by Anna Todd
It’s not exactly an unreasonable request, and, well, let’s face it—your inner YouTube fangirl would kill you for passing up the opportunity to spend more than a couple of seconds in the company of Dan Howell.
So you nod. “Sure”—you pull the door open a little wider—“come on in.”
As he steps inside, you take a cursory glance across the living room, hoping it’s at least half-tidy. Dan takes a seat on the sofa, setting his laptop down on the coffee table and clicking through a couple of settings.
He looks up. “Have you got the password?”
The single question is enough to stop you in your tracks, and your cheeks begin to burn the moment your eyes meet. How did you forget? Ten seconds into your first proper conversation, and you’re going to look like a complete stalker. . . .
“Yeah, it’s . . . uh . . .” You mumble it quietly, like this might tone down the embarrassment.
“Sorry?” Dan frowns.
There’s no avoiding it. One way or another, you’re going to end up embarrassing yourself. “It’s . . . danisnotonfire09.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking amused.
You begin your defense before he can say a word. “I was a fifteen-year-old fangirl, okay?” you blurt out, hoping your face isn’t completely red in the light of the living room. “And I haven’t changed my password in a long time. Please let’s forget about this.”
Dan just grins, returning his gaze to the laptop, like he’s relieved not to be the first one to embarrass himself. “I’m not saying a word.”
His fingers tap across the keyboard at lightning speed, and you watch as he pulls up his webcam on-screen. “By the way, you might want to avoid the camera shot. My fans don’t tend to . . . well, take kindly to female company, let’s put it that way.”
“Right,” you say. “Because they’re convinced you’re in a secret relationship with Phil?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Something like that.”
He’s starting to set up the shot, so you take this as your cue to head to the kitchen, figuring you can busy yourself there. As flattered as you are to be able to help Dan out, you’re not quite prepared for any of the onslaught associated with his army of teenage fans. However, after cleaning up a bit, you find yourself at a loss for jobs to keep you busy. Your laptop is still sitting in the living room, and retrieving it would mean walking right into the camera frame of Dan’s live broadcast—you’re not quite that desperate yet.
But that doesn’t mean you’re entirely immune to temptation, either. With the kitchen spotless, and the contents of your fridge shelves already rearranged twice over, you find yourself edging closer to the living-room door. You can hear Dan chatting away into his webcam, trying to convince the viewers that the different background is just another room of his and Phil’s apartment.
Ha, you think to yourself. Like those fourteen-year-old superfans are going to fall for that.
Eventually, though, you hear him taking his final few questions and getting ready to say good-bye. Once you’re sure the camera is switched off, you work up the courage to head back into the living room, where you find Dan closing down his laptop.
“How’d it go?”
The sound of your voice makes him jolt in his seat, the laptop slipping sideways from his lap. “Christ, you scared me.” He clutches his chest.
“Sorry, I kind of crept up on you.”
“Don’t worry.” He shakes his head. He gives the laptop the once-over, but his catching it in time seems to have averted any potential damage. “I thought I’d spent too long in somebody else’s company without embarrassing myself. I was well overdue.”
You laugh. “Could’ve happened on the live show.”
“Very true.” He nods. “It did go pretty well. There weren’t too many freak-outs at the mention of Phil’s name, and I didn’t fall off my chair. Hard not to consider that a success.”
“Nice one.”
“Thanks for letting me hijack the Wi-Fi.” He leaves you wondering if it’s a normal reaction for your heart to jolt when his gaze meets yours. “Seriously, I owe you one. If there’s anything I can do to return the favor, let me know. I mean, I’d offer you free use of ours, but it seems like you’ve got a better deal going on here than Phil and I.”
You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. If sitting in my apartment for thirty minutes is going to get thousands of fangirls off your case, then it’s the least I can do.”
“Well, thank you anyway.” He reaches up to push his bangs back into place. “I’m still going to say I owe you.”
The packing up of his laptop is what jolts you. Since you’ve given him pretty much all you had to offer, Dan is seconds away from heading back to his own apartment. Only then are you struck by the realization that you don’t want him to leave quite yet; after all, it’s the first opportunity you’ve had to have a real conversation, and you might feel like less of a creep watching his videos if you were actually on first-name terms.
“Did you want tea?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. “I mean, I was just about to boil the kettle, and if you don’t have to rush back . . .”
You can’t tell whether Dan looks surprised by the offer; his lopsided smile refuses to give too much away. After a couple of seconds—each of which you spend cursing yourself for sounding so awkward—he nods. “Yeah, okay. Tea would be great.”
Heading back to the kitchen, you wonder why you suddenly feel so self-conscious. Maybe it’s because Dan’s need to remain in the apartment—and with you—is over, and anything else falls down to personal choice. As you boil the kettle, you tell yourself to get a grip. You should not be working yourself up over Dan Howell, of all people. As cute as he may be, the guy’s practically the definition of awkward. If there’s anybody you can handle, it’s him.
“Thanks,” Dan says when you set the mug in front of him a couple of minutes later. “I feel like you’re just adding to the list of things I owe you for now.”
