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marlahey · 6 years

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we stumbled in the dark; I knew we’d be alright (part eleven)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: frank references to the attack at Ariana Grande’s show in Manchester last year. I was living in London when it happened and Shawn was touring Europe and both fictional he and I wanted to commemorate it, because I still think about it and I know Shawn will actually be there in the spring, and it’s also straight up inspiration for Youth. notes: ignore my disregard for how people are employed because I care more about there being a very clearly equitable relationship here with as little potential for imbalances of power as possible. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHAWN. I love you. I was hoping to finish this part for today and I’m super happy I did. (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here)

dublin; now You make rules. No one says you have to, per se, but something in you needs this, this modicum of control in a situation that feels like it could spin out at any moment.

One: Nothing but casual friends in front of the crew, extended team, Ava, and especially Andrew. Two: Don’t be any more weird than Kristin and Parker are when the just the gang's together. (“Weird?” Shawn asks, raising an eyebrow. You wave, slightly nonsensically, at him. “You know what I mean. Like, not–” “Not all over each other?” “Right.” “Even though Park is really bad at hiding his I’m undressing you with my eyes face?” Your cheeks heat. You’re torn between two responses – are you saying you’ve ever undressed me with your eyes? and besides that, obviously – but before you can choose, Shawn laughs, though not exactly at you. “Sorry, yes I know what you mean. Go on.”) Three: No extended physical contact unless you’re completely alone and will be for at least ten minutes. Four: No accidental eye contact lasting longer than three seconds during shows. Five: Unless completely unavoidable, absolutely no interaction in front of fans. Six (unofficial): Pretend you don’t know that everyone is pretending they don’t know. To his credit, Shawn, while not at all aloof about the affair, is easily accommodating to your pacing and fretting, catching you mid-turn without leaving his seat at the foot of his bed. “Easy El,” he says, his eyes still laughing just a little. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.” You huff at him, but you don’t resist when he pulls you closer, pushing your hair back before you can lift your own hand. You should curse Shawn’s long limbs that bracket you without effort, his relaxed expression, but the truth is that you need it, his calm, his certainty. “I’m not going to tell you that you’re being irrational,” he continues. A press of both anxiety and affection duke it out inside your chest. “Because I agree that we should be careful.” “But?” you prompt. Your own hands land on his shoulders, fiddling restlessly with the collar of his jean jacket. Shawn shakes his head. “No buts.” In your boots you have just enough height that you’re barely taller while he’s sitting down, which is a nice change of pace. (Though he might be slouching a little for you.) “I just know that we have twenty minutes before anyone’s expecting us for our dinner reservation.” Your stomach flutters. There’s nothing especially lewd in his face, no expectation, just a gently raised eyebrow and an almost polite, silent invitation. If you want to. The last rule is an invisible asterisk tacked to the end of number three, one that you’d never say aloud: don’t spend too much time alone in Shawn’s hotel room. The problem of course, is that you obviously want to. Of course you want to kiss him. (And while you’re being honest, of course you want to do all manner of other things with him, beginning with curling up in a comfortable tangle of limbs and ending somewhere involving significantly less clothing.) It’s not so much a matter of wanting as it is a matter of whether you should, if you can really temper all these desires rolling around inside you with the cold arm of rationality and logic – especially when that arm is tattooed with a cruel reminder: I’m probably the only one who could out you as a fucking groupie on Shawn’s tour. You know, deep down, that if you ever admitted this insecurity to Shawn, this nagging fear that everyone who knows now looks at you differently because they assume– you know he’d understand. You know he’d immediately drop his hands from your waist and pull his legs back without so much as a questioning glance (he’d probably apologize) which only makes you want to crowd yourself as close to Shawn as you can and drag that probable calm acquiescence from his mouth with yours. “What is it?” he asks, so gently that you almost can’t speak. There’s no use in lying, because Shawn’s tilted his head with that soft knowing expression; you wonder what your tell is. “Does everyone think that we’re–” It comes out in a rush – like tearing off a bandaid – but you cower at the edge of the question. Shawn raises his eyebrows. “Think that we’re…” This is an all consuming kind of embarrassment, that makes your stomach riot, your face heat, and your heart race. All you can manage in the end is a vague gesture between both of you and at the bed. When you drag your eyes back up to Shawn’s you can see a kaleidoscope of emotion flicker over his face: confusion, dawning understanding, surprise, mirrored embarrassment, and then, in a flash almost too fast to see: desire. That last one nearly undoes you. “Oh.” You feel very much like crawling into a dark hole. “Oh my god…” “Hey, El.” Shawn ducks his chin and anchors your roving, mortified eyes with a warm hand. “Hey. No, okay? No one thinks that.” “How do you know?” It’s a slightly childish and probably unfair question, but to your great surprise it’s Shawn’s turn to flush red. “Shawn,” you start, not meaning to sound quite so alarmed. “Don’t freak out.” You gape at him, as if that’s supposed to help you not freak out. “But Geoff–” “What about Geoff?” It comes out like a squeak. Shawn looks torn, briefly, like he wants to cover his own nerves and comfort you but can’t manage both. So he slides his hands down to your own and squeezes, as if that will have to do. “We talked, okay?” He tightens his grip before your squirm of mortification can drag you away from him. “Before– before all of this. Before this tour started. He wanted to make sure that I…” When Shawn lifts his chin again, his eyes are that particular dark shade of seriousness. “That if we ever, you know, that I got what it might mean. For you. For people to–” A shadow twists his mouth. Your heart is racing again, though with a deeper kind of panic. “El.” Before this tour started. Your mind spins. You force yourself to meet his eye, to keep it, even though you’re already bending under the weight of what he means – what Geoff foresaw enough to say aloud before either you had the courage to face it. How long has he– “Shawn, I–” “I could never take advantage of you. I would never pressure you to–” Shawn stops like the idea literally chokes him. “I need you to know that, okay? Not here,” He motions with his head at the empty room, at the bed, and out the door. “Not out there. Not ever.” “I know,” you say, and your voice only trembles a little. “I know you wouldn’t.” “This isn’t because you’re…” Shawn’s eyes tighten, like he has so many protests but can’t get them all out fast enough. “Shawn–” “The tour isn’t why I–” “Shawn.” It’s your turn to be the magnet, the sure one, and it’s a strange feeling, to have his eyes snap to yours and see his uncertainty, his urgency, his fear. There are too many words to sort through and you’re not sure you can get through any of them without either shouting or possibly crying, so you pull your arms up and slide them around Shawn’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss instead. You wish you could press your words into him like that, but you can’t. You lean back; he chases your lips blindly and your stomach flips. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding chastised. When Shawn lifts his eyes, you smile gently at him, thumbing at the lingering frown around his mouth. “I know, okay?” Nerves squeezes as you continue, but you force the words out anyway. “I know what this looks like. I know what people will probably say when they find out. But none of that is your fault.” Shawn’s face screws up in (adorable) objection, but you leap over it. “They’re gonna find out, Shawn. We’re kidding ourselves thinking we can hide this forever– London is one of your biggest stops and we’re doing two nights, after Manchester on Wednesday.” It moves you, the look on his face whenever that city comes up. The setlist has already been adjusted for the night, and even though you’re a good month shy of the two year anniversary, Shawn broke a string on the instrumental intro into Youth at soundcheck this morning. Just thinking about it makes your stomach clench painfully. You’ve seen him look serious before – he’s perfectly serious now – but this is more. Part of you is strangely worried. “You shouldn’t have to deal with it El,” Shawn says, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I never want you to feel–to feel judged. It’s why I didn’t…” I should have kissed you. You take a deep, steadying breath. “I need you to listen to me, kay?” You lift your hands to his shoulders, drawing your thumb over the sharp jut of his collarbone until he looks up. It’s oddly intimidating sometimes, to be the singular focus of Shawn’s attention, but you swallow back the urge to look away. “I would be lying if I told you that I wasn’t nervous about what might happen when this gets out. What people might say or think.” His dismayed frown makes your heart stumble. “But I’m not nervous about this.” You gesture again between you, less of a frazzled, anxious motion this time than something that warms you all over. “You don’t make me nervous, Shawn, or at least–” His eyes widen. You smile tentatively. “Not in a bad way.” Shawn blinks, then raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that makes your insides twist, oddly pleasantly. “Are you saying I make you nervous in a good way?” You make a face and pretend to consider his question, stepping deliberately further into the open V of his legs. “I mean...yeah.” You recall your conversation with Ava. Just means you care. Shawn’s smile blooms and his arms find your waist again, wrapping you even closer. You’re really caged in by him now, but you’re the furthest thing from bothered by it. “In a cool way.” Shawn rolls his eyes. “Should I be worried that you’ve seen Harry’s Carpool Karaoke at least twice as many times as mine?” You shrug. “Jealous?” He snorts a laugh, but when Shawn trails his fingers up your side, making you jump, his eyes are a just a shade darker than caramel. That flash from earlier simmers now: desire. A thrill lurches your in your gut; his fingers make their way all the way up to your chin, and keep you still. He’s not quite smiling. You’re frozen in a delicious anticipation. Shawn looks with firm intent from your eyes to your mouth. “Not unless Harry Styles gets to do this.” It’s a kiss you feel all the way down to your toes. You’re almost late for dinner. * @Shawn Mendes Updates: Shawn outside his hotel in Dublin! [Vertical video of Shawn holding the front door open for his band and several crew members. “Hi Shawn!” says a breathless voice off camera. “Hi guys!” He smiles brightly, pulling his hand from the pocket of his jacket. “Can I get a picture?” He looks from the other girl into the camera of the person filming, and then over his shoulder at the group that has started down the sidewalk. A few heads glance back but they keep walking, albeit a little slower. “I can do a quick picture guys, but we have a reservation so I can’t stay long, I’m sorry!” “That’s okay!” Shawn leans in for the selfie with the first girl, who manages to contain herself until he smiles at the girl still filming, and a frantic “ohmygod!” offscreen is followed by a burst of giggles. The girl filming twists her phone and Shawn leans down so their heads touch. “Oh!” he laughs, “Are you filming?” “Yes, sorry!” “Do you want a–” “Oh no, don’t worry this is great. Thank you!” “Are you guys coming to the show tonight?” he asks, and the phone bobs as Shawn’s met with nods and enthusiastic ‘Yes!’es. “Great, see you there!” “Bye Shawn!” camera girl shouts, still trained on him as he waves and jogs to catch up with the group, who have stopped at a crossing. Parker and Geoff part so Shawn can slide up behind two of the girls, a redhead and a brunette, who both smile at him. The group crosses together and disappear around the corner. likes: 214; retweets: 84]

