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When Dominyka heard the budget that the band had been allocated for Eurovision, she had lead with a little too much excitement. She wanted to give them all the best experience possible— a little taste of luxury that, if she were in their shoes, she would be all too thankful for— even if just for a few nights. So, for the first pre-party they’d be attending in Amsterdam, she’d ran to book everyone their own room. To her surprise, that plan had been swiftly shut down upon the band’s request, asking for a triple room instead. Shared.
“To save money, you know,” Jokūbas stumbled.
“Mm. Good idea.” Emilija nodded, having sensed the rush in Jokūbas’ words. She didn’t need to cover for them, was too busy to attend Amsterdam in the first place, and yet she did so without even being asked. This was the kind of trust the band shared: a quiet, stable knowing.
Though she could say a million things, Dominyka didn’t pry — she didn’t have to, already knew what it meant – but she couldn’t help but giggle to herself, regarding them with raised brows and a playful ‘okay’.
Sometimes, when thinking at the office, Dominyka began to feel a small happiness blooming in her chest at the knowledge they were all getting closer— very much so, she’d noticed in their meetings— never failing to note how natural, how familiar their closeness was. She managed to spot it within everything, from a brief brushing of forearms to their passed glances that always seemed to last a second too long. Maybe she spends too much time with them.
Still, it all counts toward Žiauru, Dominyka thought amusedly as she slid an email to the hotel concierge. Another win in her books.
Weeks of normality— well, the strange kind of normal they’d grown used to recently— passed until April finally dawned on them. It came knocking with a PR smile that the band couldn’t help but take as vaguely threatening, so before they knew it, the boys and their delegation were sidling up on the plane to Amsterdam. As always, it was a little sad to part with Emilija, but she’d been kind enough to surprise them with a text upon their arrival at the hotel (which ended up far later than expected):
good luck and enjoy! i’ll miss you all 🫶🏽
The message was coupled with an image of two lit candles surrounded by gemstones.
Alanas’ brows furrowed at the screen. He showed the phone to Lukas, who squinted through the sunglasses that he frankly had no business wearing indoors. “Oh. Uh… good luck spell.” He said. Alanas only looked more confused. He couldn’t see Lukas’ eyes, but he gave what Alanas could only perceive as an insanely incredulous look before gesturing to the screen. “You see the red and brown? It means, like, luck. Grounding.”
There was a pause, then eventually a nod.
“Right,” Alanas leant back against the headboard of his bed. “That’s nice of her.”
“Yeah,” Lukas replied, a fond smile pulling at his lips.
“Our little talisman,” Alanas grinned as he tapped out an amused yet appreciative reply to Emilija. Though a good listener himself, he didn’t know how Lukas managed to pick up on all that witchy stuff, let alone retain the knowledge. He supposed Lukas had known Emilija longer.
When Emilija was with them, things were definitely easier. She naturally woke bright and early, liking to engulf herself in the soft glow of the morning, and she’d always wake the others— only one at a time, didn’t like to bother anyone, even though she’d always been told not to worry about it— just in time.
Sadly, her duty then fell to Alanas, who was most definitely not a morning person, but they’d been through this whole spiel enough times to know that Lukas would probably forget, and Jokūbas— the eldest of the group, mind you— would blearily put the alarm straight to snooze or fail to wake up entirely. How the mighty fall. Alanas rolled his eyes amusedly, a smirk curling up his features.
The group were confident in their performance, but Lukas had suddenly perked up at midnight, wanting to get in some last-minute practice. Jokūbas was all too happy at being able to test out some new drum fills, so they’d all complied. Got a little carried away with it, fell into their usual antics. They ended up slipping under their sheets at around three in the morning, trying not to think about the painfully early call time. Hopefully, the lack of sleep would be worth it.
It wasn’t. The alarm— a stupid, default ringtone that Alanas had picked out mere hours ago because he thought it would be funny— blared through the speakers of Alanas’s phone. He stirred, reaching up with closed eyes towards the bedside table. His hand smacked around before eventually landing on the right spot, turning the music off.
Against the harsh light peeking through the blinds, Alanas sat up and was able to make out Jokūbas squinting back at him.
