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one blink and it's over

Hálfdán Helgi Matthíasson (Væb) x Reader

Warnings: slight angst, fluff!! i love him sm

Summary: During Eurovision week in Basel, a contestant from another country forms an unexpected connection with Hálfdán from Iceland’s Væb. What starts as playful flirting turns into something deeper as they share stolen moments, kisses, and quiet confessions. Though she fears it’s just a fleeting Eurovision fling.

a/n: this is so cute i almost threw up writing this

3.8k words - not proofread

There were too many people here. Too many sequins, too many camera angles, too many languages bouncing off the rafters of the St. Jakobshalle arena. And you had your own delegation to manage, your own interviews to nail, your own choreography to perfect.

But the blonde boy dressed in silver with the big rhinestoned glasses made himself hard to ignore.

Maybe it was the way he was always there, just loud enough to cut through the fog of nerves that hung around everyone else. He was never quiet, never still, but never annoying either. Somehow walking that impossible tightrope between chaotic and charismatic.

The first time you properly spoke was during a joint rehearsal walkthrough for camera angles. You were waiting for your turn, pacing near the catering table, half-focused on your own nerves. Væb had just finished their run, the five of them climbing off the stage, still catching their breath.

Hálfdán spotted you and beelined like a guided missile.

“You were mouthing the lyrics,” he said.

You blinked. “I wasn’t.”

“You were,” he insisted, eyes bright. “At the second chorus. Little bit. I saw.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Were you watching me instead of your camera cue?”

“Multitasking,” he said proudly.

You tried not to smile. You failed.

“Fine,” you said. “Maybe I like the song.”

“See,” he grinned. “We’re growing on people.”

You shook your head, amused despite yourself. “Do you always flirt with everyone who knows your lyrics?”

He tilted his head. “Only the ones who pretend not to.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of blushing, but something about the way he looked at you made it harder to keep your usual professional mask in place.

It wasn’t the last time he found you.

In the cafeteria. In the hallway after soundcheck. During that one press mixer where you’d both been corralled into a Eurovision-themed trivia game and ended up on the same team. He was quick and loud and fearless, and it should’ve been too much. But it wasn’t.

The flirting became a thing. Little comments. A lingering glance during a group photo. His arm brushing yours when you stood too close. You told yourself it was harmless. Eurovision week was always a fever dream. No one ever left this bubble with something real.

One night, after a long day of rehearsals, your delegation had gathered in the hotel bar. A few drinks in, you slipped outside for air and found him there too, leaning on the railing, hoodie pulled up, his usual glasses instead of rhinestones covered sunglasses tonight.

“You hiding?” you asked.

He turned, smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe.”

You joined him. The Basel night air was cool against your skin.

“Your rehearsal looked solid,” you said. “You didn’t almost drop your glasses this time.”

“Progress,” he said. “In the final I will be like a pro.”

You chuckled. It was quiet for a moment.

“You’re good up there,” he said suddenly. “Like, annoyingly good.”

You glanced at him. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You’ve got that… locked-in thing. Calm. Makes people pay attention.”

“You sure you’re not just saying that because I know your lyrics?”

He smirked, then grew a little more serious. “No. I just wanted to say it. Before everything goes completely insane.”

You knew what he meant. The semi-finals were around the corner. After that, everything would accelerate. Every moment would be captured, clipped, memed, shared. Then it would be over.

“I keep forgetting it’s not real,” you said quietly.

“What’s not?”

“This. Eurovision. This week. It’s like a dream, but with more laser shows and strobe lights.”

“Yeah,” he said, nudging your arm gently. “And maybe one or two people you actually want to remember.”

You looked at him.

For a second, there was no noise. No LED screens. Just him.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

───────────────────

It was supposed to be just a few minutes.

You’d followed him out onto the balcony behind the arena, the one technically reserved for accredited staff, but Hálfdán had grinned and said, “You’ve got a lanyard. That counts.”

The night air in Basel was cool against your skin after the heat of the lights and crowds inside. Below, the city sparkled. Neat and quiet, so different from the whirlwind behind you. Hálfdán leaned on the railing beside you, his shoulder brushing yours now and then, like he couldn’t quite stop moving, even when he was still.

“They’re gonna yell at us for sneaking out,” you said, watching him.

He smiled, then looked at you. “You can blame it on me. I’m very blameable.”

“Not a word.”

“Yet.” He nudged your arm with his. “I like it out here better. Don’t you?”

You didn’t answer immediately. The sounds of the river and the distant buzz of Eurovision still hung in the air, but this felt quieter. Not still, but slower. Like you could actually hear yourself think.

