Burn Me Like the Sun

I didn’t see them while I was waiting with Louis and an impatient Fran for Harry and Liam to finish making a mess of the Avengers display on the first floor of Forbidden Planet. Of course I’d heard the hum of voices outside, but I just added it up to random passersby and customers waiting for the shop to open, as it was already verging on ten in the morning.

I got angry with the first camera flash.

By the second flash, I was fuming with my fists at my side as Louis set a hand on the small of my back and guided me to a waiting blacked-out SUV parked just a few meters from the front door of Forbidden Planet.

I stopped trying to keep track of the flurry of camera clicks after that, what with the impenetrable swarm of photographers like agitated wasps circling all five of us – the boys and Fran and me. I was furious, flustered, and ready to lash out the second I finished slidinFg across the seats in the back next to Fran, my face beet red and burning hotter than fire itself.

But before I could even start to decide on the choice words I was going to fling at Louis before I murdered him in front of his band mates and useless bodyguard, he slid in next to me, nodding to Dadrian as he slammed the sliding door shut. When he turned around, guilt clearly eating at him already, he actually reared back, his eyes wide as he registered the scowl warping my usually emotionless face.

He watched me carefully as though I were a rabid cat, a few jumbled syllables falling from his lips as he tried to get out a feeble apology.

I wanted to berate Louis until he cowered away, beaten raw. But oddly enough, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He wasn’t responsible. It wasn’t like he had called up the first paparazzo he knew to tell them to bring along some of their slimy fellow shutter-roaches and storm Forbidden Planet like it was a goldmine. And he had tried to throw them off his tail anyway, what with having Biz open the shop four hours early just so we could all hang out together without being stuck back at Louis’s place again. He’d even left his flashy sports car at home, instead opting to carpool with Liam and Dadrian with Harry.

Even though I hadn’t said a word to him, I was already starting to feel guilty myself for some odd reason, probably because he was already cowering away from the icy glare I’d had trained on him for almost a good thirty seconds.

I whipped around to face Fran, who was looking at the two of us like we were a live episode of Hollyoaks. One of her flawlessly sculpted eyebrows shot up as she watched me.

“What?” I snapped, unable to hold back the anxiety I’d been shutting out since the first camera flash. I couldn’t help as it warped my nerves, making my stomach coil up more than drunk uni students and a game of Twister.

“If you’re still wanting to throw coffee in his face, I already threw mine away,” she reminded me smugly.

I pointed a finger at Fran, my lower lip pinched between my teeth, but gave up after a few stuttered syllables of my own and rolled my eyes, tossing up my hands in resignation. Harry guffawed at my delayed reaction in the row of seats in front of us. I kicked the underside of his chair in front of me, and he let out a protesting yelp, shooting me a sour look over his shoulder.

Louis slunk his arm over the back of my seat, his fingers brushing against my shoulder, and finally settled fully into his spot as he clipped the seatbelt buckle with his free hand.

“I-I’m sorry,” he finally got out. He was staring at his lap, his fingers fumbling over his frazzled hair. “I didn’t know you’d—I didn’t know that they’d be here,” he admitted, glancing at me before looking back at his lap.

I could feel Liam and Harry stare at me from their seats in front of us, both of their arms pressed against the backs of their chairs as they twisted around to watch us.

“It’s fine,” I said flippantly, crossing my arms over my somersaulting stomach. “It will be fine.”

“It’s not always this chaotic, though,” Liam offered after a \ moment from in front of Fran, his face soft. “I think they’re just crazy about you because they haven’t a clue who you are.”

“That, and Vic,” Harry muttered, shooting Louis a bitter look.

“Fuck. I don’t know how you lads deal with it,” Fran finally got out, shaking her head. She glanced at me, worry lines furrowing her forehead. “That was absolutely insane.”

Louis had his eyes glued to me as everyone spoke, his face nearly blank except for the curiosity that pinched the skin between his eyebrows.

He tapped my shoulder and leaned down to ask softly, “You alright?”

“Course I’m alreet,” I muttered back, still scowling.

“You’re not yelling at me,” he observed simply, his voice still low enough that Fran probably couldn’t hear him, especially over Liam and Harry’s erratic conversation about the miniature Batman statue Liam had been eyeing all morning. “Should I expect a volcanic word-lashing from you later on today?”