birmingham; now For some reason Shawn’s been trying to catch you alone all night, but the usual flurry of pre-show activity draws you both apart. The closest you get, in fact, is a shot from behind Charlie on stage during Mutual. “Thank you so much guys!” Andrew shouts ten minutes into take down. “Could I just really quickly grab everyone’s attention?” You look at Kelsey, who raises her eyebrows with a shrug. You put your camera back into the kit and close the equipment box with a firm snap before you both wander over to mainstage, where the band is pulling away from their instruments and Shawn has reappeared in a fresh t shirt, his hair damp. Everyone stops what they’re doing to convene on the floor; you feel distinctly like you’re sitting in a school assembly. “As you all know, we’re headed back to North America after our London dates. Our New York show isn’t until the end of the month, so everyone should take this time to take a well-deserved break.” There’s a murmur of appreciative laughter from the crew. You can tell Shawn is looking at you, staring really, but you keep your eyes on Andrew. “But I just wanted to let you all know that Shawn, myself, and Ava will actually be spending that week leading up to Madison Square Garden in New York doing a bunch of promo, so if you need to get in touch that’s where we’ll be, and I apologize in advance if I’m not on top of my emails.” Your stomach plummets. Shawn’s eyes are searing into the side of your head. You don’t dare look. You think of all the conversations you’d been planning to have, at home, in the relative safety of Toronto where people with cameras didn’t make it their life’s mission to be as obnoxious as possible, where you can come over to mine, where we can finally have that date. You get it now, that look on his face after dinner, all these meetings Andrew’s been hauling him into with furtive, secret glances. The magnet pulls. The apology you didn’t want to see in Ireland stings. Takedown takes hours. You refuse to leave until both Kristin and Kelsey are done, so of course by the time you hitch a ride back to the hotel, barely keeping your eyes open, Shawn has long gone. shawnmendes: Can we talk about this? Tomorrow, maybe? lennysinclair17: Yes. Absolutely. shawnmendes: You’re not mad are you? lennysinclair17: Never. Promise. Go to sleep Shawn. I’ll see you in the morning. shawnmendes: Sweet dreams El.