“I think I’m going to miss this,” you said finally, surprising yourself with the truth of it.

He turned toward you, just slightly. “The contest?”

“The chaos. The people... The feeling that something big is happening.”

Hálfdán was watching you. You could feel it.

You opened your mouth to say something else. To deflect, maybe, but he stepped a little closer. Just a gentle shift. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just looked at you with that open, unwavering way of his. Like he didn’t mind being seen.

And then, quietly: “Can I?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. You did. You’d been thinking about it since the first rehearsal, since the first time he grinned at you like you were in on some secret.

But this wasn’t just a kiss. It was a promise you couldn’t make. Not really.

He must have seen something in your face, because he added, softer, “You don’t have to.”

You didn’t move for a second. Then you reached up, fingers light against the edge of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to something.

“I know,” you said. And then you kissed him.

It was slower than you expected. Less of a crash, more of a pull. Like gravity, like an answer to a question you hadn’t realized you’d been asking. He kissed you like someone who didn’t need to prove anything, who had nothing to rush. Like the moment was enough.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was beating too fast, and your brain was already trying to catalogue the way he’d looked at you. Like he wanted it to mean something.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because Eurovision would end. The glitter would fade. You’d go home, and so would he.

And maybe this kiss was just a beautiful moment, tied to a stage and a spotlight and a city that didn’t belong to either of you.

He stepped back, finally, giving you space, but not distance.

“We should go back in,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

“Yeah.” He didn’t move. Just smiled, a little softer than before. “But I’m glad we came out here first.”

You nodded, trying to keep your face neutral. Like your chest hadn’t just cracked open a little.

Because even if this was temporary, even if it was just an ESC fling like you feared, it was still real.

And that was going to make walking away so much harder.

────────────────────

The delegation lounge was buzzing. Rehearsals were done for the day, and people had started to loosen up. Shoes off, jackets unzipped, nerves temporarily tucked away behind empty coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches. You were curled up at the edge of a couch, legs tucked under you, pretending to scroll your phone while trying not to stare across the room.

Hálfdán was mid-conversation with a couple of the Danish crew, animated as always, hands flying as he talked. He wore a hoodie now, rhinestones still decorating his pretty blue eyes, but the big black glasses were off. He was wearing his usual glasses now, which made his already big eyes appear even bigger and bluer. The look was casual, comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe, for someone who’d kissed you in on the balcony in the back and then grinned like he hadn’t just upended your entire sense of balance.

It had started with teasing. He’d made a comment about your staging, something about the dramatic lighting cue. You’d fired back. It had escalated. There had been laughter, and a pause, and a look. And then: his hand in yours, pulling you towards the back of the venue.

You weren’t sure what it had meant to him. You hadn’t talked about it. You didn’t want to ruin the bubble of it, not yet.

But now, watching him laugh like nothing had changed. Like that moment hadn’t left your heart stuck somewhere just below your throat. You were suddenly very aware of the countdown again. Eurovision wasn’t a real world. It was a two-week sugar high. What happened here didn’t follow normal rules.

Eventually, everyone left.

Eventually, the lounge thinned out. You hadn't noticed how long you had sat on the couch alone until someone turned off the overhead lights, leaving just the glow of a corner lamp and the soft flicker of LED strips along the bar. You didn’t notice Hálfdán slipping away from a conversation until he was standing in front of you.

“You’ve been hiding,” he said, hands in his pockets, voice lower now.

“Not hiding. Observing,” you said, even though it was kind of a lie.

He tilted his head, a little skeptical. Then he sat down next to you, knees brushing yours. The closeness felt easy, natural. That was part of the problem.

“You okay?” he asked after a second.

You hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded, letting the quiet settle. You weren’t used to him being this calm. It threw you off.

“You looked like you were having fun,” you added after a moment.

He grinned. “I'm always having fun.”

His smile faded slowly, like he’d remembered something heavier.

“I was trying not to look at you,” he said, voice a little more careful.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because when I do, I forget how to be normal,” he said, and then quickly added, “not that I’m great at that anyway.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

────────────────────

The green room was louder than ever. You’d stopped being able to hear your own heartbeat about five country announcements ago.

Two spots left.

You gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles white. Your delegation around you was trying to stay upbeat, but the tension was a living thing. Wrapping around your spine, pressing against your ribs. Every time Hazel or Sandra said, “The next country to qualify is…” your breath would catch, and then another country would be announced to qualify.

One spot left.

It wasn’t going to be you. Not this year.

You felt it settle in your chest like a weight. This quiet, awful acceptance that your time was up. That the months of planning and hoping and rehearsing had led you here, to a final camera shot of your team trying to clap politely while your insides folded in on themselves.

