pillow fort around him, placing a mug of lukewarm tea beside him and changing the gauze when needed.

Kyle, still floaty, made JJ promise they could open a bakery together. He named it "Flour and Feelings." He also requested that all the bread be shaped like Eurovision trophies.

"You're delirious," JJ laughed, brushing Kyle's curls back from his forehead.

Kyle blinked slowly, eyes glassy but warm. "I love you," he said suddenly.

JJ froze.

"I love you too," he replied, heart skipping like a broken drumbeat.

Kyle blinked again. "Wait... did you just say you're a sexy golden retriever?"

"Nope. That was you."

"Oh." Kyle closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh. "Well. You are."

Ten minutes later, JJ finally managed to get Kyle onto the sofa. Kyle promptly sunk into the cushions like they were made of clouds. His head lolled to one side, and he stared up at JJ with the dopiest, most innocent smile.

"Do you think tooth fairies do trade-ins?" he asked.

JJ, grabbing a blanket, paused. "What?"

"I gave them one of mine. I want it back. I miss it. My tongue is lonely now."

JJ chuckled and tucked the blanket around him. Kyle tugged at it with little effort until JJ was forced to sit beside him. The moment he did, Kyle half-crawled into his lap, curling up like a sleepy cat.

"You're warm," Kyle mumbled, eyes half-lidded. "I wanna live here now. In your lap. Forever."

JJ didn't even argue. He just held him.

Kyle blinked up lazily. "JJ..."

"Yeah?"

"If I die, make sure the tooth fairy doesn't take my bones."

"You're not going to die."

"Still... just in case."

Some time passed in the quiet. The TV was on, playing something soft and forgettable in the background. JJ was scrolling on his phone while Kyle snoozed with his cheek pressed into JJ's chest.

Suddenly, Kyle stirred. "JJ?"

"Yeah?"

"...Are bees allowed in heaven?"

JJ looked down. "What?"

"I just feel like it wouldn't be fair if they weren't. They work really hard."

JJ stared at him for a moment, then kissed his forehead. "Bees are definitely allowed."

Kyle sighed contentedly. "Good. I love bees. And bagels. Do you think the bagel I ate earlier misses me?"

"I'm sure it's honored to have been part of your journey."

Kyle nuzzled closer. "You always know the right thing to say."

A beat of silence.

"...Can I tell you a secret?" Kyle whispered, suddenly serious.

JJ leaned closer. "Of course."

"I think Lumo might've cursed me."

JJ blinked. "The Eurovision mascot?"

Kyle nodded solemnly. "Ever since we saw him, my tooth fell out and now I'm small."

JJ laughed outright. "You've always been small."

"I used to be average!" Kyle argued—though his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, undermining him entirely.

Then he blinked, processing his own words. "Wait. Was I... normal? Am I... less than average now?"

JJ could barely keep a straight face. "You're exceptional."

Kyle beamed. "That's like normal but with sparkles."

Eventually, JJ helped him into bed. It was a process. Kyle wanted to wear socks but no pants, then decided that he might be a bird and needed a nest, then insisted JJ read him a bedtime story before collapsing halfway through his own attempt at singing a lullaby.

He lay there blinking up at the ceiling.

"JJ?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

JJ kissed his temple. "I love you too."

A sleepy smile curled across Kyle's lips. "Even when I'm weird?"

"Especially then."

There was a pause. Then a soft mumble: "Okay... but if I start talking to the lamps again, don't tell anyone."

"I won't."

Kyle's breathing slowed. He was finally drifting off, completely cuddled into JJ's side, looking far too soft for someone who once stage-dived in glitter boots during a Eurovision afterparty.

JJ ran his fingers through Kyle's hair and whispered, "You're gonna be fine."

And for the first time that chaotic, toothless, loopy day, Kyle didn't argue.

He just smiled in his sleep.

Kyle didn't remember much when he woke up.

"Why is there gauze on the ceiling fan?" he mumbled.

"You wanted to make it a 'tooth fairy trap,'" JJ replied from the doorway, holding a smoothie.

"Oh god."

"You also tried to write a breakup letter to Lumo and cried halfway through."

Kyle groaned, burying his face in a pillow.

JJ set the smoothie down beside him, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, "Next time you need dental work, I'm bringing a camera."

Kyle grinned. "Only if you promise to still love me when I call you a sexy retriever again."

JJ laughed. "Deal."

