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wherethewordsare · 4 years

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Sweater Weather- Mutual Pining for Jay’s 400 Follower Bingo!!

He’d found it after a movie night, draped over the back of the couch. He held it up to confirm and yep. There was no mistaking the hood and the bulky black sleeves. It looked like it may have gone through the dryer about twelve times too many and the zipper pull was barely hanging on. He let his thumb rub against the hem of the sleeve, shaking his head. Jaskier tucked the hoodie under his arm as he pulled out his phone, smiling to himself.

geralt

u left ur hoodie

its cold and everything how do u forget that

ur worse than ciri smh

Just hold onto it, I’ll grab it next time.

And I am not worse than Ciri. I’m not the one who’s left his phone in the Denny’s bathroom at 2am…. Twice…

Last month.

shhhhh :P

Throwing his phone down, Jaskier went to his closet. He was going to just hang up the hoodie and Geralt would get it eventually. Honestly, he was going to put it away. But then he pressed his face into the shoulder and sighed.

This was wrong. He should just hang it up and return it when they saw each other again. He wasn’t about to let this silly little infatuation with Geralt ruin a perfectly good friendship. Especially not over a stupid hoodie.

Unfortunately, Jaskier's self restraint had taken the night off. Before he could stop himself, Jaskier was sliding his arms in, zipping up the front and crawling into bed. One night of indulging wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Even if it felt like his chest was splitting open. He shifted a little under the covers, burying his nose into the collar as he drifted off to sleep. They had been through so much together since they met in high school, wasn’t Jaskier allowed this one little thing, just this once?

-o-O-o-

i still have ur hoodie

u want it back cause we could like meet up for coffee

we could go to the nag :)

He snapped a picture of the hoodie and a travel mug in his passenger seat, sending it off.

Can’t today. :(

Parent teacher meetings and then Dad wants us to help him fix the roof.

I could use my hoodie today, it’s cold…

omgl finally

thought id have to do it

Jask… no.

:/ fine then

see if i try to be helpful again

jk jk

dont die

I dont wanna do handywork :3

Geralt had been right. It was cold, and Jaskier had forgotten his own jacket at home. He frowned down at the hoodie and sighed. It was only because it was chilly. Nothing else. He tried to ignore how it still smelled so strongly of Geralt. He walked around the gallery wrapped in Geralt’s hoodie, the front unzipped and his hands buried in the sleeves.

-o-O-o-

hehe crispy leaf time

the cold is coming

Yes, Jaskier. That’s how seasons work

u know what that means~

Geralt did not in fact, know what that meant but he soon found out. He was in the middle of typing when a picture came up with the caption “stolen hoodie weather :3” with Jaskier curled up on his couch at home, snuggled up in the black zip up hoodie Geralt only remembered leaving there early last Spring.

Something in his stomach flipped and he looked around to make sure no one was watching him. Why? Why would it matter if someone saw him? It was just Jaskier.

He frowned and started typing again. He stopped and erased it, fighting down the small smile that was starting to tilt the corners of his mouth.

You kept it?

Way to go, Geralt. That was really fucking smooth. What was he supposed to mean by that?

unlike u :(((

abandoner of hoodies

some of us appreciate the gift of comfort geralt

Geralt felt like his brain was melting. That thing in his stomach seemed to purr with satisfaction at the idea of Jaskier wearing his hoodie. It was petty and ridiculous and oh no, Geralt couldn't take his eyes off the way the black material framed Jaskier's collarbone.

No. No no. This way lay madness, he told himself. He would simply get the hoodie back and that was that.

hey when do u wanna do our next movie night

its been like

7099039 years

Geralt hesitated for a moment. He had never hesitated when it came to Jaskier. They had known each other for far too long.

Sure. My turn to pick?

not if u choose a history documentary

Spy movie?

:0 promise?

yes pls

Should I bring wine?

Wait, no that would be a very bad idea.

:) you know it

bring the good shit

eskels secret one

i know you can find it

It’s called “google” Jaskier. Even I know that. And I will see what I can do.

same time and place as normal right

It’s a date.

Geralt felt as though his soul had left his body when he had hit send. Had he lost his entire mind? He was in the middle of typing a follow up, trying to word the best way to dismiss his complete and total departure from sanity when the little dots popped up then disappeared then popped up again.

It’s a date. :)

Jaskier nearly slammed the door back into Geralt’s face in shock. Geralt was standing in the hall, bottle of wine in one hand, movie and carry out in the other. Then there was the shirt. Jaskier had actually helped him pick it out. The black button up, the sleeves rolled up and was his hair actually combed back? He looked good. Jaskier swallowed hard. He looked really damn good.

But that wasn’t even the weird part. No, the weird part was the way Geralt’s eyes widened when he had opened the door. He recovered quickly though, nodding at Jaskier as he stepped in.

“Didn’t think you’d let the apartment be cold enough you’d need to wear a hoodie.” He smirked, setting the bag down on the table before going right into the kitchen.

“Comfort, Geralt. I’m telling you, I just don’t think you appreciate it enough.” Jaskier followed him in. It was routine for them, the way Geralt got the wine open, Jaskier grabbed plates and silverware; the way they bickered and snarked, barely suppressing laughs through barbs.

-o-O-o-

The coffee table was littered with cartons of orange chicken and fried noodles. Geralt set his plate down as he leaned back, slinging his arm across the back of the couch. He had to smile at the sense of deja vu that struck him. Casino Royale wasn’t just a comfort movie for them. It had been their first movie night nearly fifteen years ago.

By now, they could practically quote the entire thing, make quips at Bond’s smugness and only just sit through that one scene without wincing. At least that’s what they told themselves.

Now they watched as Bond and Vesper reconnect outside of that fancy English rehab center. Jaskier chorused him as they both rolled their eyes and sighed at Bond’s shitty lines about little fingers.

“God he’s the worst.” Jaskier took a sip of wine, making a gagging sound.

“Quantum still exists.” he chuckled.

“Valid!” Jaskier set his wine down.

Geralt leaned over as Bond delivered his next line, syncing his tone and dropping into a soft gravelly murmur.

“Whatever I am, I’m yours.” It was supposed to be cheesy and ridiculous but Geralt found that it felt far too honest. There was truth to them that he couldn’t think to deny now.

Jaskier nearly choked as he looked up, his eyes going wide. Geralt watched as he leaned into his personal space. Time felt like it stuttered to a halt in that moment, Jaskier inches from him, still draped in his hoodie. Geralt wet his lips anxiously. The tension between them felt like a powerline pulled too tight; everything seemed to crackle with it.

“Geralt-”

Whatever he was going to say was lost the second Geralt closed the distance, pressing his mouth to Jaskier’s. It was nearly magnetic and there was no pulling away. Geralt’s hands strayed down to Jaskier’s thighs without his realizing it. There was no way he could stop himself now. He’d wanted this for far too long to just let it go. Part of him would mourn the loss of his oldest friendship, but that was Tomorrow Geralt’s problem.

Jaskier’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer as Geralt tugged Jaskier into his lap clumsily.

Geralt had to break the kiss first, pulling back gasping for air and pressing their foreheads together.

“Jask… Wait. Wait,” Geralt choked. He had to tilt his head back to get his words out as Jaskier dipped back in to start kissing him again. “Shit. Jaskier…” He already sounded wrecked to his own ears. His hands were on Jaskier’s hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles against his sides as he looked up, eyes searching. “Are you sure you want this?”

He needed to hear it. He needed to know he was allowed to have this. It was one thing to say it would be Tomorrow Geralt’s problem, but it was another to actively throw away the best friendship he had ever had. He had spent too long pretending they could be just friends for it to fall apart like this.

Jaskier crowded in closer and it took everything in him not to just give in to it because fuck that felt amazing. There was an easy smile across his lips that made Geralt feel like he was starving.

“Geralt, I swear to the gods, don’t you dare start questioning this now,” as open as his face was, his voice trembled slightly. It was then that Geralt realized that Jaskier was practically vibrating under his palms. It was instinct the way he wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s middle, pulling him closer. “I’ve been wanting this for at least a solid decade.”

Geralt blinked hard as he gaped up at Jaskier.

“Are you really that surprised, Geralt?” Jaskier hummed, leaning back down and pressing a surprisingly chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Hmm. Maybe not.” He found himself chuckling, trying to breathe around the bubble of light that was threatening to fill his entire chest. He caught Jaskier’s mouth again, his hand coming up to slide into his hair, holding him close.

It was hard to tell who had deepened the kiss further but the laughter died on his tongue when he felt Jaskier roll his hips down into his lap. Suddenly everything was too much and achingly not enough. The hoodie slipped down Jaskier’s shoulders and what little attention span Geralt had left zeroed into that same spot along Jaskier’s collarbone.

Pulling Jaskier closer, he made a trail of graceless open mouthed kisses along his jaw and down the firm column of his neck, his teeth raking over the spot with careless abandon. He was rewarded with a soft keen and Jaskier squirming in his arms. Long dexterous fingers wound into his hair, cradling his head as his own found their way up the back of Jaskier’s shirt.

“Geralt-” There was a tug in his hair and fuck shit yes. He must have made some kind of noise because he felt Jaskier chuckle fondly. “Geralt, as much as I am enjoying this,” he gasped, back arching as Geralt nipped just below his ear, “Bedroom. Now.”

There was no arguing with that tone nor could he bring himself to find anything to argue about. Geralt tilted his head back up, Jaskier’s lips crushing in against his, taking every last remaining shred of doubt away. He felt his body switch to autopilot as he scooped Jaskier up from under his thighs, pleased at the way his legs wrapped around him automatically. He carried him easily, stopping only for a moment to pin Jaskier to the wall to adjust his grip under him, long enough to flick the lights off.

Jaskier snorted, pulling away. “So considerate.” He teased. Geralt gave him a playful swat on his thigh and the chuckling was cut off by one of those delicious keening noises.

Geralt half stumbled, half marched to where he knew Jaskier’s bedroom to be, blindly pushing the door open with his foot. He let himself bask in the heat of Jaskier’s body pressed to his, taking his bottom lip and biting it.

The reality of where he was came crashing down on him and time was doing that thing again, slowing down as someone else with his hands kneeled against the side of the bed, letting them both tumble back into ridiculously lavish sheets. Years of habitual teasing were only tamped down by Jaskier’s insistent fingers making quick work of the buttons on the front of Geralt’s shirt.

“You just had to wear this one, didn’t you.” Apparently not everyone was so distracted not to tease. “Do you know how hard it was not to just pull you into my apartment and kiss that ridiculous face of yours?”

Geralt gave a wry smile. “Do you know how hard it’s been for fifteen years, being your best friend and thinking I would never get to kiss that beautiful face of yours?”

He had to bite the inside of his lip as Jaskier’s whole face and neck flushed brilliant pink in the low light.

“Geralt!” he practically whined and Geralt couldn’t stop from laughing softly at that, bending back down to kiss him again. He decided he couldn’t help himself, not really.

This was too good. If he could just bottle this moment and tuck it away for every rainy day for the rest of his life, he would.

“I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you now.” Geralt hummed happily. He shifted, the hand under Jaskier’s thigh moving to tug his hips flush with Geralt’s as his other hand moved to cup his face. “As long as you’re okay with that.”

Geralt was pretty sure they were too far gone to ever go back, but even now, he had to make sure.

“Geralt Roger Eric…” Jaskier groused. “If you do not come back down here and kiss-” his words were muffled by Geralt’s mouth, his tongue sliding over Jaskier’s bottom lip and swallowing whatever ridiculous threats may have been lobbed at him.

He found that kissing Jaskier had been easier than breathing. Before he knew it, Geralt was pulling back to pull off his shirt but his hands froze. He cursed under what breath he had left because the view of Jaskier under him, lips kiss bruised and shining, the needy look in his eyes, and the way his hair was pushed in every direction nearly undid Geralt completely.

He snapped back to work, stripping out of his shirt and pushing at his jeans, letting them slide away.

“C'mere you gorgeous thing.” Geralt murmured softly, pulling Jaskier to him before rolling, his back pressed up against the headboard.