“Stop it,” I snapped. “I’m not angry.”

He glanced away to adjust his glasses, and I could feel the weight of his stare finally leave me.

“You are, and there’s no use hiding it because I know you, Blake.” He looked at me again, but only fleetingly. I could feel him start to fidget nervously with the sleeve of my jumper, the wool crumbling between his fingertips.

I set my jaw, trying to will myself to admit he was right, even though the slight sense of pride I had was battling for me to stay silent.

“There’s no use getting angry with you.” I let myself get distracted by Fran, who was leaning against her arm rest and staring out the window at the passing buildings. I just couldn’t stand the imploring look Louis had aimed at me. It made me want to melt into a nasty, fiery puddle of slit just so I could burn him like he was burning me. “I hate the paparazzi, I do, but it’s not like you can help it.”

I caught the tail-end of a look that passed over his face, something too quick for me to properly catch.

“We’re stopping by our place,” Harry said, turning back around in his seat to look at the three of us. Louis finally retracted his arm from around my shoulders, folding his hands into his lap. “My mum made some raisin bread to take home with me when I visited last week. I wanted to bring some over for breakfast.” He looked directly at Fran as he pushed his curly bangs from his face, shooting her a cheeky grin. “But raisin bread’s not the only sweet thing my mum’s ever made.”

Fran’s eyes bugged as her lips puckered up in detestation, her cheeks readily matching with a pale pink blush.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Oh my god, you’re the personification of a sunburned tit.”

“Keep it up, and Fran’ll take your bollocks for a trophy,” Louis quipped, looking amused. “At least pretend to be agreeable, mate.”

“And not the kind of agreeable that gets sued for sexual harassment,” I retorted, shooting Harry a smirk.

I could practically feel the tension roll off of Fran the second Liam and Harry left the SUV once we stopped by Louis’s house. But that tension didn’t disappear altogether, and instead took up a new place in my own body, making my back fall rigid and my fingers fidget the second Louis started talking to me.

Dadrian had the radio on some jazz station, bobbing his head to the music while he still had free rein, as Liam was too choosy to let him even touch the volume dial. The music mostly covered Louis’s voice, which he had pitched low enough so that I was the only one who could hear it. Fran had moved all the way to the front by now, tired of being nudged into the corner by Louis and me. I’d taken her spot once she squeezed past us, already keenly aware the entire fifteen minute drive of Louis’s leg pressed flush against my own, sending a prickling sensation under my skin.

“I know this is the absolute worst time to be asking this, but…”

“But what?” I mumbled back, half-watching him as he picked at a loose thread from his Harrington jacket.

He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s this… This charity thing coming up in two weeks, on Sunday. I’ve been dreading on going, you know. I didn’t want to. But our publicist, Giles, he-he wants all five of us there. Because it’s some big thing for the BBC, so there’ll be press combing through the guests.” He licked his lips, his hands finally stilling. “I know it’s a fat chance, but would you mind coming along? As my guest?”

“Fat chance is right,” I replied, clenching my teeth. “And with press crawling around? Are you mental?” I chided, my voice harsh.

“You could always take the back entrance with Dadrian,” he offered. When I stole another glance at him, he was cringing.

“No,” I reiterated, shaking my head. “No way in hell I’d chance a night with your kind.”

He rounded on me then, his eyes narrowed. “My kind?” he repeated incredulously, challenge dripping off his words.

“Celebrities,” I offered. Then I gestured around the SUV, eventually jerking my chin to Dadrian up front, who had cranked down his seat so he could lay down. “The kinds of people that need bodyguards every time they go out in public.” I licked my lips. “You know, I’ve probably catered more events than you’ve ever been to yourself,” I pointed out, nearly seething now. I didn’t know how he’d plucked the courage to even begin thinking of asking me to go with him to whatever charity event this was. He was absolutely mad. “I’ve heard plenty of phony, superficial, so-called conversations to last me ten lifetimes over. I can do without.”

“Blake.”

Never in my life had anything caught me off guard as much as Louis did when he said my name. His voice dipped down, both in volume and tone, and he had to coax my name from the back of his throat. It came out like thumb tacks grazing my skin, making the fair hair along my arms stand up on end. It was pleading and dripping with haste, almost earnest enough that I considered giving in. My chest was swollen with an unpleasant amalgam of guilt and empathy that buzzed with every thunk-thump in my chest. The abrupt burst of emotion shook me to my very core, where my heart was suddenly replaced with a burning ceramic brick that had been shoved in a kiln and forgotten.