[ajshaweel]

2: Smoke Between The Stars

The following Friday came wrapped in silence.

Kyle had spent most of the week orbiting interviews, rehearsal calls, wardrobe consultations, and a thousand urgent emails that all said

"Just checking in!"

with terrifying cheerfulness. He replied to almost none of them.

Instead, his mind kept returning to that dim bar. To the odd calm he'd found sitting across from Brede Bremnes. To how different the model had been from the glossy images that floated through bus stops and Instagram stories.

There was still something he couldn't quite decode about him.

So when a simple message arrived late Friday morning—"Feel like being off the grid for a night?"—Kyle responded without hesitation.

"Yes. Say when."

"I'll pick you up at 7."

Brede arrived at Kyle's apartment like he was allergic to being seen. A cap low over his face, tinted sunglasses despite the hour, sleeves pushed up in a way that shouldn't have looked deliberate but did.

Kyle watched him from the window, amused.

He dressed simply: black jeans, silver boots, a vintage Eurovision tee he'd found in a Bergen thrift shop years ago. His only flash was a glitter nail polish leftover from the final. It had chipped but still sparkled in the hallway light.

"Nice ride," Kyle said, sliding into the passenger seat. Brede's car was unassuming, sleek, grey, the kind of thing you'd overlook in a parking lot and then see in a magazine ad for 'discreet power.'

"I borrowed it from a friend," Brede said. "I don't really drive much in Oslo."

"Let me guess," Kyle teased. "You prefer helicopters."

Brede glanced over, a half-smile on his lips. "No. I prefer boats. But I figured you wouldn't want to freeze to death on your second unofficial date."

Kyle blinked. "So this is a date?"

Brede didn't look at him. He changed lanes. Smoothly. Quietly.

"Call it a social experiment."

They drove for forty minutes, trading bits of music. Kyle played the first rough demo of a Eurovision revamp he was working on: less pyrotechnics, more strings. Brede said nothing until the track ended, and then murmured

"You sound less like you're performing, and more like you're saying something you actually mean."

That lingered.

Eventually, they reached a cabin tucked behind a veil of pine and birch near Nordmarka. No one else was there. Just forest, moonlight, and the faint smell of firewood already burning.

Kyle stared up at the sky as they stepped out.

"You can actually see stars here."

"You can see yourself better, too," Brede said quietly.

Inside the cabin, the silence felt intentional. Brede made a fire. Kyle kicked off his boots and curled onto the leather sofa like he'd done it a hundred times. They barely spoke for a while. The sound of the crackling fire became their language.

When Brede finally sat beside him, a low stretch of space remained between them, filled only with tension and heat.

"You're quieter than I expected," Kyle said.

"And you're louder than you want to be."

Kyle turned his head, eyes narrowing. "You always speak in riddles?"

"I model for a living. Ambiguity is part of the contract."

Kyle laughed. "So is silence, I guess."

Brede didn't deny it. He picked up a book from the table, some poetry collection, weathered and translated. Read a single line out loud:

"There are places in the world that echo before you even speak."

Then he looked at Kyle. Direct. "That's how I felt the first time I saw you on stage."

Kyle didn't say anything.

Because he felt it too.

That strange pre-echo. That moment in the dark when you feel someone else reaching across the quiet.

Later, they played music—old vinyl records, Norwegian ambient, queer indie tracks from Denmark and drank something warm with cinnamon and honey in chipped mugs.

Kyle lay with his head resting on the arm of the couch, legs stretched across Brede's lap, neither of them saying anything for the longest time.

When Kyle finally broke the silence, his voice was soft:

"You know they're going to tear me apart once rehearsals start."

Brede tilted his head. "Who?"

"The Eurovision vultures. The press. The cynics. The ones who think glitter's a mask for lack of depth."

"Is it?"

Kyle hesitated. "No. It's armor."

Brede gently rested a hand over Kyle's shin, the pressure warm, grounding.

"I think you're allowed to wear armor. As long as you know when to take it off."

A long breath passed between them.

In that moment, neither of them moved. Not closer, not away. They didn't need to. There was something precious in the non-movement. In the decision not to break the tension. In the kind of closeness that trusted time more than impulse.

Brede broke the silence. "Stay here tonight."

Kyle blinked. "I didn't pack anything."

"You're wearing enough stardust to count as pajamas."

Kyle grinned. "That's the most model-thing anyone's ever said to me."