manchester; now You land before the sun, blinking blearily awake from Ava’s shoulder to see Shawn just across from you, staring pensively out the window. He doesn’t say anything when he catches you looking, just smiles softly in a way that, for some reason, breaks your heart a little. All you want to do is talk to him, and not even about New York. But something tells you that you won’t get the chance today. Even though you’re still exhausted when you make it to the hotel and drop your bags at the foot of the bed, you lay there awake till there’s a knock at the door. Ava is sound asleep in her bed. You’re unsurprised to find him, the band, and the girls in the hall. Paul though, is a welcome addition. “We’re gonna go down to the square,” Shawn says quietly. “If you want to come.” You’re already shoving your feet back into your boots. All of you manage to fit into the elevator at once; you watch the doors close over Charlie’s shoulder and realize you only have about a minute if you want any actual contact with Shawn this morning. He must have the same thought, because his fingers slide between yours and pull your palms flush together. You want to look at him but you can’t quite work up the nerve. You squeeze instead, until the doors ping open on the main floor. Shawn doesn’t let go till you’re both all the way out. Dawn is still yawning across the sky when Geoff pulls out his phone to navigate, which makes you glad that you never took off your sweater from the plane. St. Ann’s Square is maybe a fifteen minute walk from your hotel, and most of that is spent in comfortable silence with your arm looped through Kelsey’s. Some stores are just beginning to open when you arrive, including the Starbucks, which seems – like many Starbucks in Europe – oddly modern encased in stone that’s been there longer than coffee shops as a concept. Paul disappears up the steps of St. Ann’s Church with a gruff, “Don’t have to wait for me.” To the left of the statue of Richard Cobden in the centre of the square, a florist is pulling enormous buckets of flowers into her doorway. Parker and Kristin exchange a look and jog across the street to help her. Minutes later, as you’re trying not to stare at Shawn’s hand flipping a tour pic restlessly between his fingers, they reappear. Kristin is carrying three single white roses. She hands one to Shawn. “You,” she says, then to Geoff, “the band,” and to you. “And the crew.” You’re grateful that it’s early in the morning in the middle of the week. The square is largely deserted, save for an elderly woman on a bench across the street, sitting with her dog and watching you with polite curiosity. “I’m not really religious,” Shawn says, his left hand sliding back and forth across Saint Christopher’s chain. His eyes flick up to the top of the statue and back down again. “But I feel like we should…” He trails off. “Say something?” “How bout this.” Geoff leans down and places his rose at the base of the statue. “We’ve all been thinking about the people who lost their lives, were injured, or were changed by what happened here. I think we all were.” He looks at each of you gathered there in turn. “And I think the best way we can honour them is by giving it our all tonight. Hopefully we can make every person in that audience feel safe and happy, and give them a good memory to help deal with the bad one.” Geoff looks at Shawn the longest. “Good?” The younger man nods. He looks as moved as you feel, and the desire to touch him is like a sparking current beneath your skin. But you lay your rose down instead, closing your eyes just a moment before you stand back up. Shawn lingers close to the ground for a long time. It seems impossible that he can fold himself down that small, to the height of a child. Charlie lays a warm hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. Everyone seems to be watching you more closely than normal, you and Shawn, and you realize with a lurch in your stomach that while it could have been anyone at Ariana’s show two years ago, you’re the youngest in the group by at least seven years. Shawn looks up at you then, and your breath catches in your throat. He looks lost. So you do the only thing you can think of: you hold out your hand. Shawn lets you pull him to his feet, lets you hang onto a touch longer than strictly necessary, and doesn’t speak when you have to brush your wrist over your face. In fact, no one speaks, until Brian steps forward and pulls both of you in by the shoulders. “How much will you two pay me to eat blood pudding at breakfast today?” You snort. “Only if you don’t make a single vampire joke the rest of the trip.” The bassist sighs. “Always killing the vibe, Sinclair.” * @oneloveshawn: GUYS I WAS WALKING HOME FROM SCHOOL AND GUESS WHAT I SAW. @ShawnMendes you are absolutely wonderful and I can’t wait to see you tonight and guess what I’m crying. #OneLoveManchester #SM3Manchester [Photos: at the foot of the Robert Cobden statue is three white roses, an SM World Tour pick, and a piece of paper kept safe beneath a small, smooth rock. It reads: We love you – Shawn followed by seven signatures. likes: 625; retweets: 381] Replies: @mutualinmyblood: excuse me while I sob @mendesstyles1: HIS HANDWRITING THOUGH??? @eeveelove: Thank you @ShawnMendes. We love you too. You are everything. Shawn takes Taylor’s advice about making every show unique, so the setlist for each tour stop varies just a little from night to night. Tonight, however, is the biggest changed. You’re at the edge of the stage just behind the stairs when he pretends to leave before the encore to thunderous applause. His fans aren’t stupid of course; they know what hasn’t been sung yet. Sam hands over a water bottle and takes the electric; Shawn downs half of it in one breath while the crowd cheers and shouts and chants. In the semi-darkness you can see him swallow, the adrenaline pulsing still in the too-quick way he drops the bottle at the foot of the stairs and has to bend to pick it up again. You busy yourself pretending to check a level. “You can do this.” You’re worried, briefly, that he can’t hear you over the din, but Shawn lifts his head. You break the eye contact rule because you must. “You can. I’ll be right here.” He holds your eyes; the white of them is striking and feeling stirs in the pit of your stomach. Ninety seconds is up; the roar is getting louder. Parker is unnervingly good at sneaking back on stage without being noticed. At the first drum beat, you definitely owe Sam a beer for handing you earplugs at the beginning of the show. Shawn nods, just once, takes his electric back with a grateful “Thanks,” and the first notes of TNHMB reverberate in your chest. Three songs later, in the extended musical interlude at the end of In My Blood, Shawn acknowledges his bandmates one at a time to the loudest screams of the night. As the last notes crash down, so do the lights; how Sam manages to cross the stage in the black, holding Shawn’s