But before I could even pry open my mouth to respond – how I had planned to, I was still not so sure – Liam was pulling open the van door with one hand, his breath circling above his head in a thick cloud as drizzle started to dot the windows. I jumped, my fingers splayed across my knees.

“Got the bread!” he gushed, holding a plastic-wrapped pan up with one hand as he grinned.

Harry was just trailing behind Liam, his head ducked. He swung himself into the van before Liam, taking the spot in the row of seats in front of me. He twisted around as Liam climbed in and shut the door behind him, already insisting Dadrian change the radio station.

Harry glanced between Louis and me, looking absolutely perplexed with his brow twisting in the middle. “What’s with the scowl? You look like someone died.”

I glanced at Louis, who already had his mobile in his hands as he tried his best to ignore the entreating look I had aimed at him.

“I’m fine,” I lied. I shot Harry a brief, half-arsed smile, buckling my seatbelt as Dadrian put the van in gear. “I’m just fine.”

But I wasn’t. I was far from fine, in fact. I just couldn’t bring myself to rant about it, despite how raw the words were making my throat as I swallowed them back.

And I wasn’t trying to hold back for my own sake. I’d just as soon let loose every single thought that was bothering me if it meant I could at least get rid of the crackling anger that shot through my fingers and traveled all the way to my toes as they curled. But I held back for Louis’s sake. The shame of being angry with him for something he couldn’t exactly control sent me reeling back. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass him or make him feel like I held him accountable for something he shouldn’t feel guilty about in the first place. I couldn’t bring myself to be so selfish.

No, I wasn’t fine, but I wasn’t going to let anyone else figure it out other than Louis.

I counted even numbers on every other one of my fingers the entire fifteen minute ride to Liam’s flat. My anger eventually curbed after I passed 600, around the same time Louis finally stopped staring at me.

Liam lived in a newly renovated flat in Chiswick, which was squeezed between a Indian takeaway place and a small to-go market. The building was shared with three other blokes, each of them taking up their own floor above his first floor flat. It was a deep contrast from Harry and Louis’s house, with the only security being a couple of doors and a keypad on the lift.

Dadrian dropped us off at the entrance, not wasting a second to leave once Harry finally jumped out of the van and shut the door behind him.

Liam swiped a card at the entrance and the doors clicked open, and he held it open with the toe of his trainer as he shuffled with his keys and mobile. He eyed me as I passed him right after Louis. I was the last one besides Liam to take refuge in the warm lobby, which seemed less like a lobby and more like a game show set, what with the six different doorways that surrounded us. We had to all squeeze together in the tiny lift, which could barely fit three people comfortably to begin with, let alone five. My elbows brushed against Louis’s as I struggled to keep from nailing him in the ribs, and Liam was pressed against the wall just next to me. As much as I hated being so close to the boys, it was worth it just to see the blithe grin Fran hid behind her hair, as she had her back nearly pressed flush into Harry behind her.

I was the first one to step off the lift, but I was the last to leave the foyer, as the sight I was met with melted me into the cracks of the hardwood floors like a chocolate chips on a fresh-baked cookie.

Even though Liam’s entire flat was only on one floor, it was open and wide enough that it felt like two. The minimal sunlight that was seeping from the clouds bled through the bow window that stretched along an entire wall, scarcely illuminating Liam’s tidy flat. The coffered ceiling stretched out above me, far enough that I’d need a ladder to even touch the beams that crisscrossed along the top. The lift spilled the five of us straight into the living room, which was crammed with a three piece set of matching dark leather sofas that were circled around a television almost as big as a twin bed. A coffee table with neatly arranged sports and music magazines stood in the middle, and quilts had been hung across the backs of all three sofas. It looked warm and inviting, not to mention like you could watch one hell of a footie match as well.

Louis had already claimed a spot on the loveseat adjacent to the telly, his ankles crossed and resting on the coffee table as he leafed through a magazine, his back towards the windows. Harry had disappeared somewhere into a hallway just next to me, and Fran was too busy marveling over the sight of Liam as he stood at the bow window (or maybe just the thought of visiting a flat that belonged to a member of One Direction) to do anything else but just stand there.