“Good choice,” Jokūbas nodded sarcastically towards the phone. He stretched, shaking his head as an half-exasperated, half-endeared laugh falls from his lips.
Both of their eyes then fell down towards Lukas, who was still yet to open his eyes. They shared a glance.
“Lukai?” Alanas prods. He was met with silence, until:
“What time is it?” Lukas’ voice was just the right amount of gravelly, even muffled through the pillow, and both men tried not to revel in it.
“7AM,” Jokūbas supplied helpfully.
“But we leave at eight.” No response. Even though he couldn’t see his face, Alanas knew for a fact that Lukas’ eyebrows were knitted together. Lukas continues, “I take five minutes.”
Alanas interjected slowly, as if they’d been through this a thousand times, “yeah, and what about breakfast?”
“I don’t need breakfast, I just need—” Lukas paused to yawn, the words blurring together, “twenty-more-minutes.” He turned onto his side, burrowing into a more comfortable position. A conscious Lukas would feel a tad guilty right now, but at this moment, he was too tired to care.
His tone should annoy the others, but it didn’t. Instead, Alanas double-checked the time with a tap of the screen, then let Lukas drift back off. He’d wake him at seven thirty.
It was then that the other two realised they’ve gone soft.
They didn’t seem to care. Jokūbas got changed into the clothes he’d left on the dresser, headed to the door, and glanced back.
“I’m gonna get some food, alright?” He glanced to both of them. As if Lukas wasn’t already dead to the world.
Alanas hummed, looking up from his phone. “Get me a coffee? And… something.”
Jokūbas raised an eyebrow. “Anything in particular…?”
“Surprise me,” Alanas shrugged, before his gaze landed, as it often does, on Lukas. “Oh, and—”
Before Alanas could even finish his sentence, Jokūbas answered with his usual agreeable nod. “Yeah.”
Alanas smiled sluggishly, pointing finger guns at Jokūbas. “My man.”
The door was shut politely behind Jokūbas, and then it was back to the usual motions. He got dressed, brushed his teeth whilst scrolling through some horrible Instagram reels, and before he knew it, it was seven thirty.
Alanas sat himself on the edge of Lukas’ bed. “Ei,” he leant over to gently shake his shoulder, “Lukai.”
The man stirred underneath him, blinking blearily up at Alanas. He didn’t say anything, just… looked. Took the sight of him, first thing in the morning, in. Almost reverent. Or maybe he was just sleepy.
“Morning,” Lukas said, dregs of sleep etched into his tone. It took a second for Alanas to reply, both of them too comfortable in the silence to say anything more.
“Yo,” Alanas greeted with a raise of his brows, sighing as he sees his phone screen light up. A cue to stop their moment of tenderness. “It’s seven thirty.”
Lukas hummed in acknowledgement, shutting his eyes tight in attempt to get out of his drowsy haze. After a moment, he sat up. “Thanks for letting me sleep.”
Alanas shrugged, as if that’s automatically a given, which it was. Anytime. Shit, if he got to have a moment, however brief, like that with Lukas every morning— watch him scan every inch of his face intently, content to just rest in each other’s company— Alanas Brasas would die a happy and fulfilled man.
Lukas then hopped off the opposite side of the bed, and slipped into the outfit Karina had designed for them— they looked almost identical, but each with their own unique quirk. It surprised Lukas how well she read what they wanted. There wasn’t much time to think, though, as Lukas was practically running tasks on autopilot at that moment. It was often how his mornings went— well, as of late, anyway. Eurovision tended to do that to you.
After splashing water over his face, Lukas had a quick look in the bathroom mirror, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. He just had— they just had, they were in it together— to stay awake, endure interviews (and all the other artists), and give a good performance. The last part he didn’t mind so much; one of his favourite things about being a musician was concerts, sharing that experience, those feelings baked into the lyrics with an audience… and yet, still, both of his hands clung onto the sink, thumb tapping against the porcelain. He put all of his weight on it for a moment— almost forcibly— and then leant back, sighed again. Okay.