acoustic and without colliding with Geoff or Charlie who scamper down the stairs, will always be a mystery to you. The lights fade up a few moments later to reveal Shawn, alone on stage with his guitar in a single spotlight. “I’ve got one more for you guys,” he says. Despite the plugs, your hearing will definitely never be the same after tonight. This, apparently, is what everyone’s been waiting for; you can feel the building’s clapped rhythm as Shawn ramps up the guitar intro for Youth all the way through the floor. He steps up to the mic while the opening notes of the song float out; you can’t see his face but you can imagine Shawn’s expression when he looks out to a sea of pink lights. There’s an equipment box tucked beneath the stage. You drag it out carefully, flashing a grateful smile at Geoff who steadies you with a solid grip on your elbow. Once on top, you’re finally level with the men several heads taller than you, and when you lift your camera you can see the hundreds of outstretched arms on the arena floor, all holding pink roses and white signs, that read in huge black font THANK YOU FOR HELPING US KEEP OUR YOUTH. You can barely hear Shawn over the crowd’s singular unified voice. He doesn’t sing the bridge, yanking out one of his ear pieces, but extends the guitar riff as he does every night, leaning into the mic. “I say this a lot,” he begins, “and I know a lot of you know this, that this song was never about just one event, and that I’ve always thought that the idea of youth was more than just age. Every time something terrible shakes us, more of what makes us good and innocent and free gets pulled away.” A row of four girls at the very front of the barricade are lifting a One Love Manchester flag with joined hands, tears streaming down all of their faces. You have to wipe at your own eyes before you can see through the viewfinder, but your hands shake. You don’t dare move from your spot; you can only hope Kelsey has it more together than you. “The world can be a really scary place,” Shawn continues. “But I really, truly believe that if we stick together, if we hang onto our love for each other and all the things that give us joy and make us feel alive, if we refuse to let go of our youth, that we’ll be okay.” You can’t pull your eyes away from the back of Shawn’s head, the tension across his shoulders. He looks otherworldly, standing there alone. “And no one has shown me that more than you guys, here tonight.” His voice wavers, just for a second, beneath the roar. “And I just want to thank you for that, Manchester. It has been a true honour to play for you here, and I will never forget tonight as long as I live.” You couldn’t even join in on the screaming if you wanted to. Shawn ducks his chin. “If this room were smaller I’d step away from the mic and sing for you, but you guys have been so amazing all night, you don’t even need me for this last chorus.” His head turns to every section of the crowd. His eyes are so bright. “I know this isn’t really a normal closing song, but this what I want to leave you with. I want everyone in this room to sing these words and really feel them, really believe them. Because I believe in you, and in us, and I always will.” Shawn plucks at the opening of the chorus, breathes “You can’t,” into the mic, and steps back. You feel goosebumps all the way down your legs as Manchester Arena sings without him. You can’t take my youth away Soul of mine will never break As long as I wake up today You can’t take my youth away. “One more time, Manchester.” He lets go of the strings. When the last note fades away only to be replaced by screams, Shawn lifts both of his hands to his mouth and throws his gratitude to the crowd. “I love you so much. Good night.” He leans one hand against his heart and you know, without being able to really see or hear, what he’s saying as he takes his bows. Thank you. I love you. I love you. Thank you. Thank you. You can also feel, somehow, that when Shawn finally reaches the edge of the stage, that tonight is different. He hits the bottom of the stairs and hands off his guitar. When Shawn’s eyes find yours, you know. Before you can speak, Geoff has plucked your camera from your grip; Shawn’s face crumples and everything narrows and goes silent except for him. His shoulders shake; the back of your t shirt bunches up in his grip, revealing your skin to the overwarm air; something deep inside your chest trembles at the feeling of tears skidding over your collarbone. It’s a wonder you haven’t fallen backwards over the box, bearing the weight of him collapsed into you so carefully your knees almost buckle. You’re both covered in sweat but you don’t care. “I’m here,” you murmur, sliding your hand into the damp curls at the nape of Shawn’s neck. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Shh, it’s okay.” Around you, lights are coming up all over the arena as the crowd files out. The sudden appearance of the rolling guitar rack blocks your view of the stage and the floor, hiding you from prying eyes; you cast Sam an indebted and silent thank you over Shawn’s shoulder and the crewman just nods. Something bangs against the floor, making you jump. “I’m sorry,” Shawn chokes out. When the shiver is gone you manage to look at him, and your heart sinks at his frantic expression. He reels back. “I’m–” Shawn’s eyes flit around the emptying arena; noises reaches your ears again like someone has cranked the volume dial. You’re reaching for him before you even realize what you’re doing. “Shawn–” He disappears behind the stage. You almost shout after him, the syllable of his name clawing at the inside of your throat, but you catch yourself at the last moment. You also nearly fall off the equipment box, but by the time you’ve scrambled past a bewildered Geoff and Charlie and returned your camera to Kelsey’s kit, you practically run straight into Cam. “Hey, Cam.” You skid to a stop and fail miserably at playing casual. “Did you see–” “Oh yeah,” the guard says, but your relief is short lived. “The kid grabbed Paul, said he felt really sick. Asked if he could go straight back to the hotel.” The cold shock leaves you breathless. “Did you need him for something?” “No,” you manage, rocking back on your heels. “No that’s okay. I uh,” You force yourself to shake your head. Cam smiles briefly. “I’ll just catch up with him later.” “Hey Ellie!” Mike is waving you down. “Can I get your help with something?” Your heart feels like it’s beating unevenly in your chest. “Yeah,” you reply, scraping your falling ponytail off your neck to hide your shaking hands. “Yeah of course you can.” Kelsey insists you go back with her, halfway through takedown. “You look like you’re going to be sick.” Paul I got him. But I think he needs you. * @liketobeyouth: CAN WE JUST TALK ABOUT HOW SHAWN CRIED AT THE END OF THE SHOW TONIGHT BECAUSE I’M HYSTERICAL AND HERE’S A VIDEO. Replies: @shawnfan2: I also want to hug him I’m so fucking jealous of that girl @lostallinshawn: Do we know who that is because that was just ??? not platonic??? WHO IS SHE SHAWN?? @rosesforyouth: does anyone else feel kind of bad for watching this cause like...let him have this moment in privacy how bout? @nervousaroundyou: Umm she needs to get her hands off my man k thx It’s past one when you drag yourself out of the shower, resigning yourself to sleeping with damp hair for fear of waking Ava with the blow dryer. Your Instagram pings, a silent wash of brightness in the dark room. shawnmendes: I’m so sorry. A flash of – you’re not sure, exactly what – incredulity or maybe even frustration sears your chest hot. lennysinclair17: I have no idea what you’re sorry for. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the emotion of the night, but as the tiny bubble blips on your screen, some small, visceral part of you wants to fight. You’ve never fought with Shawn before; you haven’t so much as gotten into an argument with him, but in a strange irrationality you also can’t imagine a greater cause for an argument than how not mad at him you are. (alternatively, you might also really need a proper night’s sleep.) shawnmendes: Come over. shawnmendes: I hate texting you from the other side of a wall. You probably shouldn’t, of course. The asterisked rule is like a neon sign behind your eyes. But you’re tired. And you want to see him. lennysinclair17: Only if you let me blow dry my hair in your bathroom. He replies before you even pull the towel from your head. shawnmendes: Done. You pull the tiny travel dryer from your suitcase and are twisting the adjoining door knob before you can talk yourself out of it. The carpet is soft beneath your bare feet. You don’t have the energy to consider what Shawn thinks of you from his bed, padding into his room with damp hair in shorts and the Lost In Japan single tee, only available in large by the time Ava thought to bring you one home, so it never sees the outside of your bedroom. He doesn’t say anything, just points at the doorway to his bathroom, and while he’s not quite smiling, that knot of tension in the pit of your stomach finally loosens. You leave the door open a crack; you can see Shawn watching you in the mirror from the closest side of the bed. It’s a thing, maybe, you and him and bedrooms and these silent intimacies you’ve never really given a real name. They’re possibly something different now, not quite ten minutes later when you’re finished and your arms ache a little from the combined exertions of the night. Because Shawn’s held the softest part of your waist. He’s curled his fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, and quite memorably once, laid his mouth on the nebulous space between your jaw and your ear. But it’s the look that does you in. You don’t know what to do when he looks at you like that – your thoughts from Paris last week reflected back as though Shawn himself is a mirror – as if you’re the most interesting thing in every city and country you’ve stopped in, more inspiring than all the history, more impressive than any monument, more comforting perhaps, than the medal he wears constantly around his neck. Shawn’s expression closes the semi-darkness of the room even tighter around you, and as you approach you see something new: something in the depth of his eyes that makes you think, you could break my heart and I’d probably ask you to sign your name over the fault lines. You might see the thought in him, too, if you were brave enough. But you’re not that brave tonight. Shawn draws you into the safe space of him with one long arm, though you go willingly. It’s a familiar spot, the V of his legs; ghostly edges of other hotel rooms whisper, but as you wrap your arms around Shawn’s neck and his elbows press firmly into your hips in an answering grip, he sighs. Shawn leans his forehead into your shoulder and beneath your somewhat stunned hands, his whole body relaxes into yours. It’s so unlike the moment offstage that you almost wonder if that really happened. “I’m sorry,” he says again (a reminder) like he’s looking for something in your skin, an answer or an absolution for something you’re not even sure you understand enough to forgive. You have to swallow before you can speak. “If you tell me you’re sorry for crying, you’re gonna have to go look for someone else because I’m just not going to accept that apology.” He huffs a laugh over the too-big collar of your shirt. “Otherwise you’re gonna need to explain yourself a little more.” When Shawn pulls back you cup his face in your hands, vaguely afraid that he’s going to leave you again. But he just wraps his long fingers around your wrists as though he has the same fear. “Tell me,” you say softly, going for commanding but it really comes out more like a plea. “The rules, El.” You nearly choke on your indignation. “God, I don’t care about the rules. They were stupid anyway.” His jaw sets. “They weren’t. They were smart and I–” “Hey.” It’s still a strange sensation, this role reversal. “Stop. What was I gonna do, Shawn, push you away?” You’re the one ducking your chin now, which is funny because he’s still infuriatingly taller than you. “I’m never going to push you away.” Shawn looks, just for a second, like he had early this morning in St. Ann’s Square, a bit lost. You step closer, leaning your forehead against his, threading both of your hands up into his hair just to make your point; it’s so soft that you want to be mad at him. He closes his eyes briefly, some of the tension easing from his face, and that rush of feeling from before almost swallows you whole. “There’s video,” he says. You tense without meaning to and you know he notices. Shawn laughs humourlessly. “Someone’s camera had a really great fucking zoom.” His arms keep you standing. “Is that why you’re really sorry?” you ask. His eyes give you the answer. It’s your turn to sigh, a horrible dread twisting in your stomach no matter how hard you want to ignore it. “God, I’m glad I never got a twitter. I don’t need to see myself sweaty and crying.” You also don’t need to see yourself and Shawn from the outside, in a moment that wasn’t meant to be seen at all. You don’t want to know what people are labeling and deciding is between you, before you’ve even had a chance to decide for yourselves. Most of all, you want to tear down anyone who might show Shawn unkindness when all he felt was love. “You’re calm about this,” he remarks. You shrug. Best not to tell him you wanna fight his fans. “We knew it was coming. It’s not like a video of us hugging tells them who I am, right?” Shawn bites his lip. You draw your thumb over the concerned furrow between his eyebrows. “It’s not your fault. I’d do it again.” He looks up at you then, and you wish you were still in Paris, in that moment. “Please believe me.” When he nods you smile at him, only teasing a little. “Gotta say it, Shawn.” He swallows. You’re as transfixed as ever by the bob of his throat. “I