“I’m so glad my housekeeper came while we were gone,” he sighed, looking out the windows. He glanced at Louis, the corners of his mouth turning down a little. “It was an absolute sty not four hours ago. Niall came over yesterday and tore the place to shreds.”

“It’s… swanky. That’s what kids say these days, right?” Fran wondered, finally taking a seat across from Louis. “Because it’s definitely swanky.”

Louis looked at her from the top of his magazine, grinning bright enough that it nearly made up for the overcast sunlight that was trickling into the room.

“So, erm, Louis’s told me you’re fair in the kitchen.”

I looked at Liam, my eyes wide. I brought up my hands to wave him off, already shaking my head, but Louis spoke before I could even start denying such a lie.

“I believe my exact words were ‘absolutely brilliant,’” he corrected, his eyes still glued to the magazine in his lap.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to lie?” I snapped heatedly, prying at Louis with my gaze. He didn’t return it, and instead busied himself with adjusting his glasses.

I turned around at the sound of dragging footsteps – Harry’s, to be exact.

“So, are you helping Liam make brunch?” Harry asked as he sauntered up behind me, wiping his wet palms on his jeans.

“No!” I nearly screeched, my voice hoarse. “No, I am not cooking. I’m your guest, for the love of god,” I said, pointing threateningly to an amused Liam, who was biting back an outright laugh. “Help me out, Louis!”

Louis finally looked up, his expression bored, almost nearing apathetic. “Learn to accept a compliment, babe.”

“Forcing me to cook for you – by way of peer pressure, nonetheless – isn’t a compliment, you twat,” I huffed.

Harry swung an arm over my shoulders, pulling me into his side as he chuckled. “What do you say, Fran?”

She slung her arm over the back of the couch, nearly keeling over when Harry said her name. Her face was bright red as she looked at the two of us, then she shrugged, shooting me a quick apologetic look.

“She’s half in love with you, you git! You have an unfair advantage,” I muttered to Harry, glancing up at him as he brushed his fingers through his curls. “Using girls like that is gonna bite you in the arse one day.”

“I don’t mind a little biting.”

I groaned in disgust, shoving his arm off my shoulders.

“But today,” he stressed, squeezing my shoulders again as he grinned down at me while I struggled to throw his arm off, “it’s getting me a first rate fry-up.”

Despite all my griping, I still found myself stuck in the kitchen with Liam as Harry and Louis boggarted the telly to watch the pregame show before the start of Manchester United’s match against Southampton.

But it wasn’t like I completely minded being goaded into cooking. As much as I put off helping Liam out with slicing and dicing, I always found working in the kitchen to be quite amusing. Not to mention, when anyone ate the food I’d make, the compliments nearly always made it worth it. I didn’t mind the odd ego boost every now and then. I was only human.

Most of the things I’d learned to cook, I’d learned from my step-dad and his dad as well. It proved difficult feeding two young children home-cooked meals all the time when my mum had abandoned cooking and cleaning and other seemingly granted duties for a worry- and family-free life in Wakefield. My dad still worked six days a week as a harbormaster at the port, so while Cooper and I were on school holidays, my dad’s father would watch over us and make our meals, and sometimes help around the house if he wasn’t too pissed off Irish coffees to get up from the settee.

But the rare times my dad had taken holiday himself, he’d always cook dinner. Usually, it was something Italian: a recipe of his mum’s or an older recipe he’d find hidden between the pages of the cookbooks he’d taken from home and stashed in his own kitchen. I always tried to help him out, but all I was ever good for was more confusion and twice the usual mess.

I slowly started to make dinner on my own, though it started out mostly from unnoticed shame. It was my mum that had left, my flesh and blood that had abandoned all of us. And maybe I placed some of that guilt on myself as well. I always thought Cooper hated me for what happened, though he had never said so outright. So I’d try to lighten my emotional load by caring for my brother and dad, and the only way a 12-year-old knows how to do that is to make spaghetti with canned sauce for four days straight. It was soon after the spaghetti debacle when my dad finally intervened and started teaching me the basics for a well-rounded dinner. How flour worked, how many ounces were in a cup, cooking veg, how to boil pasta so it doesn’t come out clumpy or soggy. Just the basics.

