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infiniteshawn · 5 years

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Since We’re Alone | 1

Phoebe Rose Bray wasn't a spontaneous woman. But when she drunkenly applied to become a seat filler six months prior, she hadn't been thinking about her internship or her god-awful boss, Margaret, or her starving bank account. She'd been feeling ambitious.

And that's why when she got the email regarding the Sixty-fourth Annual Grammy Awards, she huffed a rather annoyed sigh and silently accepted the invitation.

A massive turn of events, a tragic production slip-up, and a quick diversion led her exactly where she hadn’t intended on ending up: in front of millions of people, wrapped up in the arms of a pop sensation.

a/n: here it is. 1.6 k. new series, or so i think. we’re gonna see how this one goes first. feedback: appreciated

She couldn’t believe she was doing this. Phoebe Rose Bray gave herself a one-over in her hotel bathroom, smoothing out her satin dress with her carefully manicured hands.

It wasn’t often that she travelled out of the country and it was far less often that she travelled alone. But when she drunkenly applied to become a seat filler six months prior, she hadn’t been thinking about her internship or her god-awful boss, Margaret, or her starving bank account. She’d been feeling ambitious.

And that’s why when she got the email regarding the Sixty-fourth Annual Grammy Awards, she huffed a rather annoyed sigh and silently accepted the invitation.

Phoebe began to understand the fuss about Los Angeles traffic when what should have been a ten-minute drive to the Staples Center turned into an hour-long road trip. Thank God Uber provided snacks.

It was more of a process than a celebration—for Phoebe, at least—and she was more interested in being assigned a seat than looking around for the faces of her childhood idols. Relieved to be inside with air conditioning and away from flashing cameras and hollering paparazzi, she settled into her seat and prayed to her lucky stars for a mediocre night.

The show was uneventful, for the most part. For the first half. As soon as the big categories began to surface, the crowd got antsy. From her spot at the back of the floor, Phoebe zoned in on the A-listers sitting closest to the stage, and it was clear they were shifting in their seats. Something was coming.

That something was Record of the Year, she deducted. She tried her best to focus on Justin Timberlake’s never-ending monologue about finally being able to host music’s biggest night, but the headset-wearing woman equipped with a clipboard was inevitable, and Phoebe knew where she was headed.

“You’re next,” the woman spoke, hastily yet quietly, “get ready.”

Phoebe kept a trained eye on the tops of people’s heads because she hadn’t memorized where each artist was sitting and it seemed like the only way she could possibly know where to go.

People came out—Katy Perry and some guy—to present the nominees. Phoebe straightened her spine and firmly planted her stiletto, preparing to jump up at any second. She reminded herself of the importance in being stealth, avoiding taking away from the artist’s acceptance speech because while this was their big moment, she was also contractually bound not to disturb the audience. Names were called. Snippets were played. An announcement was made. And before she knew it, Phoebe was silently power-walking toward the front of the arena, sitting her ass down in Lizzo’s still-warm folding chair.

The crowd had settled and she was giving a very animated speech about the song’s significance, and all Phoebe could focus on was the pointed boot almost touching her strapped-in-toes.

She was positive that the row of seven-or-so people sitting next to her were there together. Most of them muttered to each other during Lizzo’s speech, but the guy beside her was dead silent. He stared straight forward, face aimed directly at the stage. Phoebe could feel his brown eyes on her. She wondered if he was suspicious of her, or frowning upon the idea of seat fillers because maybe he believed that general audience members had no place up front. She never considered that the warmth engulfing her body wasn’t from her own embarrassment, but was instead radiating off of him.

The crowd broke into applause and they, together, realized that they, too, should probably be clapping. So they clapped. The show went on. And though neither of them said a word to the other, they were very aware of one another’s presence.

So much that Phoebe’s brain was running in circles, dreading the moment “Shawn Mendes” would be called as the winner of Album of the Year because he’d somehow have to wiggle past her, and she knew that with her luck she’d probably fall over. Her heart raced as she began debating whether she’d be standing with them in applause or remaining seated, and if she’d be shown on national television. It was all very much very fast and she didn’t even notice that Shawn was muttering under his breath in her direction.

“Psst,” she heard, and she turned in his direction quickly enough to give herself whiplash.