Jaskier shimmied out of his own jeans before straddling Geralt’s thighs, letting his fingers trail up the planes of Geralt’s chest, a stray fingernail grazing over his nipple, making him groan. Jaskier only grinned, leaning in, and nipping at Geralt’s neck.

All Geralt could do was groan and tilt his head back, his hands sliding over Jaskier’s back. He was just aware enough to realize when Jaskier started to work his way down his body. Looking down, he watched in complete awe as nimble fingers hooked into his boxers.

The first touch of Jaskier’s mouth to the jut of Geralt’s hip had his blood singing and he could only drop his head back against the wall. He hadn’t realized how achingly hard he was until Jaskier was biting down gently on Geralt’s upper thigh making him jump.

There was a low chuckle from somewhere around his groin and then there was a sharp tug on his boxers. Jaskier wasted no time getting a hand around Geralt’s cock while he still playfully nipped at Geralt’s hip and thigh and abs. This was how he was going to die, he thought absently as he let his hand move to the back of Jaskier’s head. He let his fingers tangle there, tugging gently and Jaskier seemed to get the message though he could feel the smirk against his inner thigh.

The weight of Jaskier between his thighs, one hand sliding up Geralt’s torso as the other stroked him lightly left Geralt breathless, his eyes fluttering at every touch. But it was when Jaskier wrapped his mouth around the head of his cock that Geralt felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. He bucked his hips instinctively into the hot slick of Jaskier’s mouth before he could stop himself.

For long moments, all Geralt could do was hold on. Jaskier took him slowly, seeming to savor the newly found ground between them as he bobbed further and further until Geralt was nudging the back of his throat. He gasped, his back arching when Jaskier swallowed around him, his responding hum a little too self satisfied.

Geralt tightened his grip in Jaskier’s hair only slightly, tugging him up. It was messy and Jaskier’s mouth was open and slick, his eyes glazed slightly with a need that left Geralt breathless. He looked debauched and it was honestly the most beautiful thing Geralt had ever seen.

“Fuck,” he groaned pulling Jaskier back into his lap, his hips stuttering to grind up against Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier pressed in close, panting slightly as he broke a kiss that had been more teeth than anything, leaning his forehead to Geralt’s. “Mm, fuck. We- Ah,” He chuckled as Geralt dipped in to kiss him again, dodging away gracefully. “Geralt, I need-” he licked his lips , taking a shaky breath. “Want you to-”

Geralt was already nodding. He would agree to anything Jaskier asked for but the way his hips ground down against Geralt’s lap, it wasn’t hard to fill in the blanks. He wrapped a strong arm around Jaskier’s middle, rolling them gently until Jaskier was under him his knees still bracketed around Geralt’s thighs as he arched and keened.

“Under the notebook in the-” Jaskier breathed his hands not leaving Geralt’s skin for a moment, fingers greedily mapping out the lines of his back.

“I know, you haven’t changed your hiding place since college,” Geralt teased. To his surprise Jaskier snorted under him, his head tilting back in the pillows as he laughed. It left the column of his neck exposed to Geralt and he couldn’t help himself but lean down and bite small marks into it. He was rewarded by more delicious noises endlessly streaming from Jaskier.

He pulled away only for the time it would take to retrieve the lube before sliding back down into Jaskier’s arms and kissing him thoroughly. His hands traveled down Jaskier’s bare chest, his fingers brushing along the top of his boxers and he gave a low huff into Jaskier’s mouth.

“Why are these still on?” he grumbled, smirking when Jaskier rolled his eyes at him.

“Someone’s been slacking in getting me undressed,” Jaskier shot back.

TheirThere next kiss was a mess of chuckles and grins. Geralt shifted them again, moving to get Jaskier’s boxers down. The laughter died in Jaskier’s throat when Geralt’s fingers brushed low down his back and grazed over the swell of his ass, he buried his face into Geralt’s neck. Geralt didn’t tease for long before pulling away. It made Jaskier groan and nip at his neck until slick fingers returned to his entrance, circling slowly.

“Fuck!” Jaskier moaned, his hips already rocking back greedily.

Geralt quietly cursed himself for letting so much time get away from him as he slowly worked Jaskier open, enjoying the way he shivered and babbled under him with every push of his fingers. When he slipped a third finger in, Jaskier bucked under him, his eyes slamming shut as he gave a shout.

“Geralt! Fuck, dear heart, please, for the love of all that is good-” he pleaded, his hips rocking back onto Geralt’s fingers eagerly. “If you don’t fuck me soon I’m going to combust.”

Geralt leaned down, muffling the rest of the curses that were probably coming with a hard kiss. Jaskier arched under him as he pulled his hands away. It was easy after that, letting their bodies slot together and letting himself slide into Jaskier’s tight warmth. It felt like a gut punch. It felt like coming home.

Jaskier wound his legs around his waist, hands reaching up to thread into Geralt’s hair as he rolled his hips, taking Geralt deeper, causing them both to groan.

“Jask.” Geralt pressed his face to Jaskier’s shoulder panting as he started a steady pace. Soon only the sound of their heavy breathing and Jaskier’s soft moans filled the room around them.

Time around them seemed to hold still as Jaskier tugged gently on Geralt’s hair, prying him away from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. The look Geralt found there left the world spinning. Jaskier’s eyes were bright and his smile warm even as his cheeks flushed. He was pliant and open and completely wrecked and the sight of him tugged at Geralt’s chest. The words came tumbling out before he could stop himself, his hips slowly rolling into Jaskier as they moved.

“I love you, Julek,” he murmured as he kissed him slowly.

Jaskier whined under him, his fingers tightening in Geralt’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer. When they finally broke apart to gasp for air, Jaskier's eyes were searching his as he bit his lip around a low moan. He huffed a wet sounding laugh as a hand slid from Geralt’s hair to rest on his cheek, a well calloused thumb tracing along his chin. “Oh, dear heart,” he shifted, canting his hips to make Geralt move. The angle shifted and Geralt seemed to nudge right against where Jaskier needed him most as he arched from the mattress and groaned.

Geralt pushed up to sit, pulling Jaskier up with him until he was in his lap. They rocked together, shuddering every time Geralt bottomed out. He gripped Jaskier’s hip tightly with one hand as his other slid between them, wrapping around Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier pushed up into his hand, swaying between his grip and his cock, they both seemed drunk on it. It was only a matter of time after that that Jaskier was crying out, Geralt’s name tumbling from his lips, his orgasm tearing through him like a whirlwind and Geralt could do nothing but hold onto him.

Geralt steadied him, his hand holding Jaskier still as he thrust up into him, reveling in the small fucked out noises Jaskier whimpered into his neck before he too was shaking apart, spilling into Jaskier with a low satisfied rumble.

They kissed again, lazy and sated, their chests a mess with Jaskier’s spend. He broke the kiss first, pulling back with that smile that always left Geralt feeling dazed.

“I love you, too. I love-” he didn’t get to finish because Geralt was pressing him down into the mattress again with a hard kiss, smiling.

He was allowed. Everything that had happened seemed to catch up with him but instead of the sheer panic he had been expecting, the only thing that wrapped around him in that moment was the bright light that was Jaskier’s answering laugh.

Everything was sore but in that pleasant kind of way after a good lay. Jaskier rolled over, pressing his nose into the pillow beside him. He smiled when he realized it still smelled like Geralt.

Geralt. Fuck!

His hand reached out before he let himself open his eyes, wincing against the bright morning light that streamed in through his windows. The space beside him was empty.

But… Geralt had said it first? Where-? Jaskier’s heart sank, his throat tightening. He knew it was too good to be true. The moment Geralt had kissed him on the couch, he had pushed down every part of him that had screamed that he was going to end up hurt by time the sun came.

He reached for his phone though he didn’t know who he was going to text. Essi wouldn’t even be awake yet on a Saturday. The space by his lamp was also empty. He realized he must have left his phone in the living room the night before when-

He tried not to think about how easily Geralt had lifted him up and carried him to bed. He had tried not to think about how there were now bruises on his hips that were shaped like Geralt’s hands or the trail of stinging bites that he would have to carry around his empty apartment for days. He pressed the heals of his hands to his eyes and groaned.

“Idiot,” he berated himself.

“Cause you left your phone in the living room and now it’s dead?” Geralt asked, pushing the door open with his foot. He was in a pair of Jaskier’s sweatpants and nothing else carrying in two cups of coffee. He looked up from where he had been concentrating, trying not to spill them. “What?”

“You’re here,” Jaskier chuckled. Something in his chest lifted and he let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

“I… yes?” Geralt looked around. There was a lovely mark in the shape of Jaskier’s mouth on his shoulder and it made Jaskier’s toes curl. Geralt looked at the space beside Jaskier then at his face. He made a little oh with his mouth before he started to shake his head. “Oh! I see, hmm.” He set the coffee down gently on the side table and slid back into bed and into Jaskier’s arms. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“So we’re…” Jaskier looked away, rubbing his palms over his covered thighs. “We’re okay?” He didn’t dare hope. Not just yet. Not in the bright light of day.

“Well, that depends,” Geralt chuckled, pulling him into his lap easily. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier’s chin. “Yenn messaged. Something about brunch. I think they know. Are you okay with that?”

Jaskier snorted, leaning over to grab his coffee. “Essi. I told her it was just movie night. I tell her it’s just movie night every time and-” He realized what he was saying, the cup of coffee hovering just at his lips. He looked sideways at Geralt who was tilting his head and smirking.

“The biggest gossip we know and that’s the one you decide to confide in?” He took the cup from Jaskier’s hands and set it down again before rolling them both to pin Jaskier under him.

Jaskier squawked indignity, his arms wrapping around Geralt. He let himself be kissed and hummed happily when Geralt slotted easily back between his thighs.

“We’re going to be late for brunch,” he sighed as Geralt’s hand slipped down to his thigh, fingers brushing gently over the marks from the night before.

“Hmm, don’t care.”

They ended up missing brunch altogether but neither seemed to mind.

---

The weather was crisp and dry and Jaskier was bundled in the black hoodie, but now pressed against Geralt’s side as they walked into Magnolia’s. It had been easier than Geralt was expecting though he groaned as he watched several fairly large wads of cash exchange hands.

“Pay up, Jask,” Essi grinned.

“What?” Geralt turned, scowling. Jaskier gave a chagrined shrug as he handed over money. “So little faith?” Geralt teased.

“You too, pretty boy!” Lambert smirked across the table.

Jaskier gasped beside him, leaning away “So little faith, Geralt?” The sleeves of the hoodie fell over his wrists and Geralt only smiled, pulling him back against his side.

“I don’t mind being wrong this time.”

#geraskier #modern au #fluff and smut #friends to lovers #jays 400 follower celebration #jay writes #mind the tags on this one yall #it's spicy #and soft

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marlahey · 6 years

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

a shawn mendes rpf fic ratings/warnings: contains descriptions of a panic attack. and angst. notes: I’M ALIVE. thank you everyone for waiting so patiently; these last few weeks have been a lot busier than I was expecting. to make up for the long wait, this part includes links to ten photos from my personal instagram to give you guys a sense of Ellie’s London adventure, and clocks in at a whopping fifteen thousand words. and in other news, I have an ending. part thirteen will be the final part of this fic, and part fourteen (cause I like even numbers) will either be an epilogue or various outtakes – depending on what happens. thank you everyone for all your support! you’ve been amazing. (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) manchester; now You’re not sure exactly what wakes you, but two thoughts slam forward when you blink your eyes open into a dark room. The first, accompanied by a split second of panic, is that you don’t know where you are. Memories flash quickly: the show, the video. Shawn.

The second, when you’re aware enough to take stock of the rest of your body, is that you can’t remember the last time you were ever really held. You and Shawn clearly shifted in the night; you’ve ended up on your side, facing the window out to a still-sleeping city, while the arm he’d tossed over your waist is now hooked around your ribs, which Shawn had apparently used to pull you firmly into the open curve of his chest.