By the time he’d come back into himself, he could make out two voices engaging in faint chatter in the other room. Lukas realised now that he’d forgotten to ask where Jokūbas even was. Was too wrapped up in the homely waves of Alanas’ eyes above him. He missed them.
It was then that the bathroom door creaked open.
Jokūbas was sitting on the couch in their room, one leg resting lazily over the other. Alanas wasn’t beside him, instead sitting on the edge of his bed. He sipped from a paper cup. Steam rose from the plastic lid atop it, and he wrinkled his nose, glancing away to see a head of bleach-blonde hair in the hall.
“You look more alive.” Alanas nodded towards Lukas, who set himself down beside Jokūbas. He could’ve said ‘you look better’, but frankly, he missed Lukas’ bedhead.
“Barely,” Lukas mumbled, then tilted his head. “Sleep okay?”
Both of them gave a weak laugh, repeated Lukas’ words. “Barely.”
Alanas continued, “‘S’okay, though. Sleep deprived buff.” He shrugged with wide eyes and took another sip. Lukas’ eyes lingered on him for a moment before ambling down to the table beside him. Two cups— similar to the one Alanas was holding— lay upon it, alongside one half-eaten pastry, and another that looked significantly more appetising. Jokūbas seemed to notice, eyes widening as if he had forgotten something, and slid the cup and pastry— wrapped thoughtfully in a napkin— in Lukas’ direction.
“For you,” Jokūbas offered, as if that explained everything. Feeling himself meet nothing but a blank stare, he continued. “I got it from the cafe downstairs. Some kind of lemon, honey, tea thing. The lady said it’d be good for your voice.”
Lukas nodded as he cradled the cup with both hands, immediately feeling its warmth. “Thanks.” His words were muted but, as he spoke, a small yet genuine smile made itself known.
“Surprised you didn’t steal it, Jokūbai.” Alanas smirked. “Good restraint.”
Jokūbas almost laughed, but he caught himself, having been the butt of this joke a million times. Instead, he raised his eyebrows expectantly and spoke slow, holding one finger up like an old man telling a young whippersnapper of how it was better back in his day. “I’ll have you know that I care for my bandmates very much, and…” He didn’t stop talking.
Alanas looked over to Lukas, gesturing towards Jokūbas. His posture was wide and open. “You see this guy?” He questioned, rhetorical, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “This guy is a yapper, man.”
Lukas eyed him. A slight smirk curled up his features.
“Yeah, and you’re an alcoholic.” Alanas laughed in response. Lukas didn’t say much after that, still adjusting— and more focused on finishing his food in time— but he was comfortable in their company. Always was. The antics continued for a while, with Lukas chuckling every now and then, until it was time to leave.
Slipping into the car, Lukas was reminded vaguely of that one phrase… something about time flying? Running away from you when enjoying yourself. He was never quite sure how to feel about the sentiment, but right now, after the mere half-hour he’d spent with his bandmates, he certainly agreed. That was why he always tried to do the opposite, to savour those happy times and not give them to anyone else — just him and the people who mattered. Alanas. Emilija. Jokūbas.
The vehicle stopped with a jolt before his thoughts could spiral any further. He’d barely realised, too lost in his own world to the point that Alanas had to tap him on the shoulder to signal they’d arrived. Lukas definitely should have been aware, given the ride wasn’t long at all— Dominkya did say they could’ve walked it— but they’d taken the car instead to avoid getting swarmed by people.
Not that any of them thought they were famous enough to be stopped— well, yet, Lukas mused idealistically— but they preferred taking the precaution. They didn’t want to talk to too many people on three hours’ sleep, for both parties’ sakes. Someone would probably say something they didn’t mean. Lukas’ mind drifted vaguely to the article that’d be written in big, bold letters: this just in, Katarsis hate their fans and hope they die. He’d prefer to avoid that happening.
Unfortunately, once they got out of the car, the crowds were inescapable. The security was good, though, guided them through the people-sea in Moses fashion, which they curtly expressed their thanks for. There was any barely time to breathe before they went straight to interviews. Still, they were chiller than expected. They’d been told all about preparing to hear the same questions over and over again, and while that was partially true, it was a breath of fresh air in comparison to some of the journalism in Lithuania; the interviewers were less pushy— didn’t chase you around with cameras or assume you were something you weren’t— just treated the artists like people.