“What?” she whispered in a more offended tone than she’d hoped for. She just wasn’t expecting it.

“I said,” he spoke lowly, leaning in a little closer, “if it helps, I’m nervous too.”

“I’m n-”

“Yes, you are,” he cut her off, shooting her the million-dollar grin that was plastered on every billboard from New York to Tokyo.

He was ethereal. Phoebe knew that celebrities were ridiculously idealized in the media, and with the help of round-the-clock makeup artists and photoshop and endless reserves of cash, they were almost always eternally beautiful. But even this close up, with that damn curl hanging on his forehead, Shawn Mendes was inevitably gorgeous. She avoided his gaze.

“All I’m saying is,” he leaned in a little closer, and she was pretty sure she could feel his breath on her neck, “you can loosen up a bit. Sit back. Look around, no one’s looking at you,” he paused, allowed her to finally adjust to her surroundings, “except me.”

If she wasn’t blushing before, she was bright red now. She figured he would be like this—a womanizer, for the lack of a better term—but she never thought she’d fall victim to any of his one-liners.

Shawn clammed up when a uniformed-producer announced the final commercial break, and Phoebe sat in silence, unable to avoid eavesdropping on the group to her right.

“I’m not sure, man,” Shawn mumbled, leaning toward the suited guy beside him. Both of them were leaning forward, and Phoebe was able to make out the label on his seat. Andrew Gertler.

“Relax, Shawn,” the man she assumed to be Mr. Gertler spoke, “we’ve been here before. They’re either gonna recognize that you deserve it or they aren’t, and in both cases you need to remember that there’s a camera on you. Regardless of what you’re feeling, I need you to really sell it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shawn nodded, “just happy to be here. I know.”

“Good,” the man said before taking a sip of his water, “I have a good feeling, kid.”

Shawn didn’t respond. He took a deep breath and sunk back into his seat, watching intently as the rest of his team had a muffled conversation about the afterparty.

Phoebe picked at her cuticles until Shawn rubbed his massive hands together and muttered, “Showtime,” and Timberlake came out once again, thanking everyone for coming and prefacing some montage video of past Album of the Year winners.

She nudged his knee with hers. Shawn’s eyebrows shot up a bit, silently asking if the contact was intentional or if she was just a bit twitchy. She nudged him again.

“If it helps,” she whispered, neither of them looking at each other, “I’m nervous too.”

She couldn’t help but notice the tight-lipped grin creeping up his cheeks in her peripheral vision, and she knew that was just what he needed.

But the wave of comfort and confidence that had overcome Shawn didn’t last long, because the video was over and Pharrell Williams was standing before them, hastily reading through a list of eight album names as if these artists hadn’t put their absolute hearts and souls into each body of work.

A name was called. Phoebe wasn’t sure who it belonged to, but it didn’t belong to Shawn Mendes. The sinking feeling in his stomach somehow translated to her because she, too, felt it. Weightless.

Something was happening, though. The split-screen of nominees hadn’t focused-in on the winner as it usually would, and by some work of the devil it was displaying a massive live-video of Shawn’s face. And the heartbreak-with-a-hint-of-anger written all over it.

Neither Shawn nor his team had caught on to the technical slip-up, and the few seconds they were all on camera felt like hours to Phoebe. She was thinking at a million miles a second, debating tapping him on the shoulder or just saying something, anything, to bring his attention to his very-public negative reaction.

She knew this would be the big headline.

Unless she could make an even bigger one.

Without thinking long enough to convince herself otherwise, Phoebe twisted in her seat and faced the man she’d been so intimidated by for the last half-hour. His distraught eyes met her determined ones, and before he could resist, she muttered something along the lines of, “Just go with it,” and lunged at him, kissing him with everything she had.

Shawn froze and Phoebe panicked—had he not hit on her, this wouldn’t have even been a thought in her mind—but quickly, he melted into it. The gears began turning and her words had convinced him that she had a reason, supported by the way she kissed him with such purpose.

Her hand was on his jaw and his were in her hair, and while he refrained from slipping her the tongue for the sake of everyone watching at home, he still kissed her wildly.

Andrew was jostling Shawn’s arm. The cameramen had sorted their shit out. And Phoebe was up from her seat and running out of the arena faster than any of it had even happened.

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