“Seriously, it’s fine.” You settle into the opposite armchair. “Just let me play the friendly neighbor for a while.”
“Friendly neighbor?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Or . . . closet fangirl?”
“Oh my God, just forget about the password.” Burying your face in your hands, you hope the flush now creeping up your neck isn’t too obvious. “It was a teenage obsession, okay? Please don’t go thinking you’ve got a crazy stalker living next door.”
“Okay, okay. I believe you.” He holds his hands up in surrender, but it doesn’t seem over; you have a feeling the whole thing will come back to haunt you sooner or later. Why couldn’t you have thought to change the password to something less embarrassing? That should’ve been your first priority on finding out he was your next-door neighbor. Then again, it’s not like you ever expected him to come knocking on your door.
Dan shoots you a sideways glance. “So . . . did you ever try your hand at making YouTube videos yourself?”
“Uh . . .” The sensible option would be denial, but you have a feeling the look on your face has already given too much away. “I may have attempted it many years ago.”
“Knew it! Should I try looking up your channel?”
He moves to open his laptop, but you’re out of your seat and slamming it shut before he can even get a word out.
“Don’t you dare,” you threaten, your face hovering above his for a moment before you return to your seat.
But Dan just grins, seeming to enjoy the exchange a little too much. “I’m just kidding. Believe me, I know better than anyone that we’ve all got embarrassing moments on the internet. Mine . . . well, let’s just say mine tend to be found a lot more easily.”
You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your tea. “That probably comes with the territory of having an army of teenage internet stalkers at your command.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. It definitely took some getting used to.”
“I’ve seen the girls hanging around the door to the a
partment block.” You shake your head in mild disbelief. “You can’t say they’re not persistent. They must be really desperate to meet you.”
Maybe you’re imagining it, but the mention of this seems to embarrass him, and he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck nervously. “Yeah, I can’t deny that they go to some crazy lengths. I’m still not really sure why. It seems a little bizarre to me. . . . I’m just some ridiculously awkward guy on the internet. Not exactly Channing Tatum, put it that way.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The look on your face seems to make him laugh. “The nerdy-guy thing has its charms.”
“I mean, thank God.” That tugs your smile even wider. “Otherwise I’d be kind of screwed. And Phil, for that matter.”
“Just be grateful for YouTube, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Making nerds like us desirable since 2005.” Dan shoots you a look over the top of his mug, before setting it back down on the table. “Still, I can’t quite believe how long this thing has been going. That so many people are interested, I mean. A lot of the time I wonder when they’ll finally realize I don’t have anything earth-shattering to say and leave me to it.”
“I hardly think that’s likely.”
“Isn’t it?”
You shake your head, perhaps more sure of yourself than you should be. “Of course not. Watching your channel . . . it’s kind of endearing, you know? These people have been watching you for years.”
He pauses, stopping just long enough for you to notice the mischievous glint in his eye. “Like you?”
“God, you’re never going to let that go.” You roll your eyes, though you can’t help wondering if you should be reading more into it. “I just keep up with your videos, that’s all. Not as obsessed as when I was fifteen, but . . . more like up-to-date.”
He smiles, more to himself than anything else, and you realize that you’d give anything to read what’s running through his mind. “Well, it’s nice to know. I’m flattered. Just . . . you know, don’t set up a webcam through the wall and live-stream my bathroom routine, or something.”
Your laugh rings out across the room, and you find the confidence to shoot him a wink. “Can’t make any promises there, I’m afraid.”
He goes to say something, but a vibration from his pocket interrupts you both, and he pulls out his phone to read the message on-screen. “Crap, is that the time?” His glance at the clock makes you realize how long you’ve spent together. “I should probably be heading back—I completely forgot I was supposed to be filming a gaming video with Phil tonight.”
He picks up his laptop from the sofa and tucks it under his arm, already gathering to his feet. “Thanks again for everything. Like I said, I owe you one.”
“And like I said, it’s fine.” You rise to your feet, following his footsteps back toward the front door. “Letting you use my Wi-Fi was hardly the biggest inconvenience of my evening.”
“But my company might’ve been,” he jokes.
You roll your eyes. “Sure. It’s not like there aren’t five million people who would kill to be in my shoes right now.”
“It’s like you’re trying to inflate my ego.” As he readjusts the laptop under his arm, his dark-eyed gaze is punctuated by an unexpected flutter in your stomach. “Thanks, though. At least I know where to come next time Phil’s downloading more of the world’s longest and most pointless videos.”
“Anytime.”
“I’ll see you around.”
“Sure,” you say, as he reaches for the handle and pulls open the door, letting a cool blast of air into the apartment. “See you later, Dan.”
You linger as he crosses the hall, heading for his own apartment. Only once your door has closed behind you do you lean back against it, taking the deep breath you feel like you’ve needed for the past hour. The whole situation still feels surreal; though you had been hoping for a proper introduction to your neighbor, you’d also thought it might come with more preparation than the three seconds it had taken to answer the door. Maybe, when it came to Dan Howell, you had to be grateful for anything.