It was a strange thing to have to appreciate. Common decency should be, well, common.
A frequent topic in the interviews was concerts, and any of them could go on about that for ages: the songs, the feeling, the experience. They were especially looking forward to actually getting to play live today, unlike their national final, especially the instrumentalists. Having to ‘act’ playing always felt pretty disingenuous— like they were just there for show, an unnecessary piece of the puzzle. Today, though, that wasn’t the case.
It was an exciting feeling, stepping out on stage to perform. Sure, they were used to playing shows, but this was different— it was their first international audience. Who knows what they’d think? They shouldn’t really care about their opinion, but minds are built to wander. Getting into position, fingers toyed with fretboards as keyed-up eyes met briefly before scanning through the crowd— so many faces, so many unique individuals, eagerly looking up at them. Anticipatory. It made each of their hearts beat a little faster.
Then, lights down. A cue in their in-ears.
Lights up, a shimmer of tone, and the music kicked to a start. It all worked together in such an excellent way— wood against snare, coarse fingertips against string— as Lukas’ tone rang out through the hall. The audience were dead silent. Awestruck. Hell, so were the band. Each and every person in that room was dedicated to just feeling the music, with the audience, with each other. No faking or pretending. Just real.
Alanas snuck a glance at Lukas— which was real, too— and a smile couldn’t help but play at his lips. His arms high in the air, moving wildly across the stage as they chanted with him, sharing the rage and passion and unabashed emotion that Lukas displayed. Still, the audience could never replicate it. No one could.
He was Lukas — their Lukas, their Luko — the young man who’d put so much of himself into this, so much of himself into everything he did. Observant yet forgetful, soft yet opinionated, and always unfailingly authentic. He was born for something great, and here, watching him now, Alanas could see it. Something warm curled in his chest, a smug kind of possessiveness, knowing that not a single person watching would know that Lukas was his. Emilija’s. Jokūbas’.
His gaze lingered hungrily before he threw himself back into the music. It was over before he knew it.
“Thank you!” Lukas expressed with open arms, still catching his breath, his heartbeat racing from the thrill of performance. Pupils blown wide and smile drunk with adrenaline, he looked to Alanas, held the mic up to his mouth. As he repeated a slightly deeper version of Lukas’ words, Alanas could only hope nobody noticed the playful glint in their eyes— though, with what Lukas just did, he’s pretty sure the audience had to know something.
They were fucked either way, and frankly, as Jokūbas joins them in exiting the stage, none of them can find it in themselves to care.
After that, time seemed to pass by in a blur. They slugged through the ‘artist stage party’, that wasn’t really a party at all, and left after five minutes with their hands behind their backs— though not without Lukas filming something for his Instagram story. That seemed to satiate him, because he was the first to retire after waking goodbye.
By the time they’d gotten back to the hotel, evening had long since dawned. Everyone had heaved a sigh as the door shut behind them; it was a blessing to finally be free from all the performative pleasantries. Now, they were free to let go.
They’d suppered late at the hotel restaurant, now feeling warm, fulfilled, and ready to sleep.
Immediately, Jokūbas moved to get ready, scrambling through his suitcase, but a voice cut him off. He looked behind him to see Alanas sitting on his bed.
“I’m not changing. Fuck that.” Alanas said, stretching, and promptly flopped onto his back.
Jokūbas observed at the state of his suitcase. Glanced back up at the two, both lying comfortably upon their beds without a care. He quickly decided it was pointless. So, he surrendered with a sigh and cosied up onto his own bed.
The silence was easy — the kind of human, not-really-silence that came accompanied by soft breaths and occasional shuffling. They found peace in it. Then:
“Should we call Emilija?” Lukas spoke up from where he was leant against his headboard. He looked comfortable, hoodie drawn up as he toyed with the sleeves.
Jokūbas made a sound of thought. “It’s, what, eleven for her?”
“She’s probably asleep,” Alanas said amusedly.