I only got better own my own after that. But it wasn’t until my first year at uni that I really delved into making my own dorm-quality food. I started budgeting for better ingredients and I’d spend hours at a time just trying to find a recipe for stove-top dinners since the electric cooker in my dorm always seemed to be broken. After more than enough mistakes and setting off a couple of smoke alarms, I mastered the leftover fry-up and the microwave brownie all on my own. All my experimenting made living in a single dorm room by myself at least somewhat entertaining and far less monotonous than it would’ve been otherwise.

I wasn’t a chef, by any means. In fact, any experimenting I did outside of the few recipes I had memorized usually went horribly wrong. My only true talent was the ability to last a week on a little less than a tenner and still have some leftovers waiting to be tossed together for breakfast the next morning.

I told Liam some of this as I helped him chop up onions, a spoon pressed to the roof of my mouth as I struggled to gurgle out my words. He fortunately understood most of what I said, even past my accent, and even seemed somewhat interested in the food I’d learned to cook while I only had a hotplate to make my meals.

“I’m actually back to the hotplate thing again.” I took the metal spoon out of my mouth and swallowed the spit that had collected under my tongue. I stuck it back in again as I scooped the onion bits onto a plate set up in the middle of the island in his intimidating kitchen.

“How’s that?” Liam mumbled from behind his spoon.

“Your idiotic wanker of a friend broke my electric cooker last week,” I told him, taking the leftover onion half he had on his cutting board and rolling it over to mine to finish slicing it up. He nodded his thanks and went back to his own sloppily-diced onion.

“How did he break your cooker? Did he sit on it or something?”

I laughed, sucking harder on my spoon as a tear stung my eye. “Fancied himself an electrician. Nearly got a proper shock just looking at the wiring.”

Liam took the spoon out of his mouth to whistle quietly as he shook his head side-to-side. “Well, if you ever need a proper kitchen, erm…” He gestured around us, shooting me a proud smile.

Liam’s kitchen was more like two kitchens combined in a single room rather than just a kitchen. It was even bigger than Louis’s, with windows lining the walls and the ceiling vaulted so high that it made me feel like a goldfish in an ocean. He had an overwhelmingly stocked refrigerator and a separate freezer, three ovens, and six glass stovetops, as well as a collection of pots and pans that lined the hooks that hung from the ceiling above us. The island in the center was big enough to seat six people comfortably, with stools placed under the protruding edges of the marble counter. It trumped half of the kitchens Margaret had to work with when she first started catering. If I took cooking seriously, I would’ve passed out at the sight when I first walked in not twenty minutes ago.

“As much as I’d love to, even the worst craving for brownies isn’t worth taking the tube for an hour.”

“Then why not bum a ride?” he suggested. “Any of us would drive you. Especially if it meant you were going to bake sweets,” he added, pulling the plate of chopped onions towards him. “As much as they like to think I’m the next best thing after Gordon Ramsay, I’m not their mum. I’m horrible at learning new recipes. All this stuff?” He motioned with his knife at the island counter, which was filled with plates piled with other sliced veg, as well as a carton of eggs. “My mum taught me. I barely know a thing,” he laughed.

I shrugged. “Well, when you put it that way.”

Liam only smiled at me over his shoulder, but it faded a few seconds later as he started to prep the eggs.

“Did Louis say anything?” he asked softly. “It’s just, you’ve clearly been bordering on pissed ever since we left Forbidden Planet.”

I glanced at him, hoping he couldn’t see the shocked expression that had stolen the smile I’d worked for all morning straight off my face.

“Was it the paparazzi?”

I walked back to the stove and busied myself with the sausage, even though we were just letting them simmer.

“Yes,” I mumbled, hoping he’d gobble up the lie as I reached for the onions and scooped them into the pan with the sausage.

“That’s bullshit,” another voice announced.

I snapped my head to Fran, who was standing in the mouth of the hallway that led to the living room. She had her arms crossed as she stared at me, her eyes narrowed.

“Come again?” I stuttered, glancing behind her. I could only hope that Harry was still glued to the telly and hadn’t been following her around, still trying to get a rise out of her.

“You and Louis were talking earlier,” she pointed out. “In the van. What did he say to you?”

“’Twas nothing important,” I snapped, turning my attention back to the stove in hopes Fran might let it go.