believe you.” He averts his eyes for just a second. “Sorry I freaked out and ditched you.” You lean forward and plant an impulsive kiss on Shawn’s forehead. “S’ok. We can’t change it now,” you reason, as much for yourself as it is for him. “And you need sleep.” He honest to god pouts. “What if I don’t wanna sleep?” You roll your eyes. “At least lie down a bit. It’s late.” You go to push him back with a hand on his chest, but a glimmer of mischief hooks his arm around your waist, pulling you forward with him. It’s Spain all over again, but not: your heart still races, but the bedspread is soft, the room dim in hazy light, and Shawn only holds your shocked eyes for a moment before pulling your head down with one warm hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you until you melt into him, until you’re jolted back to the reality of laying on top of Shawn, half on and half off the bed. He has a handful of his own merch gripped in his fist; you’re thrown back to earlier in the night and wonder what the cooler air of this room would feel like against your skin. A slumbering desire almost ignites in the pit of your belly. “That’s what you want to do instead of sleeping?” You shouldn’t be this out of breath. He blinks up at you, sleepy and smiling faintly. “Maybe.” You attempt disapproval, but he just laughs at your frown. In a move that should be neither possible nor quite so thrilling, Shawn wraps one strong arm around your waist, supporting himself with the other and twisting deftly so you land on your back in the centre of the bed. You stop bouncing after a moment, but your stomach doesn’t stop flipping, especially when he leans over you. “Okay?” he asks, and you nod mutely. “I’m not...This isn’t–” Shawn shakes his head, and when he finds your eyes again, the vulnerability in his expression snuffs out that ember of want. “I don’t want to have sex. I mean–” You shouldn’t smile at his incoherence, but it’s a strangely inadvertent reaction. His frustration at himself is oddly endearing. “I do, want that.” He swallows again. Shawn’s eyes are so dark, suddenly; you shiver. “I want to.” “Me too.” You don’t mean to sound so breathless. “Someday.” There’s probably another, longer conversation to be had here, but you shelve the reminder for another time. “Can we just…” Shawn exhales. He lifts one hand and twists your hair around his fingers and off your neck. His palm is so warm against your cheek. “Can we just be here, a minute?” You nod, and it’s your turn to pull him down. Definitely longer than a minute later, when Shawn’s nose dips beneath the huge collar of your shirt, you can’t help the hitch of your breath. He pauses, his breath still close and warm. Your heart is beating a little too fast. “Sorry,” he murmurs against your skin. Goosebumps ripple and you hate your body for betraying you. “S’fine.” You swallow carefully. “We should probably…” “Right.” Shawn leans up and away from you; you watch him blink away that deepened caramel shade of his eyes. “So I wanted to ask you something.” “Hmm?” He looks oddly nervous, which only serves to make you much of the same. “How would you feel about coming to New York with me?” Shawn’s gaze flicks away and back again. “If I asked you to?” You feel your jaw go slack. “Are we sure that’s a good idea?” He shrugs. “You’d come back anyway, right? For the show.” Fair point. “I wanted to ask you before Andrew announced it to literally everyone, but I didn’t get the chance. And I know it’s not home, but…” There’s something earnest and open in his expression, and you’re reminded of a simple, still breathtaking truth. He likes you. “I want to spend time with you.” “And the video?” you ask. What looks like resignation clouds his gaze, but when it clears, the certainty in Shawn’s eyes is undeniable. “You were right,” he says. “We can’t change it now. And they’re gonna think what they’re gonna think, so we may as well choose what they see next, right? If everyone probably thinks we’re dating…” Your heart does a sharp twist in your chest. “Shouldn’t we at least get a real date?” He makes a convincing argument. Or maybe you just want it, more than you know how to reason yourself out of. Shawn can see your hesitation; you wish you had a better poker face. “If you’re worried about Andrew,” he says, “Technically Kelsey is independently contracted to me and he has no say in you working for her. And I have no control over your pay.” “She’s not paying me,” you remind him. “We’re pretending this is a slightly unethical internship.” Shawn snorts. “There you go, then.” You’re running out of objections. “How long are you in New York for?” “Five days. On and off promo, and then the show.” Shawn’s eyes go soft, and some part of you is frustrated at being so afraid. “How ‘bout we just take it one day at a time? If it gets too much, I’ll drop you off at JFK myself. You don’t–” And here, he looks vulnerable again. “You don’t have to come back, if you don’t want to.” The thought actually causes you pain. You reach up and catch Saint Christopher, who dangles down silently from Shawn’s neck, curling your hand around the medal tight enough that you can feel the shape of the man against your fingers. He comforts Shawn, you know, so far away from home. You hope he can do the same for you. “Okay.” He looks so happy you can almost forget how tired you are. “Okay.” Before you can decide what else to say or do, Shawn leans down to kiss you softly on the mouth before dropping all the way down onto the bed beside you on his stomach, pressing his face into the slope of your neck and pulling you closer with one arm flung over your waist. “Hi,” you breathe around a laugh. “Alright?” he asks, sounding smaller than you’ve ever heard. You hum a yes. Shawn’s knee brushes yours and that’s strangely all you can think about. When it turns out you aren’t in fact, dreaming, you lift the arm that’s half cushioning Shawn’s head, threading your fingers up against the back of his scalp. He shivers. As your brain catalogues the reaction as that’s a thing, Shawn breathes deeply, relaxing into you a second time. The weight of him should be overbearing, but there’s something comforting about the pressure. It feels good, to keep carding your fingers through his hair, to soothe and be soothed at the same time. “Do you want to go back to your room?” he asks, sounding sleepy and hoarse. You wonder what time it is. You think about his request, to just be here. “Do you want me to go?” You can feel him breathing, slow and steady. “No.” Beneath the hotel soap and shampoo you both used tonight, you can pick out the warm, familiar smell of his skin. Despite everything, you feel safe. So you say, “Okay,” and you put your hand on the back of Shawn’s neck. He tightens his grip, and you consider the very strong likelihood that your arm will go numb at some point. You also consider asking about getting under the blanket. You fall asleep before either of those things happen. (part twelve)

