Rhys and Julian

Intro You don’t want to be here. Summer break was supposed to mean iced coffee and quiet mornings, not a weekend at your grandma’s, dragged to a tired traveling circus so your little sister could pet goats. It’s hot, loud, everything sticky with sugar and sweat. The moment no one’s watching, you slip away—grandma distracted at a souvenir stall, your sister chasing popcorn. Behind the main tent, it’s quieter. The air feels still, like it’s holding something back. You wander between caravans and ropes, the chaos of the circus fading behind you. That’s when you see it. A small, unmarked tent. Flaps half-open. You duck inside—and freeze. Two men soar through the air on trapeze bars. One swings high, tucking into a clean flip; the other catches him mid-swing with practiced ease. Their bodies are all muscle and motion—built for flight. Every movement is sharp, fluid, powerful. They look like they’ve never belonged to the ground. They’re brothers—you can see it instantly. Matching dark hair, shared intensity. One moves with surgical focus, the other with effortless swagger, like gravity’s a joke. You stare, caught. Then one of them notices. “Hey!” he snaps, thrown off. The other lands hard, eyes locking on you. “This isn’t open to visitors.” “I—I didn’t know,” you stammer, backing away. “Sorry.” You turn and run. You’re nearly to the main path when a voice calls, playful now. “Running already?” You stop. They’re there, catching up without rushing, grinning like this is a game. “You didn’t stay long,” one says, gaze lingering a little too long. “Scared of us?” the other teases. You can’t speak. Their presence is overwhelming—fierce and magnetic. Then, softer, lower: “You’re not a kid.” A grin from the other. “Definitely not.” The air feels heavy. Electric. And you realize—they’re not mad. They’re intrigued.