“What did who say?” Harry piped up, suddenly appearing behind Fran. He reached up to brush his fingers through his curls, the corner of his mouth screwing up.

“Louis,” Fran quickly explained, looking up at Harry over her shoulder as she leaned against the doorjamb. “In the van—”

“Oh my god, he didn’t say anything!” I finally got out. I looked at Fran and Harry as if they were insane, my forehead wrinkling like waves of sand in the Sahara.

I heard the telly shut off before I saw him, but he still nearly made me vomit up my insides when he sauntered into the kitchen, looking pleasantly disheveled. He brushed past Fran and Harry like I hadn’t just screeched my lungs dry in order to change the subject, as I was sure he’d heard me all the way in the living room. He passed by me without reservation, shooting me a half-hearted smile before taking a spot at the island and reaching for a biscuit. Liam snapped his spatula at his hand, and he stole it back and rubbed his knuckles, eyeing Liam partly with confusion and a bit of amusement.

“You asked her to come along with us, didn’t you?” Liam accused before he turned back to the eggs he’d just slipped onto the stove.

Louis glanced at me quickly before looking back at Liam, who had his back to him. “I’m sorry?”

“No!” Harry slowly exclaimed, stretching out the word as he circled around Fran and into the kitchen. “You actually did, didn’t you?”

“Come along where?” Fran asked, following Harry into the kitchen. She took the seat next to Louis’s, looking between the three boys in hopes of pouting an answer out of them. I was afraid for a second that it would work.

Liam and Harry glanced at each other before they both peered at me, silently asking me if it was okay for them to spill everything. It caught me off guard, so much that I turned back to the stove with hopes that they’d drop it, though it was definitely impossible now that Fran had a little inkling of what had happened. She was never one to let things go.

“Some… some charity event,” I finally mustered up. “He wants me to come along with him and the rest of the band.”

I caught a glimpse of Louis, who was carefully avoiding my gaze. He looked like I’d just kicked him in the shins, what with his ears burning and his chin wrinkled with a slight frown.

I took the pan of sausage and onions off the stove after a brief stretch of complete silence, still mixing it together with a spoon after I stuck it on a trivet. I chanced another look at Louis, who was suddenly staring me down as the tips of his ears blushed even harder. Harry had taken the seat across from him, his arms folded on top of the counter. He glanced at Liam behind me, who was still finishing up the eggs.

“And you said no?” Fran guessed.

I looked at her sitting across from me, her brow quirked, and offered a short nod.

“Good. Because there’s no way in hell I’d let you go if I wasn’t invited, too.”

“You’re worse than a jealous boyfriend.” I quietly snorted and bent my head, hoping I could hide myself away from the prodding stares of both Harry and Liam. It was bad enough that they were looking at me like I’d just buried my childhood pet, let alone that they suddenly expected me to explain the situation to Fran even though they obviously knew everything themselves to begin with.

“So?” Fran prodded.

“It’s on a Sunday,” I finally explained, shooting her an apologetic look. “Any other day, I’d reconsider going, just for you.”

“Damn it,” she sighed, biting her lip. “I’ve never wanted to graduate and have a proper job that didn’t keep me from going out every weekend more than I do now.”

“Well, if you can’t reconsider going for Fran’s sake, how about mine?” Harry suggested, grinning at me. He pointed to his cheeks. “You can’t say no to the dimples, now, can you?”

“I can, and I will.” I gave him a straight face and cleared my throat, then rubbed my hands together as I looked at the ceiling. Then I stared at him, clasping my hands together and aiming my index fingers at him, and said, “No.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Liam begged, weaving around me for the cabinets behind Fran and Louis. Louis was back to ignoring my gaze, instead watching Liam as he circled the kitchen. It was starting to drive me mad.

“No, I won’t come on,” I resolved, defiantly crossing my arms as Liam set down a stack of plates.

“Why not?” Harry prodded as he grabbed a plate and set some sausage on it. “If you’re worried about the press, you can always take the back—”

“The back entrance with Dadrian? Yeah,” I scoffed, “I’ve heard. And it’s not just the press, alreet?” I bit the inside of my cheek, glancing at Louis as he piled his plate with eggs. “I’ve been catering events like this for the past two years. If you give me free rein to talk back to everyone that makes some shallow, underhanded comment, whereas when I’m working I can’t say a bloody thing, I’ll get arrested for assault before the night ends. I’d rather not waste my time.”