You didn’t even hear your country’s name, just your team and the stadium screaming. Someone grabbed your hand. The camera cut to your face and you tried to smile through the overwhelming rush of relief, disbelief, and something dangerously close to tears.

And then he was there.

Hálfdán.

He didn’t walk. He sprinted from the opposite side of the green room, past the Swedish sofa, around the Italian camera crew, dodging a boom mic and yelling your name like he was celebrating his own win.

You didn’t have time to process it before his arms were around you, lifting you clean off the floor in a dizzying, breathless spin. You squeaked as your feet left the ground.

“You did it!” he laughed, spinning you once, twice. “I knew it! I told you!”

You were laughing too now, breathless with it, holding on to him instinctively as the world whirled around you.

“Hálfdán put me down, I’m going to fall on live TV–”

“No chance,” he said, voice bright in your ear, before finally setting you down, hands warm on your waist to steady you.

Cameras were on you. Your delegation was cheering. You should’ve been thinking about the thousands of people watching, the clips that would be shared before midnight. But you weren’t.

You were thinking about how close he was. How his hands lingered on your hips a moment too long. How your heart hadn’t slowed down since he ran to you.

“You looked like you were about to throw up before they said it,” he teased gently.

“I felt like I was going to throw up.”

“But you didn’t. You’re in.”

You smiled, still slightly stunned. “We’re in.”

His grin softened, and for a second, it felt like the noise fell away.

“I’m really glad,” he said. “Really. I don’t want this to end yet.”

The implication sat between you for a moment. This, meaning Eurovision. This, meaning you.

You wanted to say something. Something light. Something safe. But all that came out was a quiet, shaky, “Me neither.”

The camera moved away. The moment should have ended.

But it didn’t.

Because when he looked at you then, it wasn’t like someone sharing a stage or a press line or even a kiss on a balcony. It was quieter than that.

And scarier.

Because you were starting to believe you’d miss him when it was over.

Really miss him.

Which meant you were in trouble.

────────────────────

The semi-final afterparty was everything you expected it to be and a little more chaotic.

The venue had been converted into a low-lit sea of LED strips and mirrorballs, with Eurovision bangers blasting from the speakers and performers from all over Europe dancing like tomorrow didn’t exist. Glitter clung to your arms like second skin, and someone had already spilled prosecco down your sleeve, but you barely noticed.

And somehow, through all the noise, you still knew where he was.

Hálfdán had been orbiting in and out of your vision all night. On the dance floor with Erika and his brother, singing into an empty beer bottle like it was a mic, getting handed Go-Jo's cowboy hat and not giving it back. He’d winked at you across the bar more than once, but he hadn’t come over. Not yet.

You weren’t sure if you wanted him to or not.

No, that was a lie. You did. You just didn’t know what it would mean.

You were sitting on the edge of a velvet bench, drink in hand, skin warm from dancing, when he finally appeared beside you, Hoodie unzipped, hair tousled, cheeks pink. His sparkly glasses were positioned on top of his head and he looked flushed and out of breath and almost too real for this surreal night.

“You’re a ghost,” he said dramatically, flopping down next to you. “I kept losing you in the fog machine.”

“You could’ve looked harder,” you said, teasing, but softer than usual.

He leaned in a little, voice warm in your ear. “I was afraid I’d find you kissing someone else.”

You snorted. “I’m not that fast.”

“I am,” he said. “Incredibly fast. Blink-and-you-miss-it fast.”

You looked at him. His grin was crooked. Confident. Stupid. Dangerous.

The music was too loud for thinking. Or maybe you were just too drunk for denial. Your heart had been beating too hard since the green room, and he was here now, close and warm and looking at you like he was trying to memorize you.

His expression shifted. Still smiling, but less performative now. Like he’d dropped something.

“I want to kiss you again,” he said, honest and simple.

“Then do it,” you said, almost without thinking.

You were drunk. You were exhausted. You were floating somewhere outside your own body, glitter-sticky and a little too warm.

But the second his mouth touched yours, everything dropped back into place.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he remembered exactly how you’d tasted the first time. Like he’d thought about this moment in all the in-between silences. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with something impossibly gentle for a guy who’d just danced barefoot to his own backing track.

The kiss deepened slowly, lazily. There was no rush now. Not with the bass shaking the floor and laughter spinning around you in circles. It was just you and him and the bright hum of being wanted.

When he pulled back, breath hitching slightly, his forehead stayed pressed to yours.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” he said.

You kissed him again. Just once, softer this time.