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes angst #wsitd #mine: fic #SURPRISE GUYS #HAVE A NEW PART FOR SHAWN'S BIRTHDAY

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disappearingground · 5 years

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Jenny Lewis - Ithaca Times

Ithaca Times November 5, 2014

Jenny Lewis on Homework from Ryan Adams, Rilo Kiley LPs and Arena Shows with The Postal Service

By Chris Hooker

“I’m not the same woman / That you are used to,” sings Jenny Lewis on “Head Underwater,” the opening track off her new record The Voyager. The song tackles a range of problems: depression, insomnia, self-worth, and a desire to change. It’s basically a checklist of why it took six years to come out with a new solo album.

Since the release of 2008’s Acid Tongue, Lewis has gone through quite a few changes. Her band, the beloved indie-pop outfit Rilo Kiley, broke up after four albums. Her father passed away. She released a collaborative record with boyfriend Jonathan Rice under the moniker “Jenny and Johnny,” and reunited with The Postal Service, a collaboration between Death Cab for Cutie’s Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello (a.k.a. Dntel), for the highly anticipated 10-year anniversary reunion stadium tour. With all of that in her rearview mirror, Lewis is hitting the road in support of The Voyager, and will be playing Ithaca’s State Theater this Saturday, Nov. 8.

The Ithaca Times caught up with Lewis in the midst of all this to talk about her new record, working with big-name producers, the return of The Postal Service, and the bringing back the music of Rilo Kiley.

Ithaca Times: Hey Jenny, I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.

Jenny Lewis: Hey, how’s it going? Ithaca is fences. I remember seeing that the last time I was here. I was opening for Phoenix years ago.

IT: Do you mean Ithaca is ‘gorges’?

JL: No, I think it was a play on that. There was something going on with the student population there. I think it was almost like a suicide prevention thing. I remember seeing those signs and thinking, ‘What is going on here?’ Then someone explained it to me. This was a couple of years ago.*

IT: How have the shows been going so far?

JL: The shows have been great. I’ve been touring since May, and we’ve got over 100 shows down at this point. We’re starting to relax a little bit. I’ve got such a huge catalog of songs from all of the bands I’ve been in and records that I’ve made. We are kind of feeling out what works in this context. But the new record is the centerpiece.

IT: How has it been taking those new songs on the road? Any favorites or highlights yet?

JL: I am terrified of the title track for some reason. I have a mental block. I think it goes back to when I recorded it with (producer) Ryan Adams. I added in a very strange timing thing in the middle of the song that I inevitably fuck up every time I play it. So, we’ve only played “The Voyager” three times because I’m terrified of it. But I’m willing to get over my fear for this next tour. I’m going to play that shit.

IT: That’s my favorite song off the record. What do you have to do to make that one happen?

JL: Oh, cool! It’s just weird because when you write something when you are alone in your room and you bring it to someone, it’s definitely malleable, but the structure is hard to get away from. So we added this arbitrary five count, which is great. There is a count like that in (Oasis’s) “Wonderwall.” [Ryan] gave me an assignment, he said, ‘Go write a song that’s your version of “Wonderwall.”’ So that was his contribution, that weird five count in there. We will have to count through it.

IT: It’s been six years since your last solo record before The Voyager. What took so long?

JL: Some come quickly, some come slowly. This one just intercepted with my own life, and I needed to take a moment, get off road, and take inventory. It’s weird, sometimes you go into the studio and the song is done in one take. But other times, you need to revisit the song in order to find the right vibe.

IT: Any songs on this record that took a day, or on the other side, months to complete?

JL: Well “She’s Not Me” was recorded in a day; “Just One of the Guys” took five years. That’s sort of the range and everything in between. For the title track, Ryan gave me my homework assignment on a Friday and I showed up on a Monday in the studio.

IT: Given the time it took to complete and the work you put into it, do you feel this is your best solo album yet?