His breath is warm over the back of your neck, and Shawn’s nose is buried in your hair. He’s holding your hands. You feel like crying, inexplicably. The temptation to close your eyes and fall back asleep is so strong that you’re almost all the way down before you flinch. You fell asleep in Shawn’s bed. You’ve been here all night. You nearly jerk upright, remembering Shawn at the last moment, still breathing even and soft against your skin. You’re half-afraid he has too tight a grip, but as you slide carefully away from him, Shawn doesn’t move. You’re so cold, all of sudden. You drag yourself to the edge of the bed, allowing yourself exactly eleven seconds to stare at him over your shoulder. His face, half hidden in the pillow and his wild curls, is untroubled in sleep, and as you watch Shawn’s body curls forward into the space you’ve just left. It feels like a strange sort of privilege, to see him this way. You didn’t know it was possible to want someone this much. You get up. The journal you bought him over a year ago sits on the bedside table with his prefered brand of black pen. About half the pages are discoloured at the edges and worn with use; you flirt briefly with the idea of leaving a note, loath to let Shawn think you just abandoned him as if this were straight off the album. But you don’t dare lay your hands on one of his most private possessions. A text will have to do. You tiptoe carefully across the room to the adjoining door. Ava is gone. Fuck. “How’d you sleep?” You jump, a shriek and a curse both lodged in your throat, but you shove them down. Your sister leans against the bathroom door with her hair twisted up into a towel, one perfect eyebrow raised. Is she judging you? Laughing at you? Your inner hysteria makes it hard to tell.

“Fine,” you choke out. The truth is though, that you’re exhausted. Ava lets you flounder for another half second before she laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Relax, Lenny. I know you didn’t get laid last night.” You can feel yourself turn pink. “How…?” She points at your phone, left behind on your bed. “Figured you hadn’t gone far. Opened the door when I got up and saw you, both fully clothed and on top of the covers.” Pink turns into red. You’re not embarrassed, exactly, nor are you upset that your sister made a logical guess in looking for you. But something in you flinches anyway at the thought of being seen a second time. “Nothing happened,” you say, unnecessarily if not for a silent it could have. “He just... needed me.” You will your voice not to shake. You won’t apologize for it. Ava meets your gaze steadily.

“Okay.” Her lips purse, just a fraction. “You filled your prescription before we left right?” Your next inhale is a wheeze. “Fucking hell, Ava.” She just raises the other eyebrow. “Yes, now can we please never talk about it again?” Your sister really does laugh at you now. “Doubtful. But consider it dropped for the time being.”

You suppose it’s as good as you’re ever going to get. Mostly, you’re grateful that Ava isn’t currently trying to give you The Talk, that she has not immediately jumped to a place of reservation or shame when it comes to the idea of you and Shawn being...intimate; she’d never do the latter, and the former well– she’s too late to the game. (She had, however, taken you to the doctor’s for birth control just before your fifteenth birthday, after you’d spent a large percentage of your last period lying on the bathroom floor in absolute agony, tearful and nauseous yet unable to even lift your head high enough to vomit. Pain of that magnitude had never occurred before and hasn’t since, and as you stood in line at the pharmacy she’d said, “It should help even you out. And you know, with other stuff. Whenever that happens.” You’d nodded, trying to blush too deeply in front of the elderly gentleman just behind you, holding a pill bottle in his veined and knobbly hands. “Right.” That had been that. Over a year later, after you’d exhausted yourself crying over an ending that included an important beginning, she doesn’t ask you if you were safe. It’s the first time you’d ever felt Ava truly treat you as something besides her little sister – a responsibility. Even though you suppress everything else about that spring, you’ll never forget that feeling.) “Did you know?” you blurt now. “That Shawn was going to ask me to come to New York?” Your sister nods. “He ran it by me, in Dublin.” Ava tilts her head. “Why? Do you not want to go?” “No, I do.” You can’t decide if you’d rather her be concerned or encouraging right now, which one you want versus the one you probably need to hear. “I’m just…” You trail off, remembering how you’d felt only minutes ago waking up in his arms, realizing your fear from Paris has compounded into something deeper. This thing between you and Shawn is real now, and you don’t know if you’re quite prepared to hold it up to the light and see all the ways it could be torn apart. “He’d understand,” Ava says gently. “If you’re not ready.” You shake your head. If he can be brave, you reason, so can you. “I don’t want to disappoint him. We agreed to just give it a try.” You muster a grin. “Besides, how can I pass up New York? There’s so many things I haven’t seen yet.” She laughs lightly. “Fair enough. Do you know what happened to the blow dryer?” You open your mouth to reply; a knock at the adjoining door cuts you off. You have the ridiculous urge to race your sister to the doorknob, but of course she doesn’t move as you answer it. You know it’s Shawn, and yet some part of you is still surprised. It’s too early. I’m not ready. I haven’t put myself back together yet.

He's pulled a hoodie over last night’s t shirt, the hood half-caught around one of his ears as he smiles down at you, still blinking a little sleep from his eyes. “Did I hear something about a blowdryer?” Shawn’s holding one of your constant tour companions, purple like Pablo, in one hand, his toothbrush in the other. “My saviour,” Ava says, crossing the room and taking the dryer. “All packed, kiddo?” Shawn nods. “You guys need help with your bags?” “Nah, we’re fine, thank you. Why don’t you both get dressed and we’ll meet downstairs in ten? We’ll grab some breakfast on the way to the airport.” Ava bumps you gently with her hip on her way to the bathroom. “Do a last toiletries and charger check for me before you close your suitcase, yeah?” “Sure.” Your sister disappears. Moments later, the roar of the blowdryer effectively drowns out anything that you or Shawn might say to each other in the next room. Even so, you’re strangely nervous to meet his eye in approaching daylight. “Morning El.” Everyone seems intent on inwardly laughing at you before you’ve even had a chance to wash your face. “Hi,” you say weakly. “Sorry for uh,” He’d put it well last night. “freaking out and ditching you.” Shawn’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry about it. But...” He leans down and tugs very gently at the hem of your t-shirt. “You should wake me up, next time. Before you go.” Your insides squirm at the idea of next time. “You sure? Even if I can’t stay?” He nods, tightening his grip on the pale pink fabric and using it to pull you forward. Shawn seems to like this, you’ve noticed, the ease with which he can draw you in and keep you. Not, of course, that you ever really resist. He drops a minty kiss on the crown of your head. “I like the idea of waking up to you.” Before your stomach can stop swooping, Shawn leans down further, and only at the last moment do you have enough presence of mind to pull back. “Shawn…” “Just one?” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel his breath against your face. Your stomach swoops again. “Av’s busy.” “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” you complain. You’ve got your hand on his chest to bar him from further movement, but even that feels like too intimate a touch, feeling the broad firmness of him beneath the soft layers of his clothes, still warm from sleep. Shawn presses a little against your fingers. “Don’t care.” Shawn bends until you really have no choice but to bend yourself back – an almost reflection of the shape you’d both made on the bed – tilting his head so all that’s really required is for gravity to pull him down. You roll your eyes, lift your chin, and the curve of his smile touches your closed mouth. “Happy?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t giggle. “Very.” He likes making you blush too much for you to ever be able to really stop. “You’re a goof, you know that?” Shawn’s smile is a little crooked, a lot pleased. “You like me anyway.” He’s not wrong.

Moments after boarding, Shawn coughs exactly twice. Everyone in the cabin exchanges looks, and Andrew declares immediate voice rest for everything that isn’t the BBC breakfast show, where Shawn’s due in two hours, and the following two nights of tour. Ava pulls out the air filtration mask, and Shawn proceeds to make silent faces at you for the next thirty minutes. You don’t mention the planned adventure with the gang, on your technically first day and night off since Germany nearly a month ago. You can tell without asking that he’s already thinking about it. At altitude, you’re proven right. shawnmendes: I can’t believe I’m missing tonight. lennysinclair17: You can’t come and just...not talk? shawnmendes: Doubtful. lennysinclair17: We can hang out instead if you want. Watch a movie. shawnmendes: No way. We’ve been talking about it with everybody for ages. You owe Brian tequila remember? This is true. You glance up, where Shawn is looking pointedly at you with only his eyes and eyebrows.

lennysinclair17: I hate the idea of you stuck in the hotel by yourself. shawnmendes: I’m used to it El. It’s fine. You’re going. You’re not missing out on London because of me. The girls have a million things planned.

This is also true. Everyone is meant to head for breakfast while Shawn is at the BBC, and when he returned the plan was to carefully mislead the legions of fans in the city about where you are and what you’re doing. When Shawn balked at the deliberate unkindness, Geoff had just leveled a look and said, “You want a repeat of your birthday?” There were no more objections after that. And now well – now Shawn couldn’t even speak his unhappiness if he wanted to. shawnmendes: I expect you to bombard me with photos. He looks at you again, and it aggravates you to no end that he knows he’s won the argument. shawnmendes: Do a shot for me.

