Dancing In The Street

DANCING IN THE STREET

I. BERLIN 1977
FEBRUARY

"I think this might be a hit." Louis rehearses those words over and over again in his head, walking over to his producer's hotel room. He has his twelve-string slung over his shoulder, the neck of it nudging against his knee, while his mind almost slips from the chord progression he's just made up, and shit, he's leaning his head against the room's door, gathering all the dignity he has left. He knocks twice.

Niall Horan answers the door. "Louis?" He's wearing a fluffy white dressing gown and a pair of jeans, and he sleepily rubs his eyes. "It's three in the morning, mate."

"I know." Louis says. "But I think this might be a hit."

Niall's used to hearing those words—hell, those words are the exact reason he's staying in the penthouse. He opens his door the rest of the day and lets Louis inside, sitting down on the leather couch in the middle of the room. "Go on, then, play it for me."

Louis nods, swallows hard, but doesn't manage to rid his throat of the brick-like lump that's formed there. This is more nerve-wracking than any theatre, hall, arena, or stadium he's ever played. And it's for that exact reason that he keeps doing it—the adrenaline rush, the roar of approval, the idea that something he's done has made so many people so happy.

II. LONDON

Harry adjusts his pink spandex while he's momentarily backstage. He watches as his crew bustle around, dressing and undressing the rest of his band into their clothes for their next set. Harry doesn't even know if he can explain performing in front of a crowd anymore. Maybe he could, once upon a time, when he was playing arenas and things like that, but just a few meters to his right is a screaming mass of teenagers crammed into Wembley fuckin' Stadium. He feels a bit lightheaded, really. A woman sprays water in his face and he shuts his eyes.

"Splllrf." He says.

"Teenage girls love sweaty rock stars." The woman says. Harry quickly recognizes her as his makeup assistant, Sharon.

"I'm already sweaty," Harry tries to swat her away but she's adamant.

"All the big stars are doing it." Sharon reassures him.

"I'm already sweaty."

"Hun, keep still."

Harry kind of wishes he still had the avant-garde element within himself and his band, his persona. He never really had a very good avant-garde thing going on, seeing as though he used to cover Johnny B. Goode and, well, he is still wearing the pink spandex, but he used to be a little more aloof, more himself. He laughs, mostly to himself, at the ridiculous nature of a woman coming up and spraying him with fake sweat just so he can make a few thousand teenage girls scream louder. He used to be in it for the music.

Now he's in it for the fans.

He shuts his eyes again and allows Sharon to paint on his eyeliner.

III. BERLIN

Louis rushes out onto the stage a few nights after showing Niall his song, and he's ready to play to these people. All twenty thousand of them. At this moment, Niall is off somewhere ringing Brian Eno, asking if he can provide synthesizer expertise on Louis' new project, and it's all happening so quickly Louis feels faint. He grabs the microphone stand and kisses it, letting the sound linger around him. The stadium resembles a lion to him; the roar, the movement, the utter animosity of it.