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Originally published on August 26, 2024
PRIME UNIVERSE
"Opened up my journal to a page.../ Feels like there's nothin' new for me to say...
/ Feels like everything goes 'round and 'round / And 'round and 'round..."
Shawn Mendes, "Why Why Why"
SHAWN SINGS.
His voice celebrates and mourns. He stamps his bare feet into the dirt beneath him. He strums the strings of his guitar.
up down up down up down
Soles against soft earth, grass tickling between long, slender toes.
up down up down up down
Calloused fingers brushing against bronze.
up down up down up down
Freckled biceps flexing as he holds the instrument tight against his bare chest.
beat, beat, beat
Drum
Heart
beat
(The camera loves him.)
Lens shakes and spins around him—black and white shifts to the colors of summer and long evenings and unfettered nature.
Palette is gold and green and blue and orange.
Warm hues
warmth
Even at night.
(His friends love him too.)
Mike. Scott. Eddie.
They have instruments of their own. They all sing alongside Shawn.
up down up down
drum beat drum beat
strum beat strum
Between takes
--CUT!--
Shawn reflects.
He sees himself in the glass of the lake, sunset shimmering sadness
Naked torso, shadows in the divots and valleys between the contours of his body, around his arms, his chest. Wet jeans, coarse and heavy, embrace his legs. Skin-tight. Feet bare. Soles slap against the wood of the diving platform, leaving perfect prints behind.
The sounds around him are cricketsong and birdsong and earthsong
And his song celebrates it all. A chorus.
Friends. Family. Freedom.
(Finally free?)
--ACTION!--
Why why why
Strum beat drum beat
up down up
Lips unleash lyrics before
--CUT!--again
And so the pattern continues, scenes circulating with the nights and days, the spinning of the earth, immense and magnetic.
And when THAT'S A WRAP, Shawn spends his evening in a lakeside cabin, talking and laughing and passing the time with the men closest to him.
"The boys."
Boys who love his laugh as much as they love his lyrics.
Because when he had stepped off that stage, all those years ago, the lights and roars of the crowd weighing down [ ] down [ ] down upon him,
he had stopped laughing.
Stopped
laughing for a
long,
long
time.
It was the music that would eventually become his miracle cure. Music written not for others, but for himself. Music that celebrated and mourned and purged and sang and danced and laughed.
And that night, after dinner around a blazing bonfire, the trees whispering their thoughts around him,
SHAWN LAUGHS.
It's a joke that sparks the powder keg. Something about a chicken crossing the road. And the sweet, sweet sound of his amusement--music to the ears of his mates, sultry and swirling and soft, breathy and belting, with a note of nasality--it prompts a hunger in them.
They POUNCE!
Pin him down!
They want the laughter to keep going.
Shawn rolls from off the sofa as his bandmates dive onto him. His naked torso, skin still soft and flushed from a recent shower, becomes a landscape for their foraging fingers, fingers that quickly find their way into the crevices of his flesh.
Armpits.
Thighs.
Under the knees.
Like lightning, the sensations crackle across Shawn's nervous system.
Eyes squeeeeeeeeze shut.
Laughter spikes, tenor sound.
Shawn writhes under the hands and arms of the men around him, on top of him. They hold down his struggling, scrambling frame--all nimble arms and legs,
kicking,
kicking!
and muscles stretching and straining beneath soft, sun-browned skin.
"Where you ticklish, Shawnee?" teases Mike. "Here?"
"He hates it when you get his feet!" hollers Scott. He holds down one of Shawn's bony ankles against the hardwood floor. He uses his other hand to claw at the underside of the long, tanned, calloused foot.
What a target!
(The "barefoot king," as Shawn's known in some circles.
Always showing them off.
Unaware--or, rather, quite aware--of what he's doing.)
Toes cascade in length, smooth, sloping curve from big to small--they curl!
The bottoms of the feet fleshy, doughy, a tad rough--walked on--around the pads of the toes, the balls, the heels--they wrinkle up!
His insteps are pale. Like silk. A wonder how unique the skin of the soles is, buzzing with so, so many sensors...
Ripe for sensation.
This is where Scott focuses his attention, diggggging into the sensitive, supple skin, watching with glee as Shawn's foot dances, writhes, and he cry, cry, cries out, hitting the same high notes from the chorus of his song.
Flesh on flesh.
Rough and tumble.
Shirts fly.
Limbs fly.
Shawn tries to fight back, but he just feels the fingers, fingers! Tickling him all over--the skittering in his armpits, starting to sweat, the biting at the undersides of his (famous) feet, the squeezing--like soft crab claws--on his hips.
He DANCES on the floor.
up down up down up down, the fingers move.
back and forth back and forth back and forth, Shawn sways.
His teeth flashing in the dim light of the cabin's interior as another desperate, untamed note rockets out from his straining vocal cords.
"He's gonna piss himself!" Eddie says.
"Uncle! Uncle! Stahahahap!" shouts Shawn and the boys let up, leaving him a giggling, sweating mess upon the cold floor. The shimmering brunette curls are wet atop his head; a sore, tired smile is plastered on his narrow, rugged face.
He tries to catch his breath.
In out in out
In. Out. In. Out.
In.
Out.
Loving pats upon his chest and scalp cause him to flinch again. He uncurls his shapely toes. He sees Scott eyeing his soles again hungrily.
"Don't you fucking dare," he says with a smirk.
The evening wanes to night, then to early morning.
The crickets proudly parade their chorus outside. The sky is black, but brilliantly starstruck.
And Shawn looks out into the wilderness, he thinks of the sensation of the boys all over him, their hands, their warmth.
Something in him stirs then. He feels a surge
deep in his loins
and he smiles.
He thinks of his last lover, the kiss of her lips on his navel, right where he now senses the bloom of love renewed.
Ticklish.
Sunlight.
Pops of solar system.
Agape. [selfless; unconditional; the highest form]
Shawn closes his eyes, his bandmates and best friends beside him. He listens to the murmurs of the valley beyond the reaches of the cabin's walls, the porch, the humming lakeside.
It's good to be back, he thinks. Back in the light. Not [down] but
up [ ] up [ ] up
Thanks to the songs,
sounds,
support,
searching,
self.
Because Music really can be medicine, he'd written.
And as the age-old adage goes, laughter can be (the best) medicine too.
Author's notes:
I have never been a huge fan of Shawn Mendes, but his recent song, "Why Why Why," did something for me. I listened to it, enjoyed it, then read up on it a little bit more. Learning of Shawn's struggle with mental health, his stepping away from the spotlight, and his journey to finding himself and rekindling his love for music was really touching, and when the music video released, I felt his energy, his desire for freedom, his celebration of nature inspiring. Thus, this fic--a flash fic, was born. It employs a very raw, lyrical, experimental style, which mirrors that of Shawn's music video. I wanted it to be impulsive, messy, and rhythmic. If nothing else, this was a great study in playing with the boundaries of my own voice as a writer; I may even attempt something like this for publication (with far less tickling, of course... the "real" world isn't ready, lol).
DISCLAIMER:
Though this story features actual persons and references actual events, it is entirely a work of fiction and is in no way affiliated with, or endorsed by, those individuals. It is written solely for the purposes of entertainment and should not be taken seriously.
READER REACTIONS:
"Very nice and intimate! I've also not paid too much attention to Shawn, despite his glorious feet, but yeah his newest music really resonates, as does [this] flash fic. Gang tickling with your friends is always a grand old time."