london; now @TrackingSM: Shawn talking about the Manchester show this morning on @BBCRadio! [Shawn’s curls are only half-tempered by the enormous headphones covering his ears, the camera angle offering a full view of his shoulder and arms in a plain white t shirt. Greg James leans forward onto his elbows. “So tell me about Manchester last night,” he says. “Reports make it out to be a pretty emotional show.” “Yeah,” Shawn replies. “It was amazing. One of the most moving shows I’ve ever had. The crowd was phenomenal.” “I was hoping you’d put a bit of a rumour to rest for us Shawn. Twitter is all a flutter but video of the incident in question is pretty grainy and dark.” “Oh?” Shawn sits up a little, his pendant swinging with the motion. “What rumour is that?” Greg’s smile is gentle. “That you cried, during Youth. Fans in the front few rows swear it happened.” Shawn’s eyebrows fly up, scrubbing his hand up the back of his neck. “Do they?” “I thought you might like a chance to confirm or deny your sensitivity, just between us. It won’t leave this room.” “Oh but it’ll also be broadcast to millions of people?” Shawn and Greg both laugh. “But of course.” There’s a pause, and then Shawn shrugs good-naturedly. “I did shed a few tears last night. It was a pretty overwhelming moment. I’m glad to have shared that with everyone who was there.” “I also want to ask you about who you were spotted hugging after the show,” Greg says, “But sadly we’re out of time. There you have it ladies and gents: proof that Shawn Mendes is, in fact, just a bit like us mere mortals. Thanks for stopping by Shawn, and I hope you have an amazing two back to back shows in London tomorrow and Saturday. My sincere best wishes for the rest of the tour. Anything you want to say to your London fans?” “Thank you so much, Greg. Thanks for having me. And to everybody listening, I’ll see you very soon and I can’t wait to spend two nights with you. I love you so much.” likes: 703; retweets: 5] * There’s maybe half a dozen girls at the hotel by the time you and the gang head out for breakfast, who peer hopefully between Charlie and Brian and then lean back in disappointment; Ava and Paul will leave to pick Shawn up within the hour and sneak him inside through a service entrance. “Damn, Sinclair,” Charlie says as he watches you inhale a latte from across the table. “Preparing for a caffeine shortage?” You shake your head. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.” Brian raises his eyebrows. “Is that why Shawn’s on voice rest?” You promptly choke on your coffee; the boys lean away from the spray as you cough, your eyes streaming. Kristin tosses napkins on the table while Kelsey rubs your back, throwing dirty glares at Parker, Brian, and Charlie, who are all suppressing laughter. “Just because you haven’t gotten any in a year doesn’t mean you get to be disgusting at the table,” she snaps. Parker and Charlie howl. Even Geoff snorts. “I was kidding!” Brian objects, his ears red. “Jesus, Kels. You really gotta air a dude’s private info like that, huh?” Kelsey’s barely raised eyebrow is the most scathing silent expression you’ve ever seen. Apparently mollified, Brian mutters a “Sorry, kid” at you. You wipe your eyes and put down the glass of water Geoff had shoved across the table. “It’s fine, Bri. No worse than my conversation with Ava this morning.” Everyone at the table winces sympathetically. You just shrug, any embarrassment you had left long gone, especially with people who would never betray your secret. “Just fell asleep guys, perfectly tame. But we’re definitely not gonna make it a habit.” “Wise,” Geoff says. “But this is definitely the happiest I’ve ever seen him before the crack of dawn in a long time.” It’s your turn to blush. “Can we talk about something else please?” “Well we haven’t picked a museum yet, for after Big Ben and Buckingham Palace,” Parker offers. You smile at him. “What were we between? Victoria and Albert and National Gallery?” “The V&A is a little more fun,” Charlie remarks, and you’re reminded of all the anecdotes he’s told you about his year abroad when he wasn’t that much older than you. “You didn’t want to see Natural History¹?” “Vetoed by the New Yorkers.” Parker casts a sardonic eyeroll at Kristin, who meets his eye entirely unphased. “It’s the principle of the thing,” she says. “Just can’t do it.” “I’m down with whatever,” Brian chimes in, “As long as tonight ends in a pint glass.” “V&A it is then?” Geoff, as ever, is the mediator. There are nods all around the table. “And after?” Ellie and I are off to the Kew Gardens for a couple of their limited exhibitions.” Kelsey stirs her own coffee as she speaks. “If anyone wants to join us. Otherwise, shall we all just branch off and meet up tonight for dinner and drinks?” More nodding. “We’d better eat quick guys,” Parker says as the last plate is laid on the table. “Sinclair looks like she’s gonna pass out in her potatoes.” * Brian’s arm lands, a familiar weight, around your shoulders at the last crossing before you’re back on your hotel’s street. You’ve journeyed further into Central London and seen a few major landmarks, and everyone has agreed on a rest before going out again. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” You cast him a bemused look, though half your attention is still on the traffic, backwards to everything you know, mesmerizing in its strangeness. “Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?” The bassist shrugs almost sheepishly. “What I said, earlier. Didn’t want you to feel bad.” You laugh, and a quick glance around reveals you to be the only people at the light, so you’re comfortable enough to say, “Truthfully, Shawn and I don’t have a sex life to speak of. And even if we did, you’ve never offended me with a joke, okay?” You lean into his shoulder a little for emphasis. The light turns in your favour, and you let Brian carry some of the weight of your tired bones across the bustling street. “Let me at least buy you another coffee,” Brian says. “Take it up, take a nap after, and we’ll all be good to go for tonight. I won’t have you tapping out before tequila, Sinclair.” “We’re almost back,” you point out. “We can just order one, can’t we?” Brian points further down, to a place labeled simply EAT. “Charlie’s been talking about a fucking matcha something or other for weeks. Says he got it out the train station every morning for like three months. You don’t wanna try that?” You laugh again. “If that’s the way you sell it, Bri. Let’s go.” He shakes his head, relinquishing you from beneath his arm. “You go up, say hi to the boy wonder. I’ll grab us a couple to go. You like you’re about to fall over.” You should be insulted, probably, but even though your body is somewhat used to the constant movement and changing time zones, the moment your mind said we don’t have a show tonight, everything in you is screaming for rest. “Thanks,” you say, relenting. “See you up there.” You’d lost the rest of the gang at the corner while you and Brian talked, and now coming up to the hotel entrance alone, you wish desperately that you hadn’t. The six girls from this morning has somehow already morphed into more than you can count, taking up the pathways on either side of the entrance, much to the both bemusement and annoyance of passers by. People across the street are gawking. Your heart thumps, harder and faster than it should, as you force your legs forward. You tell yourself that just getting to the door will probably be easier than loitering in wait for Shawn’s bandmate, who would definitely give you away. So you swallow and try to keep your head down. And that seems to work, as you move past the throng of young girls and boys whose blending, half-hushed voices are like the buzz of a hive. Until it doesn’t. “Oh my god.” A hiss cuts through your concentration, and you’re stopped by a hand. You look up to the face of a girl, her highlight beaming and her lip gloss glistening, even in a half-overcast morning. Perfectly manicured fingernails wrap around your forearm. “You’re on Shawn’s crew, aren’t you?” “I–” You’re suddenly aware of dozens of eyes on you. “I’m–” There’s a dawning in her expression; you look desperately for anyone you know. “Are you the girl from Manchester?” “Do you know when Shawn’s coming down?” asks another voice. Nerves stick your vocal cords together. “I don’t think he is.” “What?” The distressed murmur of the girl next to her echoes through the crowd. “What do you mean?” “He’s tired,” you say, knowing it’s the truth – the message burning a hole in your pocket – though it feels like a major breach to concede to even this. “He was on BBC One this morning, and we flew in so early–” “But we’ve been waiting hours!” the second girl wails, and the one holding your arm tightens her grip, narrowing her eyes. You want to wrench yourself from her hold, but the screaming instinct to protect Shawn from this mob and the constant shadow of your secret freezes you in place. The crowd presses in tighter. “How do you know?” You feel like you’re in first grade. “He’d say if he was tired, wouldn’t he?” demands someone else. A phone appears in your peripheral vision; panic overtakes the nerves, squeezing your lungs. “Please let go of me.” “I don’t believe you.” There’s something so insistent in this girl’s eyes, a demand you could never fulfill. “Shawn–” “Red!” To your eternal relief, even though it’s a name you’ve never been called, you know it’s Brian. Ignoring all the heads that turn in his direction, the bassist makes a beeline for you, holding a tray of coffee. His eyes zero in on the pink nails still keeping you captive. “What’s going on here?” “Amber,” someone hisses, and you watch long imprints leave your skin. Amber’s mouth drops open when Brian reaches for your elbow and tugs you closer to him. “C’mon,” he says to you now. You’ve never seen Brian look anything but cheery and warm; his eyes are stormy as he leads you gently forward. “Let’s go.” You’re too grateful for a friendly face to speak. “W-Wait!” cries another voice in the crowd. “Is Shawn coming down or not?” “No,” Brian snaps without looking back. “He’s on voice rest till tomorrow.” There’s more agonized noise, like he’s just told the mass of heads and phones that Shawn’s leaving London entirely and never coming back. Some people start to leave in a huff. Only steps from the entrance, you notice a girl who can’t be older than you, being shouldered aside by the person next to her, clutching an envelope in her hands and clearly trying to mask her disappointment. You think abruptly of Clara, so much so that it stops you in your tracks. “Are you okay?” you ask. The girl’s chin jerks up, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry about this.” “N-No!” she stammers. “I understand, he needs time to rest. I’m–” The envelope creases between her fingers. You step closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice. “I’m fine, thank you. I um, didn’t even really want a picture anyway, but I couldn’t afford a meet and greet and I just...” She trails off, clearly just as uncomfortable as you at being the centre of the crowd’s frenzied attention. You nod your head at the white rectangle. “Did you want to give that to Shawn?” Her eyes are glassy. Your inexplicable urge to cry from earlier suddenly rears its head again. “I can take it for you, if you want.” Tears spill over her cheeks. You’re very glad, even more than you were moments ago, that Brian is still there, holding you up. The girl hands you the envelope, labeled simply with Shawn in careful block letters. “What’s your name?” You accept the offering with care. “Are you coming to either of the shows?” “Morgan.” Her voice hiccups. “I’ll be there tomorrow night. Thank you so much.” You manage a smile. “See you tomorrow. I’ll make sure he gets this.” “Red,” Brian says, not a shout but sharp enough that you know he’s done with this whole thing. Phone camera are surely still rolling. You nod, and wave at Morgan with the envelope in your hand. Brian holds the door open for you; people are shouting for him, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t let go of you until the doors swing closed. “Red?” you ask as you wait for the elevator, chancing a glance at his still thunderous expression. The bassist exhales. “Couldn’t exactly call you Sinclair, could I?” “Sorry,” you start, suddenly ashamed, hoping he doesn’t think you an absolute idiot. “I tried to just walk past–” “Hey, no.” Brian turns fully to face you. “That wasn’t your fault. We just wanna keep you safe, yeah?” You blink in the face of his intensity. “I–” You have to swallow a new knot in your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.” To your surprise, he follows you off the elevator and into the hall. “Where are you going?” “He’s gotta know about this,” The bassist says, and before you can stop him, bangs with the flat of his hand on Shawn’s door. “Hey kid!” “Bri, no!” You drag his arm back. “I’m fine. He doesn’t need–” Brian shakes his head, raising his hand again despite your best efforts. Before he can knock again, the door opens. Shawn only looks half-awake, back in the hoodie from this morning. He smiles, but you can tell that you’ve been too slow to hide the panic that hasn’t faded yet from behind your eyes. Pablo is plugged in and puffing cheerily away; you force yourself to inhale deeply. “Looked out the window yet?” Brian asks. Shawn shakes his head, but his attention is over his shoulder at you, a question, even as Brian practically hauls him over to almost floor to ceiling glass. You watch as familiar eyes nearly bug away from sleep-mussed curls. “We gotta deal with this,” Brian says. “Sinclair just–” “I’m fine,” you insist loudly. Shawn’s head whips around. You point at him, a lightning reminder. “You cannot talk.” You swing to Brian. “And it wasn’t a big deal–” “Someone grabbing you wasn’t a big deal?” You wince at the shout. “What?” Shawn’s voice is crackly from lack of use, but there’s no mistaking the alarm. You try to recreate Kris’ truly withering expression from breakfast. Brian, however, does not look sorry. “What would you have done if I hadn’t walked up right then?” he demands. It’s hard work to ignore the pole of Shawn’s eyes; you manage it in favour of glaring at his bassist. “It’s not like I wasn’t six feet from the door!” Brian points an imperious finger at the glass. “That girl laid hands on you. Did you see how many people are out there? Some of those guys were twice your size!” More knocking on the door cuts off your opportunity to shout back, though in all honestly you’re not sure what you would have said. You didn’t think Amber would have actually hurt you, but you can’t deny that even now, dozens of feet above the street, the memory of the press of the crowd still makes your heart race. Andrew sweeps an eye over the room. Shawn no longer looks like he’s the referee of a really uneven boxing match, but the tension in the room is palpable enough that Ava shoots you a bewildered look behind Andrew’s back. “You’re not going down there,” the man says. “This part of London is extremely busy. Paul and Cam can’t contain three hundred people without the help of police, and we don’t want to bother them.” He narrows his eyes. “And you’re still on voice rest.” Shawn swallows and nods, though he’s visibly frustrated by the situation. You sneak a last glare at Brian, daring him with your eyes. If he gives you up now, you probably won’t speak to him for the rest of the day. “We thought you could do an Instagram Q&A,” your sister continues. “You know, that question box feature? Then you don’t strain your voice and people sort of get to see you today.” Shawn picks up his phone from the bedside table; moments later, Andrew lifts his own. “No,” he replies aloud. “We don’t need to check your answers beforehand. You can just treat this like an Instagram live. Do it for however long you like.” “Get some rest, okay?” Ava smiles gently. “You look beat.” His lips quirk, but the smile doesn’t quite reach Shawn’s eyes. His management team departs, leaving the both of you and Brian as the points of a skewed triangle in the middle of the room. The bassist sighs and places a single to-go cup on the window sill. “I won’t tell them,” he assures you. You let your shoulders relax a fraction. “But only if you agree that you won’t go wandering around without one of us for the rest of the tour.” Part of you balks. Ava and Andrew – and everyone – are surely going to see your face online before either of you has time to tell anyone, and you resent the thought of being chaperoned like a child. But the rest of you knows he’s right. You’re shaken by what just happened to you, even if a streak of stubborn pride will never let you admit it. “Fine.” To your surprise, Brian crosses the room in two long strides before leaning down and dropping a dry kiss on your cheek. “I’ll tell Kels to give you an hour at least, yeah?” And then all of a sudden you’re alone with Shawn the first time since you woke up in his bed this morning. The door is barely closed before he’s reaching for you, his hands skimming up your sides and over your elbows like he’s looking for injury. “If you talk,” you warn, “I’m going to hang out with the girls right now and I’m going to ignore you all night.” Shawn rolls his eyes, but when he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, you don’t need to hear his voice to understand what he’s asking. “I’m not hurt.” You wrap a hand around his wrist. You know that’s not what Shawn really means, but pretending is easy when he can’t dispute you. “You better get on–” He shakes his head, emphatic. It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but Shawn can be stubborn if he wants. He’s not doing anything until you tell him. “The girl recognized me, I guess, from last night, and–” His surprise is clear. You pick up your pace, anxious to get all this talk over with. “They wanted to know when you were gonna come down, and didn’t believe me when I said you were tired.” A flash of irritation casts a shadow over his expression, followed by something you can only describe as a protective glare; you’re startled to realize that it’s not for him, but for you. Shawn’s eyebrows crease now as he brushes his thumb over the bags beneath your eyes, another question. You shrug. “I could use a nap,” you say honestly. “But if I lay on that bed I’ll never get up again.” He seems to consider this, before pulling you towards the enormous armchair next to the window. You watch as he sits, takes a quick selfie, and gestures for you to join him. “You’re a giant,” you protest, and he just snorts and reaches for you again. Shawn seems determined, so you fold yourself into his lap, angling your legs across him and the arm of the chair so your feet are supported by the sill. The coffee Brian left is delicious, and you make a note to buy another when you can actually appreciate it, offering the rest to Shawn. It’s surprisingly comfortable, this armchair jenga: your cheek against his soft sweater, Shawn’s arm wrapped around your back so he can hold you there and type with both hands in front of your face. Hey guys, I just wanted to confirm that I am actually on voice rest until tomorrow before the show so I can be in top form to play for you all. I wish I could come down and meet you, but security is also really concerned about the size of the crowd and I don’t want any of you or my team getting hurt... Instead, I’ll be doing a story Q&A for you! Leave questions and I’ll answer as many as I can! Love you xx “Not hurt,” you remind him, a little more petulantly than probably necessary. Shawn just leans his cheek against yours, holding up his phone so you can see the text he’s pulled over his smiling mouth in two photos and the question box. “You’re good. No typos.” He brushes his mouth over your hair in thanks, and you watch him post the photos. Almost immediately, his story is inundated. Shawn takes the first about the Q&A and M&Gs, assuring everyone that they’re still on. You see at least three demanding who Red is. Shawn gestures at the question but doesn’t move to answer it. “Brian. Pretty genius, not gonna lie.” His huff of laughter is warm against your face. You find yourself relaxing, almost unwittingly, into this cozy little space Shawn’s created for you. You blink drowsily, until Shawn flicks the white envelope you’d almost forgotten, still dangling between your fingers. “S’for you,” you murmur. “Saw a girl outside, she looked a bit like Clara.” He stops typing. “She couldn’t do a meet and greet and she just wanted to give you this.” Shawn takes the envelope gingerly. You concentrate on the view of the South Bank outside the window as he slides a finger beneath the seal and pulls out a thrice-folded sheet of paper, torn from a notebook but carefully freed of frayed edges, and full of impossibly neat blue ink. You feel him tap your nose gently when you let your eyelids drop closed. “Not for me to read,” you tell him without looking up, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Shawn’s breath. “She’ll be there tomorrow though.” He hums, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Don’t let me sleep too long, please.” You burrow into him a little like a cat. “I really owe Brian that shot now.” Shawn breathes another laugh, but squeezes you gently in reply. A minute later, his hand slides beneath your chin again, and you smile with your eyes still closed when Shawn kisses you, slow and languid. Your heart starts to race again for an entirely more pleasant reason. “If you keep that up,” you say when he pulls back for air, blinking to find his smiling face shining down on you, “I might reconsider leaving at all.” Shawn shakes his head and kisses your forehead instead. His left hand reaches up, sliding gently to tuck your hair behind your ear. As you settle back against his shoulder, his fingers continue to glide through in a steady rhythm, like a gentle wave that eventually coaxes you to sleep. * In the end, after almost getting lost in the depths of all the exhibits at the Victoria and Albert Museum², the gang parts ways like this: you and Kelsey board a Richmond bound overground train to the Kew Gardens³; Parker and Kristin wander Hyde Park; Geoff, Charlie, and Brian trek up to Brick Lane. Remembering Shawn’s request, you snap photos of everything, from the MIND THE GAP yellow platform line to everyone posing in front of Canada House⁴ in Trafalgar Square. London on its own is possibly one of your favourite cities you’ve ever been to, but the fact is cemented when Kelsey leads you through the Gardens; you visit Palm⁵ House⁶, the orchid⁷ festival⁸, and the most breathtaking of all: the Life and Death exhibit by Rebecca Louise Law. (Kelsey convinced you weeks ago to finally start posting to your still-private Instagram; she gets a particularly nice one⁹ on your third go round of the specifically marked path through the endless garlands of flowers, though Shawn also likes the slightly blurred one of you laughing too close to the camera.¹⁰ The exhibit reminds you of his desire to last, for his music to endure; you wish, like you’ve wished all day, that he were here.) A few hours later, Brian gets his wish. At a bustling pub maybe three-quarters full, one of the bartenders – an older Englishman with an impressive beard wearing a Star Wars t-shirt – patiently recommends the array of London beer available to the group. Geoff leans over the bar to shake his hand, insisting on his name so as to thank him properly. “Pete,” the man says. “It’s a pleasure.” Finally, you’re the last to order. “And for you?” You’re hyper aware of people leaning on nearly every inch of the dark wood, which runs in an enormous oval in the centre of the room. The only other bartender looks younger, though he’s as tall as Shawn; you can’t see much of his face through the thick crowd, but women in the room eye him with interest. “I’m not much of a beer person,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “Cider?” Pete offers, tapping the glossy label of the last spout in the row in front of him. “Sweeter, you know, made from apples and all.” “Sure.” “Pint?” He watches you consider the enormous glass in Charlie’s hand with trepidation. “Half?” “Half, please.” You smile delightedly when Pete produces a miniature version of a pint, shaped and embossed with the same cider name and text as the full-scale you can see dotted around the room. Geoff beats everyone to the punch paying for the round, and the gang snags a corner of benches and small stools on the far side of the pub, beneath a wall displaying twenty-five varieties of gin. Facing the bar, you have ample opportunity to people watch, dipping in and out of the flow of conversation; Charlie and Parker are currently debating the merits of pizza versus pasta in an ‘every day for the rest of your life’ context (you, for the record, choose pasta). The pub fills up quickly. The crowd seems to lean more towards elder locals, though as you sit there, a young woman, probably around Kelsey and Kristin’s age, snakes through the room, weaving easily around the throng to the end of the bar closest to you. She greets Pete by name and several clusters of people, taking a stool. When Kristin rises for another round several minutes later, you watch as the serious looking younger bartender looks towards the girl on the stool, but she nods her head at Kris instead, so he serves her first. When a half pint of cider is finally placed in front of her, the girl smiles warmly at him. He leans his elbows on the bar as they talk, familiarity between them though the pub is too loud for you to be able to make anything out. “He’s cute,” Kelsey says, more conversational than anything. You nod absently. You suppose it’s instinctive to compare this stranger to Shawn: this boy is similarly pale, though his hair is a lighter shade of brown and sticks up shorter where Shawn’s curls over his forehead. The other boy also has a more square face, and his eyes are a striking shade of blue. You think of Hannah. This bartender is exactly her type, right down to the eye colour (she’d lamented to you years ago about the boringness of brown eyed boys, though these days you couldn’t disagree more). If you were on speaking terms, you would have snuck a photo and sent it along with several suggestive emojis. But now you just let the thought pass with a dull ache.