Still, as your mind runs back over the exchange that’s still fresh in your mind, you can’t halt the smile that’s now creeping onto your face. A tiny spark of excitement runs through you, fueled by the anticipation of the next time you bump into each other.
There’s no way of knowing where things might lead, but that’s not going to stop you from hoping Dan’s Wi-Fi might cut out again soon.
RPF
A. Evansley
Imagine . . .
You had a story idea that you wanted people to read, and you knew that posting it online and tying a celebrity name to it would give people plenty of incentive.
It wasn’t a big deal at first. What you didn’t anticipate was how pigeonholed the story became by your labeling it as Dylan O’Brien fanfiction. But who are you to complain? Your story gets thousands of hits a day—a serialized delight that tons of people look forward to reading whenever you post a new chapter.
You cringe at the thought.
Fanfiction is weird when you think about it.
Well, at least the kind you write. Which technically isn’t fanfiction at all.
Sometimes you wonder if people read your story because of the plotline, or if they’re all just there for Dylan. You can’t blame them if it’s for him, though. There’s a reason you chose him to star in it . . . which makes you feel so creepy when you think about all 250,000 words you’ve written. Two book-length manuscripts, with a third installment already planned.
You sigh and kick your feet up on your desk, positioning your laptop for a better angle. You have noticeably more comments on Wattpad tonight—probably because of Dylan’s latest press tour. You always get a surge of activity whenever he’s in the press more than usual. At least it’ll provide new interviews to watch—new material to study.
God, you’re such a creep.
You’re scrolling through the comments when a link catches your eye. You read the accompanying comment once, then twice; then you kick your feet down and bolt upright in your chair.
I can’t believe Dylan talked about your fic in an interview!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Have you seen it yet??
That cannot be right.
But you notice more comments about it, and you start to feel nauseated.
This has to be a mistake. You click the link to make sure.
The interview is almost identical to the other ones you’ve seen from the press tour. More relief comes with every minute that goes by. Clearly someone misconstrued something, because there’s no way that Dylan would read your story, let alone name-drop it. You relax back into your chair.
Then the interviewer steers the conversation toward how the fans have reacted to the movie. Your stomach ties itself back into a knot.
“The fans are amazing, man,” Dylan says, scratching the side of his face before rubbing his nose. “Their love and support is crazy—they’re so passionate. The amount who show up to midnight showings and conventions, the signs they bring, fan artwork they make . . . It’s incredible, man.”
“We’ve been hearing a lot about fan artwork and fanfiction lately,” the interviewer comments, and your breathing is suddenly coming in short, shallow spurts. “Do you ever get the time to look at what your fans make for you?”
“Of course, man. I’ve seen some unbelievable artwork for this current movie, and there’s this one fanfiction story I’ve been following online for a while now.”
“Fanfiction that stars you?” The interviewer smirks. “What kind of story? Like, dirty fanfiction?”
“Nah, man. This one isn’t like that at all.” Dylan laughs. “But, yeah, I guess it is fanfiction that I star in. . . . But it’s different. It has this insane story line that hooks me every time.”
“Sounds interesting—what’s it called?”
Then, for all of the internet to hear, Dylan O’Brien says the title of the story you’ve been working on for two years, and you pretty much b
lack out after that.
THE FIRST EMAIL from a literary agent comes three days later.
Several more follow after that, and you decide to remove your email address from your biography at the beginning of the story. That still leaves emails in your inbox to deal with, though. They’re all asking to represent you, promising to cut the best publishing deal they can. You have half a mind to trash them and call it a day.
But then an email comes through with an offer you can’t refuse, and that’s how you end up sitting in a conference room on the top floor of a New York City skyscraper, with your new literary agent, Paul, and two intimidating bigwigs from an even more intimidating publishing house across from you.
“We’re so thrilled that you’re considering this opportunity with us,” says Janet, the publisher’s representative. She carefully removes some lint from her pantsuit and smiles at you.
“I’m thrilled too. Thank you so much for the opportunity,” you say stiffly, but you mean it sincerely. These people are offering you a chance at becoming a published author. You’d probably agree to licking the sidewalk outside if they asked you to.
“We’ll start shortly,” the balding guy next to Janet says. “We’re waiting for Mr. O’Brien and his attorney to arrive.”
Your head snaps up.
“What!?” you gasp.
“Mr. O’Brien and his attorney will be here shortly,” he repeats, oblivious to the anxiety attack you’re having.
Mr. O’Brien? Like, Dylan O’Brien? Coming to the meeting? With a lawyer?
You lean over to Paul, trying to play it cool, and mutter, “Why is Dylan O’Brien coming to this? When did that happen?”
“I’m not sure,” Paul says, looking as confused as you.
The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. You move your hands to your lap so no one can see how badly they’re shaking. Inhaling slowly, you try to calm the nervous prickles in your chest, but it’s no use. You’ll probably keel over from a heart attack before Dylan shows up. At least it’d save you the embarrassment—