Y/N

_

"THANK YOU VANCOUVER!" I shouted, "I love you, guys!"

Even though my lips were almost pressed up against my microphone, the sound of screaming fans was enough to drown me out. And when I say drown, I mean I literally couldn't hear myself through my own earpiece.

"Ah--jeez," I grunted, setting the mic down, "I think I bloody broke my eardrum."

Holding my hand out to Niall, my bassist, I disappeared through the curtains with haste. Pressing my palm against my right ear, I hurried down the backstage hallway, brushing past a swarm of techies.

The show was supposed to be over half-an-hour ago, but I was forced to play multiple encores to satisfy the crowd. I didn't mind at first, since it was my first time selling out a 54,500 seated stadium, but now I really did mind.

"My frickin' ear is bleeding!" I yelled, staring at my bloody palm, "where the hell is Jane?"

Jane, my manager, was supposed to be backstage at all times. But clearly she wasn't here, because I was wandering around in desperation.

"Hey," some random crew member said, patting my back, "great show."

Well, it was a great show, but now it wasn't. Muttering a 'thank you' to the guy, I stormed down the remainder of the hallway. I was about to make another turn, when I caught a glimpse of Jane's bright yellow suit.

She was flirting up a storm with one of the instrument wranglers.

"Jane!" I hissed, making a beeline towards her, "my ear is bleeding!"

Catching her attention, she turned towards me, a smile on her face. I skidded to a stop in front of her, narrowing my eyelids.

"Oh, darling," she laughed, "you didn't sound that bad."

"Excuse me?"

"You said your ears were bleeding."

"Because they're actually bleeding!" I cringed, "those stupid earpieces must have torn my eardrum during the encore."

"Hm, that's not good," she swore under her breath, "you have to get back to the hotel for an interview, so I'm not sure we'll have much time to get that stitched up tonight."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm afraid we just don't have room to fit in a hospital visit, since you're schedule is packed."

"How many times do I have to say it?" I exclaimed, "my ear is bleeding! How is an interview more important?"

Jane shrugged, waving away the Wrangler beside her, "it's with Vanity Fair, darling."

"Screw Vanity Fair, then!"

Letting out an angry puff of air, I spun on my heels and disappeared into the bustling hallway. I could still hear the screaming crowd, their chants echoing through the thick walls, but at this point I didn't bother going back out.

The show was over, and my ear looked like something out of a Quentin Tarantino film.

Ignoring the fact that my phone, coat, and backpack was still in my dressing room, I made my way towards the stage door in anger.

Big mistake.

As soon as I pushed open the door, I was swarmed by a mob of fans, all shoving papers and sharpies in my face. So there I was, defenseless, without my bodyguard, in a crowd that wanted to rip me apart.

"Yeah, sorry," I grunted, pushing my way through, "can I get a little space, please?"

I was an idiot to think that would work. Instead, it just made it worse. Clutching my ear, I pushed someone aside and did the only thing I thought of.

I ran.

I ran, and ran, and ran away from the crowd, the cold city air stinging my skin. Most of the fans started to chase me, but I lost them the second I crossed the street. Knowing them, they'd keep looking for me no matter how fast I ran. Scanning the long lines of shops, my eye caught the nearest one. Without a second thought, I grabbed the door handle, and slipped inside.

I was welcomed by the soft sound of Wallows music playing from inside, the dim lighting surrounding me completely. A flimsy sign hanging above me read: RINK RECORDS, but I could tell it was a record shop by the piles of vinyls in front of me.

I would have loved to look around, maybe even buy a few things for my RP back home, but I didn't have time. All of the blood in my head felt like it was draining out of me by the second (it was an exaggeration, but I was already in a pretty bad mood).

"Hey, can I help you--" someone started to say, but a horrified gasp cut them off, "holy shiiiiiiiiiii......are you okay?"

It was a boy, who looked around my age, with curly brown hair. He wasn't looking at me, but instead at the bloody mess around the side of my face.

"Yeah, I tore my eardrum," I said bluntly, "mind calling a hospital?"

He nodded his head, turning away to scamper back to the desk he presumably worked at. As he fumbled for the phone, I glanced outside briefly, my blood boiling with panic. There were fans searching the streets, peering in through the windows of neighboring shops in search of me.

"Actually!" I exclaimed, ducking down behind the desk, "don't call them!"

I heard the click of a landline phone hang up, and a worried shuffle approach from behind the counter.

If the ambulance showed up outside of the record shop, the fans, and my manager, would know where I was. Then I'd be dragged away to an interview that I desperately didn't want to go to.

"Frick," I grunted under my breath, "my whole face is stained red."

"I can get the first-aid kit," the boy offered, "I know how to stitch some stuff up, if you need it."

"Can you stitch a torn eardrum?"

"Never done it before, but I'm pretty good at adapting."

Okay, so I had two options. Seek the help of the only available person, who didn't seem reliable in the healthcare business, or bleed out and die. It definitely wasn't going to be the latter.

"Sure, fine," I huffed, standing back onto my feet, "where should I go?"