* “Hey. Sinclair.” Charlie’s voice tickles your hair in a familiar whisper as you lean on the bar some three and a half rounds later. You need water. “Be cool.” “Right,” you reply without turning your head. You watch him slide his credit card onto the bar, beneath your hand. “You’re going to order the first round of tequila with this card, and you’re not gonna let Geoff or Brian see. They’re getting air with the girls. I’m supposed to be in the bathroom.” “Because they already suspect you?” “Obviously.” “Obviously,” you echo, smiling. “Okay, done.” “My girl,” he says affectionately. Charlie murmurs the pin in your ear and slips away again. A minute later, the young bartender finally turns to you. He looks expectant and you’re momentarily at a loss; fuck his eyes are really blue. “May I have a glass of water?” you ask, regaining your tongue, and he nods, lifting the spray nozzle in his hand. “And seven shots of tequila?” He raises an eyebrow at you as if to confirm he heard you right. “Seven?” His accent isn’t English, but you don’t have a good enough ear to place it. French, maybe? You flush just a little. “My friends are outside.” He nods again, exhaling like he’s holding back laughter. “Lime or lemon? Salt?” “Lime, please. And salt.” You watch him line seven glasses along the bar and fill them expertly. “Are you Canadian?” he asks, conversational. You blink in surprise. Most people assume the other side of the border. “Yes.” He smiles, a fleeting thing. “You sound like someone I know,” he explains, before turning away to slice a new lime on the centre island. Aware of eyes on you, you look up to catch three men with various shades of salt and pepper and silver hair, stealing glances down the bar at you and conferring amongst themselves. You look away, unsure of what to do. “Don’t mind them,” says a voice from behind you. You turn to find the girl from the end of the bar, her cheeks flushed. She lifts her chin at the men. “You’re new and pretty and they’re just being weirdos thinking you won’t be able to handle your liquor.” This must be the fellow Canadian. Some strange part of you is pleased. “Okay then,” you say slowly, and she smiles at you before sitting at an empty stool and turning towards the boy behind the counter. “Ben,” she calls, drawing out the ‘e’. He looks up. “May I have two shots of tequila when you’re done?” She glances over at your small fleet. “Or are you out already?” Ben shakes his head. “Got another bottle. You’re not having both are you?”

“Oh yeah, I’m double fisting it tonight.” The girl laughs. “One’s for Lex. She’s making friends outside, as usual.” The bartender nods his head at you. “Guess where she’s from?” From his tone, this seems like a well worn question. Her eyes light up as she turns back to you. “Canada?” You nod, and her smile is ridiculously wide. “Toronto.” You’ve never seen someone so delighted by your hometown before. “Amazing. Love it there.” “You?” you ask as Ben presents a small plate of seven nearly perfect wedges of lime. “Alberta. Oh sorry, how rude of me.” She reaches a hand out. “I’m Iris.” You shake. “Ellie.” “Nice to meet you Ellie. This is Ben.” Iris nods her head at the boy on the other side of the smooth, dark wood. “Who is terrible at introductions.” “I’m working,” he objects, depositing another two glasses in front of her as he says it. “You’re the one who likes talking to everybody.” You pay for the tequila with Charlie’s card. “And you talk to me, so we’re golden.” Iris grins at him, clearly pleased with her logic. Ben rolls his eyes, but there’s no real malice in it. He lays a wedge of lime over the top of each of Iris’ full shots and pushes the salt towards her. “You’re drunk.” “Not drunk,” Iris corrects. “Tipsy.” “How many have you had?” he asks. “Mm, four.” She squints at her shot. “No, five.” “Five?” Ben frowns. “I only served you three drinks.” Iris laughs. “Oh but Pete loves me, didn’t you know?” “Is there a magic number?” you ask, intrigued. She opens her mouth, but another voice says, “Seven.” From behind Iris another girl has appeared, though her accent is definitely English. In tow, somehow, is the entire gang. “Alex!” Iris hauls her friend forward. “This is Ellie. She’s Canadian.” “As are almost all her friends.” Alex gestures at the band and the girls. “Everyone, this is Iris, my tiny Canadian, who can only consume a specific variety of seven drinks in one evening before she’s pissed.” “Why is that always how you introduce me?” Iris complains. Behind the bar, Ben snorts. “Because it’s my favourite fact about you!” Alex winks at you. Introductions are made and shots are passed down. “Can I propose a toast? To Canada, for producing really cool people?” “Can we counter that toast with London for doing the same?” Brian asks, and Alex clinks her glass with his. “Here here!” You lock eyes with Iris last, who grins before tapping her glass on the bar and throwing it back. “Shall we take this back outside?” Alex suggests. Iris waves her off while the gang agrees.

“Gotta pee, see you in a sec.” You reach forward to help instinctively as Iris gathers all the empty glasses and discarded lime into a pile for Ben, who sweeps them off the bar and begins to serve again.

“Alright, Ellie?” Kelsey asks, and you nod. “I think I’ll hang here for a bit.”

“You know where to find us,” she says, and everyone leaves you and Iris seated together. “Six?” you prompt.

