i. MEDICINE harry styles [ON HOLD]

v. 'choose your words'

the third of february, 2018.
east end, london.

the east end was dreary. february weather bled heavily across the district, casting the skies gray, and adrian's face pink.

such an area of london may not be where one expects to seeing the likes of harry styles and new world magazine flocking, but having been coined the up and coming fashion place-to-be, new world saw it fitting. the shoot was in a confined old building that had supposedly been renovated by a royal family member with a knack for the arts, but sold off at the queen's request. no one quite knew the story on that one. a little ways out of the heart of the east, the streets were quieter, more sleek.

new world had a reputation for intimate venues, ones that omitted high ceilings for the sake of high ceilings, and men in black at every entrance. this, thus, meant that adrian had to let himself in, via a temporary key card he had been sent so that he could frequent as he wished throughout the day without worry some random would walk in and try to befriend his shoot partner.
his shoot partner. he was already in the building, that much was obvious by the sounds of the delighted laughs coming from the mezzanine.

adrian faced the steep metal staircase in front of him. ever so carefully he made his way up it, holding tightly onto the railing. one can imagine his condition makes stairs a matter of concern.

the room was expertly filled, making use of every area, and holding nothing unnecessary. the four corners of the room contained, respectively, a place to talk, hair and makeup, clothes, and backdrop. in corner number two sat two production personnel, and a perfectly real, not at all made up, harry styles.

the two couches melted into spilling racks of clothes. a woman, russet skin, a pair of slacks on curves legs, and long black hair, sat, looking important. she had a clipboard in one hand, and a phone in the other. she was too immersed to see adrian enter. but styles wasn't.

adrian immerses himself in a moment of surreal emotion, where a figure of the media and mind becomes real, as the singer was, right in front of him. adrian watched as his firm, yet nimble fingers scratched across the top of his knees with a tone of finality. the twenty-one year old glanced to harry's face, just as the latter did also.

adrian felt his cheeks flush. harry, who had been plastered on Adrian's feed so many times before, looked soft and innocent through real eyes.
he smiled, a grin of happiness, full of white splendour. adrian's lips quirked up involuntarily.

"hello, nice to meet you," harry said through smiling lips. he stood to a height two or three inches shorter than adrian, with a hand extended.

adrian grasped and shook his hand firmly, as he always did. "hello," he echoed, "adrian ingham."

harry made a laughing noise in his throat, deep and gleeful. "harry styles," he said, then frowned, "harry," he reiterated.

adrian withdrew the urge to retort that he knew. instead, he simply nodded. a slightly uncomfortable silence ensued, adrian began fiddling with a delicate silver bracelet on his wrist, feeling hot under the gaze of a pleasantly calm and happy harry styles.

"mr ingham, good morning." the clipboard woman held out her hand, having pulled herself away from her work. she had an australian accent.

adrian shook her hand. "good morning, ms—?"

"chapel. please call me arty." the woman showed a perfect set of veneers. harry had moved closer to the pair. he smelled floral and sweet, a contrast to adrian's cold and fresh cologne scent. the woman smelled like—like she was burning? adrian paused for a moment. no, nope, he thought, that's not her, that's an aura. he put his arm out to suggest they sit, and thankfully, they did. as soon as he sat, he pretended to do his shoelaces, waiting for the aura to pass. the other two kept talking.