“You can’t tell me that’s the kind of fun we’d be missing out on and then say you won’t come with,” Liam asserted, grinning brightly. Louis was biting back a similar smile as he pulled off his glasses to wipe them off with the tail of his shirt.

Harry groaned, throwing his head back. “Please, Blake. Don’t leave me to spend the night with these prats,” he pleaded, shooting Liam a sour look. “They’re always a pain in my arse.”

Liam appeared amused as he shot Harry an indignant look. “If anyone’s a prat at events, it’d be you, you miscreant.” He rounded on me then, grabbing a plate for himself. “Please, for the love of god, just do us this one favor and come along, Blake. It’s just one night. No paparazzi, we promise. You won’t even have to talk to the press there.”

I made a disgruntled face.

“Oi, help us out here, mate,” Liam begged, clapping a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “You’re the one who wanted to invite her in the first place.”

The eggs on his fork fell back onto his plate when Liam’s hand smacked against his back. He sighed, screwing his mouth to the side as he dropped his fork back onto the table.

“Oh my god,” Fran huffed, tossing up her hands. “Can you stop pretending like you’re actually saying no and put the poor chap out of his misery already?” She reached over to Louis next to her just as he was trying to take another bite of eggs and grabbed him by the chin, pinching it as she pointed to him with her other hand. Liam laughed as he circled the island, reaching between Harry and me for some sausage. “Just look at this face, yeah?”

Fran’s sudden handsy approach made me want to laugh until I needed an inhaler while simultaneously running away out of utter embarrassment. One of Louis’s eyebrows perked up as he glanced at Fran, just pleading her with a single look to let it go, or rather, to let his chin go. The blush that stained his ears snuck up to his cheeks, leaving them a blotchy shade of crimson in just five seconds flat.

I couldn’t help as a similar blush of my own started to warm my cheeks as my eyes widened in embarrassment. I swiftly dropped my head, shaking it as closed my eyes and grated my fingers through my hair.

“Fuck it,” I muttered. I looked back up and scowled at Louis, who was already grinning despite Fran’s grip on his face. “Fine, I’ll go.”

Harry and Liam cheered once, and Fran joined in too, reaching her hand over the food laid about the island to give Harry a high-five.

“But you owe me, yeah?” I tried biting back the smile that was pulling at my lips, but I couldn’t help it, and instead settled with quickly chiding Louis one last time, pointing a menacing finger at him. “Don’t think I won’t forget about the paparazzi today, mate. That was a kick in the crotch.”

Louis held up his hands in front of him, palms facing me as shook his head. “I’m just happy to know you’ll be going with me. I mean it, I’m… I’m just…” He sighed softly. “Thanks.”

And with that, he finally took a bite of his eggs.

|||

Liam and Louis thought it would be funny that since Harry barely ever cleaned anything, that he should do the dishes after we finished brunch. Fran, being the part-uni student, part-maid she was, eagerly agreed, especially with the way Harry had been annoying her all morning. But after we’d all retired to the living room to watch some telly – not the pregame show, unfortunately, thanks to Fran’s rousing complaints – the succession of bangs and crashes coming from the kitchen made Liam suddenly change his mind.

So, being the second-worst slob in a room filled with neat freaks, I was goaded to join him.

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t know how to do the dishes. He just didn’t plan ahead – though that didn’t exactly surprise me. His hands were slick with soap by the time I got in the kitchen, and I had to help him wipe off the water that was spilling over the edge of the counter and onto the floor before I could even start to help him clean up the dishes that he had piled up next to the sink.

We’d settled with Harry washing the dishes and me drying them and setting them on a rack we found shoved in a corner underneath the cupboard filled with plates. About five minutes in, Harry suddenly spoke, his voice groggy and slow and stirring, as we hadn’t said a word since we started to wash the plates.

“I like you.”

I nearly dropped the Coke-themed glass Louis had used that I was drying.

“You like me?”

Harry nodded, handing me a black mug. “Yeah. I think you’re brilliant.” He licked his lips and set his jaw, concentrating on the plastic cup in his hands. “You’d be a right joy if you hung out with all of us guys one of these days.” He shot me a grin before rinsing out the cup. “Fran, too. I like her as well.”