She nods, laughing lightly. “Six. Thankfully Lex lives literally three minutes down the street, so I don’t have far too go if we tip over the edge tonight.” Iris hops off her stool, proclaiming she’ll be back in two. You nurse your water, and watch in surprise as Ben reappears, sliding a steaming mug and saucer of tea across the bar in front of Iris’ empty seat. You can smell the peppermint from a foot away. He winks at you, lifting a finger to his lips. You blush before you can stop yourself.

Minutes later, Iris returns, staring at the tea as she sits down. “Did I order this?” You shrug. “Fuck,” she mutters. “Am I that sloshed already?” Iris furrows her eyebrows and leans forward to catch Ben’s attention. “Was this you?” He looks amused but doesn’t deny it. “I know you,” he says. “You’re drunk now, and you’re going to ask me for it.” Ben’s smile is teasing. “Only person ever to chase tequila with tea.”

Iris makes a face. “You know what, Ben?” But the question clearly doesn’t even have an answer; Iris just resorts to scowling and Ben’s laughter transforms his entire face. Oh, you think. I get it now.

“I hate you,” she mutters. “No you don’t,” he says matter of factly. Iris sighs, as if she’s long since resigned herself to the fact. But when she looks at Ben again her eyes are soft. “Thank you lovely.” Iris uses lovely like a noun, like a tender endearment.

You feel abruptly as though you’re intruding on something private. Ben shrugs a little. “That’s alright.” He glances down and then up again, smiling with one side of his mouth higher than the other – you’re reminded so viscerally of Shawn that it’s hard not to stare – before he’s called away further down the bar.

“He’s right though.” Iris laughs a little again. “I’m pretty much drunk now.” She runs a finger around the rim of her mug. “I’d better drink this.” Her smile is almost rueful. “Don’t become best friends with bartenders. You’ll start drinking way too much.” “Noted.” “So what brings you to London, Ellie?” You should lie, probably. “We’re on tour with a musician. He’s not here tonight.” “Oh yeah? Anyone I’d know?” The shot has loosened your tongue. But there’s something very warm in Iris’ gaze, something trustworthy. “Shawn Mendes?” Her eyebrows fly up. “Seriously? Holy shit! I love him. I wish I’d known he was in town sooner. I would’ve dragged Lex to go see him. Is everyone part of his team?” You nod. “And you?” “Um,” you say. “I’m not– I’m no one.” Iris casts you dubious look. You swallow. “It’s complicated.” The older woman studies you for another moment, before she smiles gently. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I’m just a slightly drunk girl in a pub drinking tea.” Iris takes a long sip. You don’t know why you say it; maybe you’re also more drunk than you thought. Maybe, like with Taylor, something in you knows that Iris is safe. Or maybe you can’t bear the weight of this truth anymore. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.” Iris puts down her cup. “Oh honey.” It’s not a condescension, but an empathy. Before you know it, the story in its entirety comes pouring out. You tell Iris about your sister, the first tour across the States, about every correspondence over the long break between albums, about Clara and Hannah and Amber and Morgan. You tell her about the Twitter threads, popping up faster than Ava can even ask you about them, about Andrew’s iron fist, and about this strange fear of your own wanting whenever Shawn’s eyes go dark. “It’s the talk, that’s the worst.” you admit. “They’re all just speculating, and I want to be able to just ignore it, you know, but some fans are just…” You don’t dare finish your sentence. Iris nods thoughtfully. “Gossip can be pretty awful,” she says. “It can ruin a lot, if you let it.” You follow her eyes across the room to Ben, who is pouring with both hands and then impressively, leaning his forehead on a third spout to finish a set Guinness. He makes a silly face at her over the row of taps and she smiles back at him, though when he turns away, there’s something very sad in it. Your curiosity burns but you don’t dare give it voice. “I know it must all feel like too much,” Iris continues. “But you know how Shawn feels about you.” She swivels to face you fully. “That’s more than a lot of us ever get. You took your chance before anyone could say anything about it.” She reaches for your hands and squeezes gently. “You deserve to be happy. And your secret’s safe with me, okay? I swear.” You’re going to cry, definitely. “I’m scared.” If you’re going to bare your soul tonight, you may as well go all the way. “I’m scared that all of this is going to ruin us before we even get started.” It could be the alcohol, but it looks like Iris flinches. You’ve regretted enough in your life to be able to see it, even distantly, in someone else’s face. “Don’t let people who’ll never matter in your relationship dictate your actions,” she says. You force yourself to hold her eyes. “You were that brave before. You can be that brave again.” She smiles, and that distant look disappears. “I know I’m not an expert in the business, but you’re such a sweetheart. And Shawn seems wonderful. Plus, you’re so young.” “I miss him,” you blurt, and she squeezes again. “Isn’t that stupid? I see him everyday.” Iris shakes her head. “Not stupid at all. You said you have tonight off right?” At your confirmation, she asks, “So what are you still doing here?”

Good question. “I’ll be right back,” you say now. Iris lifts her mug of tea in approval, her eyes sparkling as you rush out to the patio area. The gang is still chatting with Alex, who has her head on the shoulder of a handsome man as they sit amongst the low benches and chairs. “Kris?” The lighting expert looks up at you, her head tilting when she takes in your possibly wild expression. “I think I’m gonna go.” “Are you okay?” she asks, standing to give you a careful look. You nod. “I just…” You struggle to find the right words. “Want a little time.” Kristin’s gaze softens. “Sure. Let’s sort our bill and go, okay? We can Uber if we’ve missed the last train.” “You don’t have to–” you start, but she shakes her head. “Set up starts early,” she says, waving away your protest. Kris leans down to speak to Parker, who thankfully gives you enough grace to not even look up at you before he too, is on his feet. “I think we’re gonna call it,” he says casually to the group. “And we have Sinclair. We’ll see you guys in the morning for breakfast?” There are nods and goodbyes all around. As Parker and Kristin pay their tabs with Pete, you find Iris in the same place, accepting a kiss on the cheek from a short, older man with a weathered face and kind eyes.

