Everyone knew, apart from apparently the two of you. Every show, every shoot, damn, every day— the tension between you filled the room. The Pogues couldn't understand how neither of you saw it, or acknowledged it at least. But every day on tour, the two of you were inseparable. The band was close, sure— but never as close as you and JJ. No one could be as close as you and JJ.

The band had been on tour now for a couple months, Pogues were taking the US by storm. Sold out shows every night, the crowd screaming your names, singing every lyric back to you. And to think this was only your first headlining tour. The five of you had been on tour before, supporting other bands, but this was different. The crowd was there for you, paid money to hear your songs. The feeling was like no other.

This tour was like no other, too. You and JJ were spending almost all your free time trying to write the next best record, convinced if you spent enough time on it you could come up with the next number one hit.

The other pogues knew that wasn't the only reason the two of you were spending all your time together, the only ones who couldn't seem to see through it was you and JJ. Either both in denial or too focused on the music to acknowledge anything outside of it.

Even the crowd could sense it, every time that microphone was in your hand, singing towards JJ, strumming along on his guitar, the crowd would go wild. Theories left, right and centre that the two of you were an item. But what would you know? You and JJ were too busy writing songs to ever look at those theories....

Cramped into two shitty motel rooms, grateful to just be off that tour bus for the night. John B, Pope and Kie sleeping in the room next door, as you and JJ sit up late writing. Humming melodies, jotting down lyrics as the two of you sit together on one of the twin sized beds.

JJ lifts his head, thinking of the next lyric as he looks to you. Guitar on your lap, leaning over it to write down another stream of words that popped into your head. And suddenly, everything clicks. Every theory he's heard, every mumble of teasing from the Pogues, every thought he's pushed to the back of his head. He can't ignore them anymore, because there you are. In yesterday's make-up, slept in clothes and he realises. It's you, it's always been you.

"What if we, um," He mumbles, hand pushing his hair back. Something he always does when he's nervous. "Made it a love song?" He's not sure he could ever write anything other than a love song, now he's looked at you and realised that every word ever said about the two of you was right.