I snorted. “Don’t let her hear that or she’ll faint and crack her skull open.”

“I believe that’s what they call swooning, Blake,” he reminded me smugly.

“Brilliant teasing her earlier, yeah? I had a hard time not laughing.”

He struggled to hide back his dimples, but absolutely failed. He succumbed to shooting the dishes an ear-splitting grin that would’ve cracked them just with the sheer brightness of his smile were they not covered with soap.

“Don’t try it again, though,” I warned, well amused. “She’s gonna give me hell for it later.”

He shrugged noncommittally. “I’m not one for making promises.”

Another stretch of easy silence wafted between us, and I let it sit until I couldn’t hold back anymore. I’d been thinking the same thing since the first time Louis and I got coffee, and the thought had been at the back of my head for so long that I almost forgot about it. At least until today, when the five of us were ambushed by paparazzi. I was still reeling from the whole experience, and just thinking about them waiting for the boys and Fran and me outside of Forbidden Planet made my stomach out-knot even the most skilled fisherman. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to it, though I wanted to. I did. If it meant being able to stay mates with Louis, I’d realized by now that he was worth it.

“It’s kind of weird, though, innit?”

Harry side-eyed me curiously. “What?”

“You…” I sighed and shook my head. “You boys are famous. Like, real A-list celebrities. There are a million more interesting people you could hang out with. What do you want with me?”

He chuckled softly. “We weren’t always famous, Blake.” He handed me the last cup and leaned his side against the edge of the sink, drying his hands off with the towel he had slung over his shoulder. “You’re, err, I don’t know how to explain this. Erm…” He looked off to the side and brushed his fingers over his hair, then looked back at me as I stacked the last cup in the drying rack. “You’re normal.”

“Come again?” I balked.

“Normal. You know, you’re not another Vic.” He shrugged, giving me a comforting half-smile. “Normal just becomes harder to find when you’re thrust into the spotlight.”

“What do you mean by normal?” I challenged, copying his pose and leaning against the sink.

“You know, good people.” He backtracked, waving his hand at me. “I mean, I’m not saying that anyone that’s ever been snapped by the paparazzi is a horrible person. They’re not, you know. There’s just a severe lack of the good kind, as far as I can tell.”

I narrowed my eyes at Harry as he looked hopelessly off to the side, clearly unsatisfied with his own explanation. But I understood. I basically said the exact same thing earlier when Louis first invited me to the charity event.

“You remind me a lot of my brother.”

He tilted his head just the slightest, his brows pinching together in the middle. “Who, Cooper?”

My brain whiplashed trying to remember a single time I might have mentioned Cooper by name to Harry. But with him staring at me so intently, the kitchen quiet save for the distant echoes of the telly from the living room, I scrambled to respond, throwing the thought into the back of my mind where I kept maths equations and family birthdays.

“Yeah,” I eventually got out, busying myself with the towel I’d used to dry the dishes. I picked at a fraying hole near the corner and bit my lip, hoping Harry wouldn’t notice my sudden wave of confusion.

“And how’s that?” he asked laughingly.

“He’s cynical, too.”

Harry pulled a face, looking baffled with my answer. “Not everyone’s perfect. Anyone can get carried away. Seriously, anyone,” he pushed, noticing the doubt that was wrinkling my forehead. “I’m just trying to be realistic.”

“You’re not always this vocal in interviews,” I observed, biting back a laugh.

He shrugged a little, a pink spot appearing on each of his dimpled cheeks. “Between you and me, interviews sort of still get me nervous. That, and, erm, meeting new people. I just get tongue-tied and whatnot,” he admitted.

I smiled. “Yous get more human by the minute, I swear.”

“No, you’re just breaking down our walls,” he said, pulling his fingers through his hair again.

Harry dropped the towel onto the edge of the sink before he left me in the kitchen alone, his hands shoved in his pockets. I could hear him call to Liam when he stepped into the living room, asking him about the Manchester game that was just about to start.

I was about to follow him, eager to badmouth Man U, but then I felt my mobile buzz in my pocket as it beeped twice with the same tone that Louis used for his own phone.

I flipped it open and read the text before I saw the name. And that was when the thread that tied me up and kept me together started to unravel.