“If I were just forty years younger,” he says, and her lips quirk like it’s something she’s heard before. “I’d absolutely say yes, John.” Her smile widens when she catches sight of you. “Ellie! Headed out?” You nod, and it’s oddly wonderful to have a stranger seem proud. “It was so amazing to meet you.” Iris pulls you in for a hug. “Go get him,” she says in your ear, squeezing tight. You look back once at the door. Ben is wiping the counter on the far side of the bar, and glances up. You lift your hand in a wave, which he returns. From her seat, Iris throws her head back in laughter with the same man, the sound just a touch louder than the music and the hum of conversation. Ben looks over at her, smiles, and goes back to work. * Shawn looks so pleased to see you that you nearly blurt it out right then and there. But then his eyebrows lift in confusion, and he taps his watch. You’re back early. “It just occurred to me,” you say, feeling slightly breathless, “that this probably looks like a booty call. Do people still call it that?” Shawn looks like he’s tempted to laugh, but you stumble on. “But I don’t care. I wanted to see you.” He blinks. Sober you would blush beneath the warmth of his gaze. “I probably also sound drunk,” you continue. “Which I’m not, entirely. I’m a little tipsy. But still perfectly in control of myself.” More or less. He’s going to laugh at you again. Before you can drop too far into mortification, Shawn pulls you in by the wrist. You can feel the tequila warming you through, emboldening you. It’s freeing in a way, the fact that he can’t speak and you instinctively stop wanting to either; you say enough, you think, dragging Shawn down by the collar, and so does he, pinning your hips against the door with both hands. Your mouths meet in the middle and well– Talking’s overrated, isn’t it? (You have enough presence of mind to set an alarm, this time.) You tiptoe back to your room at 12:37am, when midnight became ten more minutes, and then ten more, and so on and so forth. It’s burned into your brain, that look in Shawn’s eyes, as he sat up against his headboard and you knelt between his open legs, pulling yourself up so you looked down on him in a thrilling flip of your height difference. You’re grateful this shirt doesn’t wrinkle and there’s no visible proof of Shawn’s fingers having found their way under it, ascending the tower of your spine and making you shudder nearly as hard as he did when you seized his curls and tilted his head back for a kiss. He bumps into the bottom of your bralette and not-quite-drunk you is glad that despite how nice it looks, it’s not so easy to get out of. You know, and Shawn does too, judging by his smile, that anything beyond his gently wandering hands is probably a bad idea. It doesn’t stop you from trembling as he traces the lace around your back, over your ribs, keeping your eyes the entire time and making no move to pull it off or touch you beneath it. Even though both the tipsy and sober halves of you want him to. You wish, slipping into your dark hotel room, that you’d been just drunk and brazen enough to simply yank your top off, like in one of those smooth movie moments, but of course you hadn’t been. But that’s okay, you know, taking care not to drop the bottle of water Shawn had pressed into your hand between goodbyes at (against) the door. Tonight was not the night. You still have someday. * @stanmendes88: SOMEONE TRIED TO ASK HIM ABOUT RED WHAT THE FUCK. WHY ARE PEOPLE LIKE THIS??? [The horizontal video focuses mostly on Shawn, sitting with both legs dangling off the stage. At the edge of the camera, perfectly manicured pink nails wrap around the microphone. “I was wondering what your relationship with your crew is like?” “They’re the best,” Shawn replies easily, leaning back on his palm. “I’ve never worked with more hardworking and dedicated people.” “Anyone in particular?” the girl presses. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry?” Someone further behind the camera whispers, “Oh my god.” The girl is still holding the mic, even though her question is up. “People think you might be closer with certain members of your crew than others.” Heads are whipping back and forth like they’re watching a ping-pong match. The camera trembles as it zooms in on Shawn. “People think a lot of things,” he says, his tone measured. His eyes are flinty, the curve of his mouth frozen in place. “But considering this question doesn’t really seem about me, I think we should move on.” An audible murmur flits through the assembly of gathered fans. One face in view is shooting manicured girl an extremely judgemental look. “Hi Mr. Shawn.” Coos and ‘aww’s’ overtake the room as the camera turns to a little girl, no older than eight, as she smiles up at Shawn from the front of the room. Everyone’s attention turns to Shawn, who has hopped off the stage to crouch down in front of the new speaker. “Hi, sweetheart.” likes: 32; retweets: 6] * “Ellie, there you are.” You nearly drop the kit. Shawn’s manager looks strangely incongruous in the doorway of the spare dressing room, where all the extra, smaller pieces of fragile equipment are going to live over the next two nights. The O2 is one of the most intimidating venues you’ve ever seen; even tracing your steps back to this room for one of Kelsey’s lenses had been an ordeal. “Shawn’s two doors down,” you blurt, thinking he’s just mistaken, but Andrew doesn’t move. “I’m looking for you, actually.” Your stomach plummets. Dread takes root around your lungs, making it hard to speak. “Did you need something?” You haven’t broken any of the rules since you left Manchester. If anything, after news of the day’s Q&A spread, you’ve been avoiding Shawn entirely and he’s been giving you slightly forlorn, but understanding glances all day. But he’s due onstage in less than ten minutes so you’re in show mode now; some awful part of you is grateful for the distance. “No.” “Am I–” You scramble to put down the lens. It’s foolish to think he doesn’t know, this man who’s been part of Shawn’s life longer than anyone else on this tour. “Am I behaving unprofessionally?” He shakes his head. Your heart thumps in your throat. Andrew sighs. He looks tired, you think. You can’t imagine how much work it takes to manage Shawn’s success and all the wild layers that come along with it. “You’ve been identified on Twitter. You and Ava both, actually. Started sometime last night, confirmed just a little while ago.” You do drop the (thankfully empty) kit this time. Andrew steps further into the room as you manage to sink into the only chair without falling. “Do we–” You can feel a knot pressing on the question, but you force it out. “Do we know who...” Did she tell? “No,” Andrew admits, like it annoys him. “Not yet, anyway.” You’re glad you managed to sit down; the room feels like it’s tilting. “I suppose two years was longer than anyone expected us to be able to pull this off,” he continues. You can’t tell exactly by Andrew’s tone whether he’s upset, nor can you work out how you feel. Should you be scared? Relieved? “Ava was busy with meet and greets, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible so you were prepared.” Prepared? Prepared for what? Legions of girls (and boys) to eviscerate you? “Um,” you start, and then stop. You have no idea what to say. “Okay.” Shawn’s manager gives you a look, as though he can’t decide if he should be satisfied with this non-reaction. “We can talk about it more later,” he says. “Let’s just get through tonight.” Andrew’s almost out the door before you call, “Wait.” He turns, and you nearly lose your nerve. You remember what Iris told you, what she reminded you that you’re capable of. Be brave. “I feel like I should apologize. And possibly thank you.” For the first time, you see a crack in Andrew’s infallible professional veneer; his expression crosses somewhere between confusion and laughter. You press on. “I know it hasn’t been easy, dragging me along all this time and keeping me a secret. I understand why it had to be done, to protect Shawn’s image. I’m sorry that you had to deal with so much. I’m sorry if–” You swallow. You can’t be sorry for having feelings, really. Nor would you be. “I’m sorry if our...our relationship caused you stress or difficulty.” “Ellie…” Is that remorse in his eyes? Is it even real? Does it matter? You muster a weak smile. “This has been the most amazing two years of my life. And I owe it to you, more than anyone. I just wanted to thank you, for this opportunity.” You gesture at the room. “And for allowing me to get to know him.” Andrew looks at you for a long time, long enough that you’re effectively brought back down from nervous confidence to plain old nervousness. “It’s my job,” he says finally, “to look out for Shawn.” Andrew levels you with a gaze that’s probably meant to be neutral, but feels cutting anyway. “What’s done now is done. This is nothing against you personally. I know you care about him, and I know he asked you to come to New York and Kelsey wants you on the rest of the tour, but considering what’s been going on…” Your heart sinks. “You need to think about what’s best for him. And his career.” Andrew leaves you sitting there, reeling. It’s not until your phone buzzes in your pocket that you remember you’re supposed to be getting back, but the buzzing doesn’t stop. Hannah wants to Facetime. Slide to answer. You almost drop your phone. But you don’t accept the call. * Shawn’s been anxious about the London shows since the dates were announced practically a year ago. The crowds here, he’s told you, are some of the best in the world. All he wants to do is to live up to their expectations. It’s why you push everything else out of your mind and make sure to take your spot, the same place you ended the Manchester show, so that you’re one of the last people to look into Shawn’s eyes before he hops over the last step onto the stage. You can’t even shout over the noise. You wish you could touch him but you don’t dare. You can do this. I believe in you. It’s going to be amazing. He’s a little nervous, still. But as Shawn turns away, you wouldn’t know it from the way he bounds up, guitar slung over his shoulder, to truly the most deafening screams you’ve heard yet on tour. After TNHMB and halfway into Lost in Japan, you know he’s alright. You can hear it in his voice. You should be with Mike on the floor; you can see Kelsey onstage, capturing, as she likes to, the first few moments of every show from as close as possible. But you only make it halfway up the catwalk, caged in on all sides by the press of bodies and the screaming and the waving hands. Your heart starts to race, your breath not quite coming as slowly as it should. Flashes of the crowd outside the hotel overtake you. You have to tighten your grip on your camera lest you drop it; the strap around your neck feels weightless, invisible. I can’t be in here. You can see Mike in a distance that’s only a few feet but feels like eons, staring at you. Your vision is blurring. Just don’t run. You manage a somewhat normal pace, spinning on your heel back towards mainstage. The walkie clipped to your hip crackles almost incoherent noise under the arena thrum. “–llie...catch her–” You brush past both Cam and Paul, past ground crew, weaving half-hazardly and miraculously not bumping into anyone, laying your shaking hands on the very back door just as someone calls your name. “Ellie!” Bursting into the static, mostly silent light of the backstage hall is so shocking you almost fall. “Hey.” Sam’s voice is alarmed. “Are you okay?” All you can do is shake your head. Sam wraps his hand around your arm. “C’mon,” he says, and leads you down the hall. You wonder where he’s taking you, until the guitar hand is shoving a door a open with his hip. Shawn’s cologne still lingers. Sam pries your camera from your hands. He is the only person besides the band that Shawn allows to handle his instruments. You should know him better, you think. From here, the din has faded to an almost faint white noise. “Just try to breathe,” he says, pushing you down gently onto the sofa. Pablo sits in his omnipresent place in the corner of the room. You point. “Can you–” you croak, gasping. Sam doesn’t ask questions. Soon enough lavender fills the air and you force as deep an inhale as you can manage, doubled over your knees and staring at the floor in an effort to get the room to stop falling in and out of focus. The dark, double knotted laces of his shoes appear in your field of vision. “Do you need a distraction?” Sam asks. You nod mutely. “Can you...can you name all the tour stops we’ve been on so far? In order?” “Lisbon,” you start, your chest heaving. “Barcelona. Madrid. Berlin. Brussels.” “Good,” he encourages. “Keep going.” You rattle them off. You stumble between Amsterdam and Stockholm. “And Oslo.” “You got it. Next?” “Montpellier. Paris. Dublin. Leeds. Birmingham. Manchester.” You don’t mean to wince, but it happens anyway. Your heart is still in your throat, but at least it’s slower now. “And where are we tonight?” “London.” You ease yourself upright and accept the bottle of water he offers you. “Thanks.” “Maybe you should sit this one out,” Sam suggests. You shake your head. “He’s been talking about these shows forever. I can’t miss it.” The guitar hand – he can’t be that much older than you, really, so how is it that you’re falling apart? – considers you for a moment. You meet his gaze. You didn’t cower with Andrew; you refuse to back down now. Sam glances at his watch. “At least hang here for a few songs. I’ll come get you before Bad Reputation.” You blink. Sam grins now, a little teasing. “You tell him you don’t have favourites, but we all know that’s a lie.” If you weren’t coming down off a panic attack, you would blush. “Okay,” you relent. “Thank you.” “You’re shaking,” he points out, and drags Shawn’s black Givenchy hoodie off the chair he’d left in on. Sam rolls his eyes at your hesitation. “It’s just me, Ellie. Come on. What am I gonna do, rat you out?” You wince again. His eyes are gentle now; what is it about your feelings for Shawn that makes you feel so scared? “You’re safe, alright?” He’s right. You know it, despite your trembling hands. You drag the sweater over your head, shivering in adjustment to the soft warmth of it, inhaling the even more concentrated smell of Shawn, beneath the cologne and the deodorant. You’re safe. “I’ll be back in a bit.” Getting up from the coffee table, Sam points at the bottle in your hand. “Drink all of that.” “Sam–” He stops. You hate how frail your voice sounds. “Please don’t tell. I’m okay. I don’t want anyone to worry.” He doesn’t pity you, thank god, but even his empathy feels like more than you can bear. “Mike called over the comm. I was just only person who managed to catch you.” Apparently you can still blush after all. “Oh.” Sam smiles. He, like Ben, is objectively very handsome. You would have thought in another life, but you can’t imagine one with Sam that doesn’t also involve Shawn. You’re stuck in his orbit; there would be no contest. “Just the crew channel,” he says, a reminder. “So you might be good, at least for now.” It’s a relief; the thought of Shawn being even momentarily distracted from the show is all Andrew needs to prove his – unspoken, yet crystal clear – point. Your stomach twists unpleasantly. Sam leaves you alone with Pablo and engulfed in Shawn’s hoodie, both of which give you comfort. The most fragile part of you wants to stay here. But Shawn’s out there. You finish the bottle of water, and turn off Pablo. Maybe fifteen minutes later, when Sam returns, you’re already on your feet. “Let’s go,” he says, holding his hand out for a fist bump. You hug him instead. * Shawn strums for what seems like a long time on B stage; Youth, Perfectly Wrong, and Life of the Party are all over and the crowd waits with bated breath to see which acoustic track they’ll receive tonight. “Before anyone accuses me of stealing,” he says, “Taylor told me to do this.” Laughter echoes. “She says that unique experiences have a singular power, and that every person who listens to our music has unique lives. Even though you probably all know the setlist and which guitars I use when, every crowd I’ve played on this tour has been different.” Shawn looks out at the arena, his smile brilliant. “And you, London, will always be one of the most incredible I’ve ever played for.” It’s a wonder that he hasn’t gone deaf yet. “So I wanted to give you something special. This song means a lot to me, and I’ve always been so floored when I get to learn what my music means to you. I’m truly humbled to be a part of your lives and to be there for you in tough times. Morgan, thank you so much for sharing your story with me. This is Hold On.” “No fucking way.” The girl closest to you clutches at her companion, true wonderment in her eyes. “He never does this live!” The sound of thousands of voices harmonizing with Shawn will never fail to give you goosebumps. You wish you knew where Morgan was in the room, but the feeling only heightens when you arrive at the last pre-chorus. And so I said Mo, stay with me Everything will be alright The O2 roars. The pause in the song stretches, as if he too is searching for the girl with the incredibly perfect handwriting. You blink a rush of tears from your eyes. “Morgan, what the fuck!” You whip your head around. It seems inconceivable; the O2 seats twenty thousand, and hundreds more are crammed onto the floor. But there she is, pressed against the barrier a third of the way down the catwalk. You have no idea how you missed her. Her stillness in all the chaos around her is striking. I don't know what You’re going through But there’s so much life Ahead of you So you just gotta hold