Fine line (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter Seven

How is it that when you want time to pass by it seems to take years, and when you're dreading something it takes only seconds?

The Grammys were today, in only a few hours, and I could already feel the knot of anxiety writhing in my stomach.

I had managed to pick out an outfit, a yellow suit with a lilac laced tie. It was outrageous, but simultaneously, in my opinion, beautiful. That's usually the route I like to go in - slightly feminine and also slightly hideous. It makes for a great mix.

As I studied the suit in my mirror I could feel the tips of my fingers begin to shake. Even after a few shots of whisky the nerves were relentless. I couldn't tell if my tolerance was that high, or if the anticipation of tonight was just that alarming.

Regardless, it was impossible to ignore. A part of me was ecstatic - I was nominated for my
first Grammy, after all - and the other part of me was terrified. There wasn't a certain name for the way I was feeling, a category that this emotion could fall under. It was indescribable, unimaginable. And it was relentless.

"Okay, Harry," I breathed out to myself. "You can do this. Don't be a pussy."

I scoffed manically into my own reflection, becoming aware of the pathetic situation I was in. I wasn't one to push my emotions away, but maybe this time could be an exception.

Maybe, this time, I could do what so many others had done at my expense. It couldn't be that heard, right? And if there ever was a moment to lock it all up, this seemed to be the perfect fit.

I could do this. I have to do this. I can't live my life in the unknown.

"Fuck." I muttered to myself before turning from my own reflection, and beginning the awful night.

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"Here, Harry!"

"To the right!"

"Love the suit!"

Red carpets had always been exhausting, but unaccompanied by anyone else in the lime light, the attention you received by photographers was almost too much to handle.

It was the snapping of the cameras, the wince of the flash, the constant command of direction. It was all too much.

But then again, it was just another part of the lifestyle I'd chosen to live. So I smiled and posed as the masses directed, putting on the show that was bound to be plastered all over social media before the nights end.

Sometimes, it was flattering. Other times, it was suffocating.

As my time with the photographers ended, I walked off the platform to join the other guests on the more congested side of the carpet.

I'd been in this industry for years, have had the opportunity of meeting hundreds of amazing celebrities, but seeing them all together still has the same affect on me as it always has.

There were people I looked up to here, people I knew, and people I'd always wanted the chance to know.

"Harry, mate! You made it!"

The glare from the flashes has nearly blinded me, and if it hasn't been for the pungent Irish accent, I might never have been able to guess who was standing in front of me.

"Niall!"

Without a moment of hesitation, we pulled eachother into a hug, a smile plastered on both of our faces.

Niall was older now, more refined and built. Almost nothing like the scrawny blonde more I had met almost a decade ago.

"Fancy outfit, mate." He smiled as he pulled away, examining my suit.