Backstage crashes in again. Shouts. Hands. Movement. LTZ’s opening bass rattles the walls. Someone shoves a bottle of water at me. I don’t drink.
Padraig doesn’t bother changing. He makes a beeline toward the elevator.
I follow.
Cold air slips through the crack and cuts across my sweat-soaked shirt. He grips the metal rail with bothhands, shoulders rising and falling as he breathes. The noise from inside the stadium vibrates through the concrete.
“So…” I kick the ground.
“So,” he answers.
For a moment neither of us moves. The space between us holds twenty years of noise and motion and stubborn loyalty. Vans breaking down in the rain. Gear hauled up back stairwells. Nights spent sleeping upright so amps wouldn’t freeze. Arguments shouted, swallowed, forgiven without ever being named.
“This is really it?” I fight back tears.
He nods. “Aye. This is it.”
The words settle heavy. Final. I feel them in my chest, squeezing everything we built together into dust.
“I don’t know how to do this without you.” My voice cracks, despite myself.
He turns then, meeting my eyes, steady and calm. “You do. You have your own family now and you’ll do it differently.”
“You sure you won’t regret this?” I toe the ground.
“Nah.” He shakes his head once. No hesitation. “I won’t regret choosing my life.”
I think about all the times he chose my life instead of his. Tours taken when he should have stayed home. Chances passed because the band came first. Years spent holding the rhythm steady so I could chase the music with him.
“There’s nothin’ left to argue about,” I say, more to myself than him.
“No,” he agrees. “There isn’t.”
I step closer. “I love you, Dar.”
“Ah, Dar.” He exhales, eyes softening. “I know. I love you too.”
It lands deeper than any crowd ever could.
We stand there a few seconds longer, breath fogging between us. He looks lighter now.
Unburdened. I hate him and love him for it in equal measure.
I step forward without thinking. He does too.
We collide chest to chest, arms locking, the way we always have when words run out. I feel his breath hitch before he steadies. My hand grips the back of his T-shirt, fingers curling into fabric worn thin from years of travel and use.
Padraig and I are two bodies who learned each other before we learned anything else. I think about Padraig as a kid, hands too big for his first sticks, eyes locked on me during every practice. How many times he saved us without asking for credit. How many times he carried the weight so I could stay out front.
Same bones. Same stubborn heart. Same rhythm carried since the womb.
He pats my back twice, firm and familiar. I do the same. No lingering. No spectacle.
Twin love, clean and undeniable.
Then he steps back, already pulling away toward whatever comes next.
When I turn back, Avonna waits near the wing, eyes bright with everything she refuses to hide. Linus stands beside her, hands loose at his sides, watching me with the quiet understanding he always carries.