on Kelsey has always let you have B stage; Shawn enjoys looking right into your lens at least once or twice a night, so pointing at Morgan from the bottom of the stairs isn’t quite as hard as you’ve have thought. He turns his head. All we can do is hold on, yeah Yeah, you just gotta hold on Just hold on for me Fans have fully embraced the tour aesthetic and taken to giving Shawn flowers as he returns to mainstage (your Instagram is now peppered with flatlays of his shirt and single stems from various tour stops), and tonight he accepts a bright yellow tulip from a shaking girl. You walk backwards carefully, stopping in front of Morgan so all you have to do is nod towards her when Shawn makes a beeline in your direction, Cam hot on his heels. The composure you can see Morgan’s been trying to hang onto wavers when he reaches over the barrier to pull her into a hug, lingering a lot longer than he’s meant to. You squeeze down on your shutter as tightly as you can tell Shawn’s holding her. You can’t hear over people screaming his name when he pulls back, but you can see the words on his lips as Shawn presents Morgan with the tulip and takes both of her hands in his. Thank you so much. He says something else, leaning close to her. She nods, her eyes wet and overbright. Unlike a lot of other fans he’s interacted with on the catwalk, she doesn’t reach for him when he peels away. Shawn has to take the rest of the stretch at a run, grabbing at hands and reaching for high fives even as he and Cam blow past you. Morgan has dissolved in tears into the girl next to her. You need to follow Shawn before you do the same. “Ready to dance, London?” he asks, sounding a little out of breath, and the band launches into Queen. You think you’re imagining a chorus of voices calling your name, but it keeps happening. “Ellie! Ellie!” You turn. Three young girls wave frantically from the floor. Stunned, your arm waves back without explicit instruction; they burst into screams, grabbing at each other in excitement. The world doesn’t end. No one is shooting you daggers with their eyes. This is fine, you think. I can do this. * “I can’t do this.” “What can’t you do?” Ava asks, leaning over. You lift your phone to show her the two hundred follow requests on your Instagram that have appeared since you decided to turn your phone off yesterday. Hannah won’t stop calling. It’s cowardly, possibly, but you’ve also realized that you have no idea what you’d say to her that isn’t an accusation, or anything you’re prepared to hear, especially if it’s a confirmation of her betrayal. “Holy shit.” “Hey,” you complain. “What happened to ‘language’?” Your sister just shakes her head. “I’m just surprised it took them till tonight to find you.” “That’s really helpful, thanks.” Ava shrugs patiently. There isn’t much to be done, really. Your account is still private, and no one can force you to delete it. You marvel internally at the perseverance of whoever initially discovered your account; you don’t use hashtags on your photos, and as Shawn pointed out to you last year, there are dozens upon dozens of ‘Ellie Sinclair’s on the app. And of course, you’ve never appeared on Shawn’s account (upon pain of death, as Charlie dramatically puts it). You sigh. “Well that was fun while it lasted, I guess.” Ava offers you a sympathetic look. While you haven’t left the hotel since returning from night one besides a trip to EAT with Charlie, Paul’s sudden desire for fresh air hadn’t escaped your notice. Thankfully, it was a lot easier to ignore people shouting at you when you were shielded by two hundred pounds of hulking, stoic muscle. Shawn didn’t go down to meet the crowd today either; Andrew insists on voice rest even more when you do multiple shows in the same city. But the second London show is over. Shawn had treated the entire band and crew to drinks in the hotel, and now you’re staring at your suitcase trying to figure out this nagging feeling that you’re forgetting something. “Don’t panic,” Ava says, toothbrush in her mouth. “We don’t fly out till tomorrow afternoon.” You don’t reply, too wrapped up in your thoughts. “What’s up with you? I would’ve thought you would be out celebrating with everyone. First leg of the tour is over! You get five days off. In a row.” You haven’t told her – or anyone, for that matter – about your conversation with Andrew. And besides a few questioning concerned glances, no one has brought up you fleeing the arena to have a small panic attack in Shawn’s dressing room. You don’t know how long you can keep up the charade. “Just tired.” Though he’s respected the rules you’re still technically bound to (even the thought of hiding it now is laughable), Shawn definitely knows something’s up. You’d claimed exhaustion last night easily enough, but you can’t avoid him now. Not when everyone else conspicuously called it a night early, leaving you to follow your sister, who waved cheerily at Shawn as you left the hotel bar twenty minutes ago. There is no grand and drawn out goodbye; you’re meant to be getting on the same flight tomorrow. Your stomach twists when you think about it for too long. A text chime surprises you out of your reverie. Shawn: Hey El it’s me. You left a sweater downstairs. You: Oh thanks! I almost forgot you had my number. Are you on your way up? Shawn: Haha you gave it to me the night IMB came out, remember? I figured you didn’t want to deal with Instagram. I’ll be at your door in ten seconds. You stare. You forgot, sometimes, how in tune he is with any social media involving himself or his fans. It’s disarming, too, to know that he’s probably seen what you have, that your handle has been found. That the accusations are already flying. That so many people you will never meet seem to hate you already. (You hadn’t had any illusions about being immune to online vitriol, but it’s hard to realize you’re not as strong as you want to be.) Perfectly on cue, there’s a knock at the door. “Hey you,” he says with a smile. Despite the depth of your anxiety, Shawn will never fail to settle something in you. “Hi.” You can’t physically cling to a feeling, but you can lean into his space. Even without real touch, you’re safe. You have to keep reminding yourself. His smile is a little more crooked than usual. “Are you drunk?” you ask. Shawn shakes his head. “I wish. But I hate flying hungover, so I stopped after a few.” “How responsible of you.” He just chuckles and holds up one of your favourite green hoodies. You thank him and launch it in the general direction of your bed. You miss, of course. Ava gives you a curt thumbs down. Shawn’s smile widens. “Wanna hang out? I’m so excited to sleep in tomorrow.” God, he’s adorable. It’s so curious, how he can be the eye of your anxious hurricane one minute and the bright, warm sun that banishes your doubt in the next. “Yeah.” Shawn leans further into the room to flash a grin at Ava. “Okay if I steal your sister for a bit?” She rolls her eyes at him from her bed. “You guys are seriously making me feel like one of those really old rich grandmothers who needs to approve everyone her grandchildren dates. Stop.” “Does that make me Nick Young?” you ask, delighted. “Amazing.” “Who?” Shawn looks from you to your sister as you both dissolve into laughter. “I’ll explain later,” you assure him, patting him gently on the chest. He catches your fingers in his, holding them firmly. It’s the first proper contact you’ve had since the night before last and you both know it. You look away first; Shawn’s gaze heats your cheek as you look back at your sister. “Night. Love you.” “Hey Shawn,” Ava calls. He stops after having pulled your hand from his chest, holding it so he can lead you out of the room. “Congratulations. I know we said it already, but it bears repeating. This leg was amazing.” The flush of his ears will never cease to make you smile. “I’m really proud of you.” He blinks, and then twice more, his impossibly (annoyingly) long eyelashes brushing the swells of his cheeks like the beat of graceful butterfly wings. Shawn looks, just for a moment, overcome. You squeeze his hand instinctively. “Thanks Av,” he says, something gravely in his voice. Her smile is fond. “Night, kiddo.” Shawn glances down as if to double check you’re still there. You tighten your grip on his hand and together you step out into the hallway, making the short journey down the hall to his room in relative silence. “TV?” he offers as you step out of shoes. “A movie?” “Whatever’s fine.” You’re sure you won’t be able to focus on it anyway. E4 is playing a Brooklyn Nine-Nine marathon. You’re both caught up but it’s always an easy rewatch. By some unspoken agreement you sit pressed together in the centre of the bed, your head tucked against his neck and Shawn’s arm wrapped around your shoulder. It’s terrifying to remember that no one will knock on the door tonight, and that you have nowhere to be in the morning. Shawn gives you till the end of the latest Halloween Heist before he says, “Okay?” His gaze is as soft as his question, like you could lie right to his face and he’d let you. “You seem...” You brace yourself. “Far away.” You can’t lie, but you can’t quite say your manager wants us to – to what? Break up? Can you break up with someone you were never really with in the first place? “I think so,” you manage at last. “These past few days were just…” It’s your turn to pause. “A lot.” Shawn keeps your eyes for several moments before he sighs a little. “I don’t think I made it any easier for you.” Well that’s not what I was expecting. You shift up so you can look at him properly. “What do you mean?” Shame isn’t something you’ve ever seen cross his face. “The Q and A. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I feel like I made it so much worse. And the crowd–” “Stop.” You reach for his cheek so he has to look at you. “Stop apologizing to me, okay? None of that was your fault.” Shawn’s jaw sets beneath your hand, like steel. “It’s not my fans that made you so anxious that you had to leave the show the other night? That grabbed you in public?” You try to cover your flinch. But your fingers slip and land on the comforter. I can’t believe he saw. “You can’t blame them for me having a panic attack,” you retort. You realize your mistake too late when his expression goes from tense to wildly concerned. But you don’t let him interject. “And what was I going to do? Stroll down to your meet and greet and say, hey Shawn, this girl you’re taking a photo with grabbed me in broad daylight and demanded I produce you like a freaking magician? And wasted her Q and A question trying to be a nosy brat? What would you have done?” You didn’t mean to start almost yelling at him. Shawn looks, more than anything, a bit shocked. You want to reel back, abashed, but he catches you before you can go too far, his hand covering yours. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, unable to look at him. “That was so unfair of me.” “I mean…” His fingers twist your hair back. The understanding you force yourself to recognize just piles on your contrition. “I don’t think so. It probably didn’t help that I literally haven’t been allowed to talk for like three days.” Shawn’s lips quirk like he’s trying not to smile. It makes you want to lean forward and kiss him, which you know, wouldn’t probably be productive to this conversation. You’re both capable of being serious adults. You still want to. “I can’t believe that girl,” you say instead. “Did she think you were gonna go, yeah her name’s Ellie and we kissed before breakfast this morning?” Shawn breathes a laugh. Tension unfurls a little in your stomach, though not enough that you can feel genuinely relaxed. “Okay,” he says, sliding his fingers up your wrist. “So maybe I couldn’t have done anything. But I still wish you’d have told me about it. Even if I couldn’t say anything.” His eyes have gone tender again. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to deal with all this–” Shawn lifts his phone, and then gestures out to London on the other side of his window. “by yourself.” Andrew’s words ring in your ears. You need to think about what’s best for him. “I didn’t want to distract you,” you admit cautiously. His eyebrows draw together. “These dates were so important to you and I...” You trail off, but Shawn seems resolute. “Tell me.” You cringe even as you say, “I feel like you have bigger things to worry about than some people calling me a clout chaser online.” He frowns. “You’re important.” Shawn ducks his head, drawing you in by the elbows. “You’re important to me. God El, you have no idea how badly I wanted to tell that girl to get the fuck out of the arena and tear her ticket in half.” You stifle a snort, shaking your head a little even as he presses his forehead against yours. “That’s a bit dramatic. And you would never. But thank you.” “Would’ve gotten the point across,” he replies, almost a grumble. Shawn sneaks a hand beneath your top and traces some indistinguishable shape against the bare skin of your hip. Before you can react beyond a shiver he shifts, twisting to open his body to yours and dragging you into him. Your nose bumps into the V between his collarbones as Shawn wraps himself entirely around you. “I’ll stop apologizing,” he says, “But I’m here now, okay?” You swallow a sob, breathing through it. But you still feel small when you say, “Kay.” Shawn tightens his grip and you feel your body go nearly boneless against him. You hook a finger over St. Christopher, laying against his t-shirt, and run the bend of your joint back and forth across the chain. For a few minutes you just sit like that, the tv still playing softly. “I can still hear you thinking,” he murmurs. In your pause, Shawn continues. “You don’t have to tell me. But I want you to know that you can.” You have to take a deep breath before you can force the question out. “Are you sure it’s okay that I come to New York?” “Yeah,” he replies. “Of course. We’re not doing promo till like, Wednesday so we have a few days to hang out.” Shawn leans back and glances down at you, seeming unsure for the first time. “I was thinking of sitting down with Andrew and telling him, you know, officially. Even though I’m pretty sure he already knows about us.” Your stomach lurches. “I figure he’d appreciate the gesture. I’m sure he’d want to like, strategize or something.” Shawn meets your eye carefully. “Are you okay with that?” You know you should tell him. But the last thing you want to do is ruin this. You can’t speak, so you nod. His shoulders relax. “So I have a question,” he continues. “Isn’t clout like, when you have a lot of power?” You nod. You watch Shawn turn this over in his head. “I don’t think I get it. Chasing clout? Do they think you want popularity or something?” You shrug. “I guess? I mean the last girl you were even sort of tied to is now engaged to Justin Bieber, so.” His face pinches until he sees your vaguely teasing smile. “Are you just using me El?” Shawn asks. You shrug again, enjoying the joke. “I can see it,” he says. You would never call Shawn cocky or pompous, but he knows how to pretend. His lips curl. “I’m a catch. You’re lucky.” “Shawn Peter Raul Mendes,” you gasp and he laughs, catching your wrist before you can whack at him. His (annoying, attractive) musician’s reflexes catch your other arm too. You wonder if he can feel your pulse thrumming beneath his palm. Shawn’s eyebrows lift, like a challenge. You attempt to wriggle away, but he holds fast – not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that you’re stuck. You’re determined, suddenly. You’re not sure quite how you manage, but you bear all your weight forward so he has no choice but to lean down onto the bed. Your knees land on either side of Shawn’s waist and he stares up. You’re not sitting on him, exactly, but you’re hyper aware of the place where your hips would probably slot together. And even though he’s technically still holding you by the wrists, bracing you so you don’t fall, that smug little grin is gone. A flash of desire zips up your spine. “I should go,” you blurt. His grip on you tightens, just for a second. “Stay.” You can see that vulnerable edge, beneath the dark caramel. It occurs to you, with a jolt of feeling even deeper than wanting, that Shawn has possibly missed you these past few days as much as you’ve missed him. “Please stay.” “I should change,” you protest weakly. “And brush my teeth.” “You can borrow a shirt, if you want,” he replies without missing a beat. Shawn’s hand is ridiculously warm on your thigh. “And I have an emergency toothbrush in my backpack.” “You keep an emergency toothbrush in you backpack?” you ask, partly to distract yourself from his fingers moving up and down your leg. Shawn looks absurdly pleased to be pinned beneath you, which isn’t helping. “I keep two in there, actually. Just in case.” You roll your eyes. “What do you say El?” His smile is adorably small, like he’s trying to contain the boyish eagerness you can see crinkling around his eyes. “Want to make out and fall asleep watching tv with me? Want to call up room service in the morning and just laze around?” You’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life. You lean down, and Shawn releases you. You brace one hand next to his head to anchor yourself, and then rake the other through his curls. He leans into your touch even as you trace his cheekbone, his jaw, over his ear. You kiss him and you can feel him craning his neck when you pull back, still chasing you. “Yes,” you murmur. “I say yes.” (part thirteen)

#shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes #wsitd #IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE #I WANNA CRY THIS PART WAS SO MUCH WORK

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