CAMERON MONAGHAN IMAGINES

Good to Date You (Cameron)

Everything is white. Are you even walking straight? Your ankles wobble and you're reassuring yourself that you're not intoxicated. The last thing you saw was a hoard of lenses staring at you, before they all assaulted you at once.

'Keep walking' is all you can think. Your ears ring with the echos of shrieking teens.

Keep walking. You'll be in the spotlight of tomorrow's paper if you show you're flustered.

Your vision blots itself back a little, yet a majority of the scene is covered by floaters. As if you stared at the sun, then at the ground. Those dots are all you can see.

Being new to the show business has placed a heavy set of eyes on you. This is your first awards ceremony since your show aired. There is a phenomenal amount of pressure for you to display a presentable version of yourself.

When you're senses perk up, you gaze at the crowd, in attempt to connect with the fans leaning over the metal fence, desperately trying to pinch a piece of any celebrity they see. An outpour seems predictable at this point. Those fences won't hold much longer. Scanning the line of people, you spot another clan of paparazzis. Before you have a chance to turn away, their flashes burst in your eyes, exploding what miniscule vision you had.

You smile in the direction they are. You probably look like a blind woman, eager to be in the papers. It's no use. You continue your journey down the Red Carpet.

Seeing is a struggle even moreso now that you've taken two hits of damage. You struggle to capture balance and your heels become impossible to not wobble in.

Fuck, this is it.

You make any attempt to catch yourself. Therefore, the initial step is to bend your knees, so you'll already be closer to the Carpet when you slap hard on it. You crouch down, low. You search for the ground, like Velma when she loses her glasses.

Everyone has to be watching you because their shrieks have morphed into cackles. At least they're finding joy...although it's at your expense.

The ground finally arrives, velvet-like. It's everything you'd imagined as a child. Warm, clean, smooth. This is your only safehaven for now. You land your eyes on what you assume are your hands, in hopes of waiting it out until your vision returns.

At once, fingers clamp on your thin arm. "Hey. It's tough, I know. I'll get you up and guide you in." The first thing you notice is his minty scent. It must have been a colonge, but it was fantastic. It rid the Red Carpet of New York's notorious garabe aroma.

The mysterious voice leaves your ears wanting more, like some kind of drug. It feels even better than the carpet. Trusting the stranger, you rise up.

The blots of vision come again.

"I've been wanting to meet you, Y/N. Never thought it'd been this way." He yells over the crowd.

So this is truly what it's like to be blind. You're lost and pray the stranger leading the way has good intentions...he could very well be bringing your face of a pole.

"Well, thank you for helping. I didn't want the cameras to know they were blinding me but I guess-"

He cut you off. "It didn't work. My first time here was tough too. You'll be in the trash magazines a few days, but it'll blow over. You're fine. Just look down." Every time he talks, his head faces you. It makes his voice closer.

The blots come clearer and you can make out the objects before you. The man is tall. Maybe 6 foot. He walks a few paces ahead of you with his hand and your arm as a leash. This resembles an owner walking a dog situation.

Let's change that.

You prick the placement of each of his fingers and glide his hand from your bicep, down your wrist, to your hand. 

You intertwine your fingers with his own. His head whips backward.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

"Your hand didn't resist."

"People are going to think we're a couple." He gets close enough for you to inhale the mint.

"This may be crazy, but what if we can be. Starting now. Test the waters, you know? I need to see what fish are in the pond!" It's true. He was kind to you; helped you in a moment of mortification. Going on a few dates wouldn't be so bad.

Your vision completely clears. He's a pale ginger with plump pink lips. His eyes slopes downwards and nose sat comfortably in the middle. Oh, and is his jawline perfection. You know he's familiar, but can't put a pin on his name.

"Okay. We can try it, girlfriend." He smiles and lifts your held hands.

"Hi, good to date you. I'm Y/N L/N."

"Good to date you too. I'm Cameron Monaghan."