JL: No, I don’t. I think my first solo record, Rabbit Fur Coat, was the exact opposite. It was recorded in under two weeks, and it was very easy to make. It just sort of rolled off the tape. I don’t think process necessarily determines outcome.

IT: The Voyager is your first solo record to come out after the break-up of Rilo Kiley. Did that change your approach in making it now that you are solely a solo artist?

JL: I just write songs regardless. It’s not so much with the songwriting process, but with the production because I was no longer woven to my rock band. I could really explore any kind of sonic texture that I wanted to, or my producers wanted to. We weren’t limited to making a side project folk record.

IT: The new album has production from Adams, Beck, and Jonathan Rice. What was it like to work with all those voices in the studio?

JL: They all have very different ways of working. Jonathan and I have been writing and producing together for years, and that can be a good and bad thing. I was on my best behavior with Ryan and Beck. I love them so much, I was kind of star struck. It was great. I learned so much from everyone and took away a lot of philosophical ideas with regard to recording music.

IT: With a lot of the songs I get a ‘70s-era rock vibe. Is that something you intended on?

JL: I’m never trying to recreate something from the past, although I listen to a lot of records that were recorded in the ‘70s. Sometimes I just write from a certain timeframe without even realizing it. I don’t know. I think that Ryan brought a lot of that rock and soul into the record.

IT: Songs like “She’s Not Me” sound like something out of the Fleetwood Mac catalog. Do you welcome a comparison like that, or is it too easy?

JL: I think a lot of people are compared to Fleetwood Mac now. It’s a great comparison. They were true pop song crafters. I am of course a huge fan. I absolutely love Stevie Nicks. I love those songs. So if being compared to great songwriters is the case, I welcome it.

IT: What has this last year been like for you with the new record coming out and The Postal Service reunion tour?

JL: It’s been varied. It requires a different set of skills to be a support person in The Postal Service. A side character, which I absolutely loved. It was the hardest and easiest job I ever had. With my own thing, it’s very different. They are my words, so I am out there speaking to something that is very personal. It’s taken me a second to find myself as a front-person again. With all the shows we do, I discover something new about the performance. It’s a learning curve, and I’m in the middle of it.

IT: Those Postal Service shows must have been incredible.

JL: Yeah, they were amazing. It was like one of those dreams that you have, but you are not naked in front of your classroom, you are standing in front of 15,000 people at Barclays Center. It was just, “How the hell did I get here?”

IT: Have you played venues that large before?

JL: Hell no, and I don’t know if I ever will again. So I’m trying to keep a snapshot of it in my mind. But strangely, during those shows, I was more comfortable than playing a very intimate, small show. We played our last show in Chicago at a very famous small venue called The Metro, and that somehow was harder for me than playing to 15,000 people.

IT: Why was that?

JL: There is a certain effect when you can’t see the crowd. It feels like performance, where as the next show, people are right up on your pedalboard and you can see their reaction and you can make eye contact. That can be a little scarier than looking out at a bunch of cell phones glowing in the distance.

IT: People must have just been pumped to be there. I remember those tickets sold out in minutes.

JL: People were ecstatic and so were we. We opened the set with “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight,” and even talking about it now, I have chills. Every single night was an amazing feeling to hear those opening notes and the reaction from the crowd.

IT: How much of a hand did you have in writing (The Postal Service’s only album) Give Up?

JL: Zero. I wrote not a note on the record.

IT: But was there something about that record that influenced you? It seems like the sound of Rilo Kiley changed so much in between The Execution of All Things and More Adventurous, and that was when Give Up was released.

JL: I don’t think so. I was a singer and a player in The Postal Service at that time. Everyone was influenced by that record when it came out. Those electronic sounds had yet to be explored in indie rock, so I think everyone was unconsciously referencing that record. I just identified as a rock band. From the beginning to the end, regardless of the change of some of the textures on the record.

IT: So was that a decision you made, to be a more polished rock band in between the releases of the second and third Rilo Kiley albums?

JL: I don’t think the word ‘polished’ was a word we would use, but I think it was the ability to work in nicer studios with nicer equipment. We went from making records in our living rooms and garages to working in legit studios with producers. We wanted to grow, and we were very eager to expand on every level.

IT: You are still playing some Rilo Kiley stuff on your solo tours. Why have you picked the songs you picked?

JL: I picked my favorites. My favorite songs. Some of them didn’t work when we were rehearsing. They felt too sad when we were playing them without the band. I didn’t want to recreate exactly what we were doing. These were our songs with the band and my songs as well. Having freedom to interpret them in different ways really worked. When you are in a band, everyone chooses the setlist. It was what everyone wanted to play, so my goal was to go through the back catalogue and choose songs that resonated with me emotionally.

IT: When you look back at the music you put out with Rilo Kiley, what sticks out for you?

JL: I think all of our records have some real heart and soul in them. They are a document of my life and observations lyrically. It’s hard to choose one. They represent such a finite amount of time. The songs I pull the most are the ones from The Execution of All Things and Under the Blacklight. More Adventurous, I’m having a harder time tackling those live, but I am still trying to figure out how to do that.

IT: Why’s that?

JL: They are so orchestrated in a way. The arrangements are so big that it’s hard to reinterpret some of them. But it is still relatively new for me.

IT: What does it mean to you to have been a part of a band like Rilo Kiley that is just so beloved by so many people?

JL: It’s amazing. You don’t see that when you are in the middle of something. You can feel it, we felt the love from our fans at our shows. But I don’t think you understand the depth of your experience and your songs in the moment. I’m so thrilled, and it’s a real privilege to revisit some of the songs.

IT: Thanks again, Jenny.

JL: See you in Ithaca.

#album: the voyager #year: 2014 #song: the voyager #mention: rilo kiley #mention: performing #mention: the postal service #person: ryan adams

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