“Yeah, maybe, but she had her show today.”
“I don’t think she’d mind,” Jokūbas shrugged, ever the voice of reason. “It’d be nice to talk.”
“Yeah,” Lukas says again, expectant, “so?”
There was a kerfuffle as they worked out where to sit. Clearly not Lukas’ bed, because he tended to toss and turn, and never bothered to re-tuck the sheets after— well, he always argued, what’s the point if you’re just going to sleep again? It made sense, though Alanas could never. Jokūbas’ setup was… okay— not particularly bad, for he always slept like a baby, even after incessantly drumming on his practice pad— but after trying to search for his pajamas, his side of the floor was in a state. He could’ve argued to fix it, but he wasn’t stupid; Jokūbas knew there were much better things to do right now.
So, they were all happy to settle on Alanas’ bed, which was queen-sized— the same as everyone else’s— and the most neatly made. They managed to bunch up close enough to fit the screen’s framing, with Lukas sat between the two other men. He already had his phone in hand, set on video call. He presses the button.
Ring, ring, ring…
Lukas taps his thumb to the ringtone.
Ring, ring… and then— static. The screen illuminates to reveal a sleepy Emilija. Her eyes squint at the sudden brightness, but the light doesn’t disturb her smile upon seeing the others.
“Hey,” Lukas can’t help but smile, too, voice low as if trying not to wake a sleeping animal.
“Hey,” Emilija repeats. Even when tired, she’s incredibly beautiful— if not even more so— with her dark curls splayed out on her pillow. Tan skin illuminated only by blue light. It was nice seeing her like this. Real. Just for them.
“We wake you?” Alanas shares Lukas’ hushed tone.
Emilija nods, hums to signal yes— Alanas gives a look to the two beside him— and continues. “I don’t mind. It’s nice to see you.” As she speaks, her voice gradually gets used to it— still a little groggy, sure, but unfailingly warm in that soft Emilija way.
“Nice to see you, too,” Lukas replies.
“Especially after today.” Alanas scoffs briefly at the absurdity of it all, running a hand through his curls. “Got, like, three hours’ sleep.”
“Oh, no,” Emilija frowns, “well, you’d better sleep tonight.” The boys nod slowly— Alanas with a mock salute— as she surveys the screen. Then, with a knowing glint in her eyes, “it looks like you will.”
They chuckle quietly, all soft smiles reserved only for each other. Lukas presses his face into Alanas’ shoulder.
“Your show go well?” Jokūbas changes the topic.
Emilija’s eyes brighten at the recognition. “Yeah. Glad to be home, though.”
With a nod, Jokūbas hums and gives a knowing glance to the two beside him. “Same for us.”
They talk until they’re too tired to continue any longer, ending with a hopeful ‘see you soon’ before Lukas taps the screen and turns off his phone. He hands it to Alanas, who pops it onto the bedside table and— without wasting a second— snuggles into Lukas’ back. Wraps an arm around him. His. Alanas smiles as he presses a kiss to the back of Lukas’ head, revelling in the lavender scent of his shampoo. The one that Lukas can’t remember the name of.
“Jokūbai,” Lukas murmurs, lazily shaking the shoulder of the man in front of him. Used to their routine, Jokūbas scoots back and lets Lukas wrap his arms around him. He gets a pleased hum in return.
Ah, yes. This is bliss.
They all shuffle to get closer. Lukas was content to be sandwiched between the two; he liked the pressure on his body. It was nice. Regulating, in a way— so much so that he could feel the tiredness catching up to him already, and Jokūbas could tell as he felt the hot breath on his neck begin to slow.
Well.
“So, tomorrow…” Jokūbas starts, attempting to broach the topic while he still can. He’s hushed by an impatient hum from Lukas, who sleepily curls his leg over Jokūbas’ thigh. That’s all he needs to hear. Slowly, Jokūbas exhales and resigns himself to his fate, running slow, gentle circles along Lukas’ palm. Right now, there was no point in worrying about what was coming next— not when they were amongst the people they loved.
They fall asleep like that, gentle and domestic, savouring the warmth of each other’s bodies.
It was the best any of them had slept in ages.