The boy pointed to one of the empty tables, "just sit there, I'll be right out."

Making well on his words, he was already back with the kit before I had a chance to walk to the table. Hopping onto the cold surface, I brushed my hair out of my face, hoping trusting him wasn't a mistake.

"So, what's your name?" I sighed, observing the rest of him.

He was a pretty lanky boy, with an array of star-speckled freckles covering his cheeks. His lips were strangely pinker than an average person's, and he had the kind of nose that just fit right in the middle of his face.

I'd seen a ton of noses that were far from that, so I thought his was cute. Cute for a stranger, that is.

"Uh, I'm Finn," he scrambled, digging through the kit in front of him, "Wolfhard."

"Finn Wolfhard?"

"Yeah, something like that," he said, pulling out a white cloth, "you can wipe your face off with this."

Taking it from his hand, I began to scrub off the drying blood on my skin, until the entire cloth looked like a different color. Running my hands through my tangled hair, I set the towel down next to me, and leaned onto my hands.

The empty record store made me feel slightly nostalgic. I missed being able to go places, without a swarm of people screaming for an autograph. It made the situation I was in, a little bit better.

"Oh my god, you're [y/n] [l/n]."

I snapped my head up, to see Finn staring at me with a dumbfounded expression. He was frozen to his spot, a needle in one hand, and black thread in the other.

So much for nostalgia.

"Yeah," I nodded, biting my lip, "that's me."

"I can't believe I didn't recognize you!"

"I can, considering half of my face was covered in blood."

"Right...yeah," he grinned sheepishly, "I'm literally in love with you, and your music!"

"What?" I questioned sarcastically, "do you want me to write you a song, or something?"

Frick.

That was harsh. I was just in a horrible mood, my head was killing me, and I really wanted nothing more than to go home. That didn't justify my outburst, though. Finn's starstruck gaze faltered, and his smile became lopsided.

"I'm sorry," I apologized, "I didn't mean to say that, I'm just not feeling the best right now."

"No, you're good, I get it."

"Jeez, I feel horrible for saying that."

"Don't worry about it, I understand," he assured, "but what are you doing here?"

I was asking myself the same question. This morning I woke up in Washington, took a 4 hour road trip to get to the BC stadium, played a concert for over 50,000 people, and then ended up here.

In a record shop, with a stranger, about to let him poke a needle through my ear.

"In Vancouver?" I questioned, "or in your store?"

"Oh, this isn't my store," he flustered, "but yeah, in the store."

"I needed somewhere to hide."

"I thought you were supposed to be doing a concert?"

"Why do you think I'm hiding?"

"Oh, good point," he grinned, displaying a set of pearly whites, "I'm sure you get this a lot, but can I just tell you something?"

I nodded, "sure."

"When I first heard your debut album," he confessed, "I cried."

Erm....what?

That was new. My debut album was called Willow, and it was based off of my trip to Europe in 2017. I didn't mean for it to blow up, but somehow it landed me at the top of the Billboard charts, and I won a grammy for it.

But no one ever told me they've cried.

"Can I ask why?" I inquired, "none of the songs were particularly sad."

He squinted his eyes, trying to tug the thread through the needle. Once it was secured, he gently extended his arm towards my ear, his foot tapping in anxiety.

"I'm a sucker for good lyrics," he explained, "and yours just made me feel something."

"I hope it was a good something."

"It was the best something."

"That's always good to hear--ow!"

A pricking sensation rushed through my body, and I pushed his arm away in defiance. In the rush to get myself fixed, I forgot about my fear of needles.

"Crap, did I hurt you?" He gasped, "I'm so, so, sorry."

I waved my hand to get him to stop talking, "no, I just hate needles."

He blinked, his mind racing. Setting his stuff down, he scurried over to a pile of vinyls on the table next to us, and began to flip through them. I raised an eyebrow in confusion, and watched as he pulled out a thin cover that read: The Turtles.

Gently taking out the disk, he walked over to an orange record player and set it in. The sound of Elenore began to echo through the small space, a 60s demo I hadn't heard in a while.

"Better?" He smiled.

Yeah...it really was better. I was silent as he picked the needle back up, and began to gently stitch my ear back up. It still hurt, but the sounds of retro tunes were enough to distract me. It actually distracted me so much, that I didn't realize he was already done.

"Once the skin patches itself up, take out the thread," he said, "but other than that, you're all good."

I smiled, "thanks."

He turned away to pack up the first-aid kit, and suddenly an intrusive thought popped into my brain. I liked it here. I liked the records, the homey environment, no management yelling at me, and the lack of screaming fans.

I wanted to stay here longer.

"I don't suppose your boss will let me crash here for the night?" I said, the words just slipping out.

I'd done reckless things before, but this was the first time I ditched my 'famous' life altogether. I just wanted to ignore Jane, the schedule, the interviews, and everything else for a few simple hours.

"Yeah, of course," Finn grinned, running his hand through his curly hair, "what the boss doesn't know, won't hurt."