And he stayed.

Not because he was tired, or lost, or starstruck.

But because something in Brede's quiet steadiness felt like a promise. Not of romance, not yet. But of refuge. Of presence. Of seeing someone without needing to name them.

[ajshaweel]

1: Fireworks & Shadows

Melodi Grand Prix

He did it..he actually did it. Kyle couldn't quite believe it. Everything felt like a blur.

The lights in the Oslo Spektrum didn't just shimmer, they exploded.

Kyle Alessandro stood motionless for half a second, the final note of his song still vibrating in the air, when the flood of applause crashed around him like a tidal wave. Confetti rained in golden sheets. The crowd was on their feet. And just like that, after voting, he had won.

Melodi Grand Prix. His name on the trophy. His voice the one that would echo across Europe in May.

Everything blurred as the presenter's voice boomed behind him, someone from NRK trying to hand him a microphone, another trying to take the trophy back for photos.

Cameras zoomed, the live broadcast still rolling, but Kyle could only see light. Or maybe it was adrenaline. He didn't know anymore. His song "Lighter" had made it. He had made it.

It wasn't just a victory. It was a shift.

He'd entered the competition with a glitter-lined smile and a slightly rebellious attitude, all while hiding the weight of sleepless months, vocal strain, and second-guessing. But the song had struck: dramatic, theatrical, full of colour and synth and emotion. People got it. They got him.

Later, backstage, the press mobbed him. Norway's golden boy of the moment but beneath the glitter, Kyle felt a strange hum. A kind of quiet. As if life was tilting ever so slightly toward something else.

By midnight, he was in his room, half-sunk into a velvet couch, sipping a too-bubbly soda and ignoring his buzzing phone. Most of the texts were from industry people now: labels, stylists, agents he hadn't heard from in years. He scrolled with a glassy detachment until one name caught his eye.

Brede Bremnes.

He blinked.

The name alone felt sharp: crisp consonants, northern cold, something elegant but grounded. He knew it. Everyone who spent more than five minutes in Norwegian fashion did. Brede Bremnes, the model. Six-foot-something. All jawline and cheekbones.

His face was on billboards across Scandinavia: winter coat campaigns, edgy fragrances, the occasional brooding photo shoot in a half-open button-up.

But why was he texting Kyle?

"Gratulerer. That performance was wild."

"I've followed your stuff since the Lighter Era. Let me know if you're ever in Tromsø."

"Or, you know, if you're free tomorrow night in Oslo."

Kyle reread the messages twice.

His heart thudded. Not in a starstruck way, though yes, Brede was stunning. It was something else. Something between curiosity and... a pull. The kind of instinct that led to good songs. Or bad decisions. Or both.

He tapped back slowly:

"Tomorrow night, Oslo. Where?"

The reply came instantly.

"There's a bar near Aker Brygge. Low lights, no press. 8PM."

The next evening, Oslo was lit up in gentle blue dusk, the fjord reflecting city lights like a mirror. Kyle walked the harbor path alone, hoodie up, his platinum hair still shining underneath. A couple recognized him, one took a blurry photo from a distance, but he kept moving.

The bar was tucked into an old converted warehouse: dim, discreet, full of warm wood and soft synth music humming low from hidden speakers. When he stepped in, he spotted Brede immediately.

He looked like an oil painting.

All calm angles and Scandinavian ease, sitting at a window table with a wine glass he hadn't touched. He stood as Kyle approached, and that subtle model expression, mysterious, slightly unreadable, softened.

"Kyle," Brede said, and there was a small, knowing smile. "Or should I say, Norway's chosen one?"

Kyle smirked. "I prefer 'unofficial glam pop overlord,' but I'll allow it."

They both laughed, light, but real.

Kyle sat across from him, shoulders relaxing. For a moment, it didn't feel like a meeting between two public figures. It felt like... a start. A story not yet written.

Brede leaned in, voice low. "You know, Eurovision has never seen someone quite like you."

Kyle tilted his head. "That a compliment or a warning?"

Brede smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. "Both. And I wanted to be here before the rest of the world realizes it."

[ajshaweel]

0: Introduction !

Kyle Alessandro as himself

Brede Bremnes as himself

The rest of the people as themselves

Disclaimer

Contains the following:

Sexual Language

Maturity

Swearing

I hope you enjoy this book and if you have any chapter ideas then leave them in the comments!