────────────────────

Hours before the Grand Final, you were sitting backstage with your knees tucked to your chest, barely noticing the crew rushing past. The buzz was different now. Sharper. Cleaner. Everyone around you was running on adrenaline and sleep deprivation, and so were you. But something else had settled in your chest tonight.

It wasn’t stage fright. It wasn’t fear of failure.

It was the knowing that this was almost over.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him. Not rushed or loud, but deliberate. Familiar.

Hálfdán crouched in front of you, his glasses slightly fogged up from the heat backstage, hair a mess from where he’d tugged his hoodie off. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He sat down beside you without asking, one knee up, arm slung over it. “Is it the final?”

You shook your head. “Not just that.”

You glanced at him, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I keep thinking… this ends tomorrow. And then we all go home. And I don’t know what that means for–” You stopped yourself. “For us.”

There. You said it.

Hálfdán didn’t flinch. He just turned, facing you more fully. The loudness he usually carried, his confidence, his chaos, his voice that filled roomy, it softened here. Like he understood that this needed something different.

“It won’t end,” he said simply.

You looked at him, unsure. “You say that now, but you don’t know how it’ll be. We’ll be in different countries living different lives.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “But I still know what I want. That doesn’t change just because the lights turn off tomorrow.”

He reached over, his fingers brushing yours, then lacing them together without forcing it.

“I’m not pretending this has been normal,” he said. “It’s Eurovision. It’s weird and loud and shiny. But you and me? That’s been the most real thing in it.”

Your chest ached.

“And if you want this after,” he added, “I do too. I’ll visit. I’ll call. I’ll do whatever. I’m not just saying that because we’re sleep-deprived and surrounded by LED screens.”

You laughed, half a breath, mostly relief.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Then I want it too.”

He smiled, and it wasn’t one of his playful grins. It was something steadier. Something you wanted to believe in.

“Good,” he said. “Then let’s go survive the final. And then we figure out what’s next.”

────────────────────

Austria won.

You were happy for JJ, really. His song was clever and bold, and the crowd had gone wild. But once the flags stopped waving and the cameras turned off, the high began to settle into something quieter.

The afterparty was in full swing again, but this time you and Hálfdán slipped out early. Not because you were tired. Not really.

You ended up outside, walking aimlessly through the quiet parts of Basel near the river. The air was cool, your shoes in your hands, heels clicking against each other with every step.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Eventually, you stopped near a bench. Sat down. He joined you, hoodie zipped halfway, fingers brushing against yours again.

“Feels weird that it’s over,” you said.

He nodded. “Yeah. Like we blinked and missed half of it.”

You looked at him. The way the city lights reflected off the water. The way his glasses caught a flicker of gold. The way he looked at you like this was only the beginning.

“I’m glad we had this,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want it to turn into one of those things that only ever existed here.”

“It won’t,” he said instantly. “You think I’m gonna go home and forget the person who sang my lyrics and pretended she didn’t?”

You laughed, eyes stinging for some reason.

He leaned closer, hands cupping your face. “I meant it, okay? About visiting. About calling. About you.”

You closed your eyes. Let the moment settle. Let yourself believe it.

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t glittery or loud. It wasn’t born of adrenaline or stolen under stage lights. It was slower. His hands cradled your jaw, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as though memorising the shape of you, as though trying to hold this exact second in place.

He kissed you like he had time now. Like this wasn’t running out.

You melted into it, hands gripping the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to something that didn’t feel fleeting. His lips were warm and soft and a little uncoordinated, like he was smiling into it. You were too.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you a little breathless but content. His glasses had fogged slightly and neither of you could stop grinning.

“God,” he said, voice low, rough, “you ruin me.”

You laughed into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you in that familiar way, like you fit exactly where you were.

Later, back at the hotel, you traded hoodies in the hallway, your perfume clinging to his sleeves, his scent wrapped around you. You sat cross-legged on the floor of your room, sharing terrible 3 a.m. snacks from the minibar. Gummy bears, weird chocolate, a bag of chips neither of you could identify the flavor of.

There were maps open on your phones. Screenshots of budget flights. Notes with time differences and half-made plans.

“I’ll visit you in July,” he said, pointing at a weekend with a circle drawn around it.

“And I’ll come to you for New Year’s,” you promised, already picturing it. Fireworks, Reykjavík, him.

At some point, you moved to the bed, limbs tangled together, talking until your voices faded into murmurs and silences. He lay back with one arm behind his head, the other curled around you. You rested your cheek on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Every so often, his fingers would trace lazy shapes along your spine, not even fully awake anymore.

Outside the window, the sound of distant laughter and music still drifted from the last of the Eurovision parties. The city buzzed quietly around you, but the room felt still. Peaceful. Yours.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

Part 2 <3

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