Okay, here is the first chapter as promised. Please don’t judge me if it’s bad! I did my best with a concept that makes me a bit uncomfortable. I just can’t wrap my mind around writing fiction using real people that, you know, exist and stuff. Also, if you are a One Direction fan and I get any of my facts wrong: sorry, try not to hate me. It was not intentional!!!
Happy super belated birthday, Rupee!
P.S. It’s a working title. I may change it later. Who knows.
It’s awkward again, you think to yourself as Niall stares at you from across the empty studio. No, not again, it’s always been awkward. From the first time you met him it was awkward. You think back to that day, the way his blonde hair had been shoved under a Detroit Lions hat, the sky blue matching the color of his eyes. You had wondered if he was a fan—that’s what you had asked him, at least—and he responded to you like he would have to any girl passing by: a short, polite response and an ambiguous smile.
Of course, when he had later realized that you were not a passing fan but the newest temporary member of the staff (in charge of route security for the North American leg of the Where We Are tour), it had gotten slightly…weird. There is hardly any eye contact between you, next to zero conversation, and the few times when he had passed just a little too closely (close enough that you could feel the heat of his arm brush against yours), he darted away so quickly it was as if you had shocked him.
And yet he is so charismatic with everyone else.
Whatever, you think, being the first to look away. He’s not worth feeling awkward about. You are just doing your job.
“Time to get out,” you say. “Boss Man wants everyone tucked away in your rooms by 12:15 which means you have exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds to get from here to the car waiting outside.”
His apathetic expression could almost be taken as boredom. He twirls a pen between his fingers, tapping it languidly against the notepad lying in front of him. “I’m almost finished. Just tell Paul I need twenty more minutes.”
“He was adamant about the time restriction,” you say, and Niall’s forehead creases in frustration. “I’m only doing what I’m told,” you add.
“Right, but this is seriously only going to take me—”
“One minute forty-nine seconds.”
He frowns, eyes turning hard. “Why are you being such a hard ass about this? It’s just another fifteen minutes, I just want to finish this section of the chorus.”
Maybe you’re not the most understanding person, but that argument doesn’t make any sense to you. “Can’t you just finish it on the bus? The other guys will be able to help you out that way.”
He sighs, his shoulders falling back as he looks at you—as if you couldn’t have had a more pointless thought if you tried. When he speaks again his accent is thicker; the first letter of every word disappearing almost completely as he hastily says, “The boys have already written their parts. This one’s mine—my responsibility. But ‘a course you wouldn’t understand that would you?”
“What? Responsibility? No, you’re right, I have no idea what that means.”
He gets up and walks toward you, his smoldering eyes turning unnaturally dark. The dim lights make it hard to see, but you’re almost certain they’ve never been that color before. “What’s your problem?” he asks, stopping a little less than a foot from you. Close enough that you can see the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his eyebrows twitch in frustration.
Sure, as a comeback it completely sucked, but you were finding yourself having a hard time concentrating with his chest meeting you at eye level, so close you could smell the faint remnants of deodorant and sweat. The recording studio is warm and you hope to god you don’t smell, or if you do, that you smell at least as good as he does. It would only be fair, you think, and then mentally kick yourself for thinking something so ridiculous.
Without warning his hand is against your cheek, pushing back a section of hair that had come loose from your ponytail, and you freeze at the sudden sensation of his skin against yours; even if it is only a small amount.
“W-what are you—?” You don’t get a chance to finish. Behind you, the door to the studio pushes open and you hear a deep voice call into the semi-darkness.
“Alright, that’s times up Niall.” It is Paul, One Direction’s head of security, calling for curfew. Thankfully he can’t see where you are standing, sheltered by the wall that connects the studio booth to the recording room. Because if he had, he might have noticed the way the blonde is staring at you: his eyes unwavering as they traced over your face with an unsettling keenness.
He pulls his hand away, stepping back and walking around the wall to greet Paul on the other side. “Alright, got it,” he says, voice fatigued, though you can hear the line of tension running beneath his words.
“Make any progress?” Paul asks as he moves forward to pull the door shut. The lights flicker off as he presses the wall switch, and you breathe a sigh of relief that neither of the two men could see the blush creeping into your face.
Before the door closes completely, you’re just able to make out Niall’s voice as he says, “Yes, something like that.”
That’s it! Chapter one. Feel free to comment below if I get any of the 1D facts wrong and I’ll fix it!!! Next chapter might be up tomorrow–definitely not Friday, but maybe Saturday. It’s up in the air.
Also, the Detroit Tigers are killing the Oakland Athletics right now! That’s baseball if anyone is confused :) GO TIGERS!